by Larry Center
“I know, I know,” I said. Tears came to my eyes as our two-year-old divorce seemed suddenly a lifetime ago, Paleolithic.
* * *
After Tommy had eaten lunch and rested a while longer, the doctors said he could be discharged if his baseline bilirubin tested negative. Bilirubin was a measurement of his hemoglobin for medication purposes. That was the odd thing about hospitals. Your life could be a total emotional wreck, but if your baseline bilirubin tested negative, out the door you went. We’d talked to the billing department and signed the papers. The bill would go to Cheryl’s gold insurance program, which was fine with me.
Cheryl and I went to the first-floor foyer of the hospital as directed, then twenty minutes later, a tall, curly-haired orderly wheeled Tommy to us. We stood near the front entrance, visitors passing in and out. I felt jittery and distraught as I watched him appear. Sitting in the wheelchair, he was motor-boating away, biting both hands. A senior citizen at the information desk stared at Tommy as well. I stood a foot away from Cheryl, who was checking her phone. A heavyset man passed us, carrying a dozen roses.
“There you are,” Cheryl said brightly as we both walked up to our son. “Ready to go home?”
Tommy didn’t answer. He shook his head right and left, which could have meant anything, still picking at his fingers and drooling. Color had returned to his cheeks, and I felt relieved. I quickly handed him a yellow token as Cheryl looked on.
“Tok’,” he said, fingering the token.
“Yes, that’s for being a good boy. Max sure misses you. He told me himself.” Then I pulled out Bugs Bunny from the contents of my vocal drawer: “That’s right, doc. Missing you all day long, yuk, yuk, yuk.”
Cheryl started to send a text message, and then Dr. Whitaker joined us one final time, his smooth-shaven face grim. He’d ditched his white coat, and now wore slacks and a white shirt, his glasses in the shirt pocket. He’d written two prescriptions for Tommy, and as he handed them to me, Cheryl yanked them out of my hand. I didn’t try to stop her, but it made me feel angry. “I’ll take these,” she said.
The doctor offered his final advice in a somber tone: “We’ve figured out the proper dosage of Dilantin for him, but we’ll continue to monitor him and do more blood work. Call my office tomorrow and set up your next appointment in one week. As far as taking the Wellbutrin, I’ll need you to decrease the dose.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I said.
Finally, we were good to go, back to the real world, back to our reverse Disneyland. Cheryl, Tommy, and I made our way outside through the automatic doors, the orderly pushing the wheelchair with Tommy in it. What an adventure. I would have much preferred the public library, the puppet show we’d planned on.
I felt frustrated. I knew that Cheryl had talked about taking Tommy with her, but since my weekend visitation time wasn’t finished yet, I wanted him to come home with me. It just seemed right. Since her car had broken down, I was assuming she’d get an Uber. Having followed the ambulance to the hospital, my car was parked in the hospital’s complex parking system, lot E-2, orange, about a hundred miles away.
As we walked outside, the sun washed the streets and sidewalks in a rain of light. It suddenly all seemed surreal, and I blinked and tried to adjust my eyes to this other-world and this new life I had stepped into with seizures in it, seizures that could arise anytime, anywhere.
The hospital’s outdoor entrance was fronted by a horseshoe-shaped drive. We stood at the curb where other people were waiting for their rides. Cheryl shaded her eyes. I stood on one side of the wheelchair, Cheryl on the other. The orderly still maintained control.
“Wade should be pulling up any minute,” Cheryl said. Then she pulled out a compact mirror and started to check her makeup, applying lipstick. She smoothed her hair. “Tommy and I will wait here for him and then go with Wade.”
“Wade?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Who pray tell is Wade?”
“You remember Wade, don’t you?” she said casually. “You introduced us yourself. We’ve sort of been seeing each other.”
“What?” I cocked my head. “You mean Wade Dudley? Are you serious? You’re seeing him?”
“Don’t look so astonished.” Cheryl put her makeup back into her leather purse.
I’d worked with Wade Dudley at Focus for about a year, and yes, I remembered the moment I’d introduced him to Cheryl. We were at Ed Ryerson’s house in La Jolla. It was a party, a celebration, really, for landing an important account. The music was loud and when Wade brought Cheryl a drink, he did a little Michael Jackson moonwalk imitation, which made Cheryl roar. We were still married, then. The guy was obnoxious. Everybody knew that. Fairly successful, though. He was great at sticking his nose into someone else’s deal, glomming onto it, and then making it look like it was his.
“Fine. Whatever.” I hung on an icy pause, and then: “Look, Cheryl, I’d like Tommy to come home with me. The weekend’s still not over and I still have time with him. So, can you at least wait with Tommy while I go get my car?”
The orderly, whose skinny frame made him look like he was about to blow away, remained behind Tommy looking uncomfortable, playing with his watch band and tapping his right foot.
“No need.” Cheryl took hold of Tommy’s wheelchair. “Tommy’s coming home with us. I promised him a movie and ice cream.”
I stopped her and put my hands on the wheelchair, nodding at the orderly to step aside, which he did. I spoke sternly. “I know what you promised, Cher. But I have every right to want him to come home with me.”
“Well, he’s not.” She glanced at the orderly and grabbed the wheelchair herself.
I couldn’t believe her. We’d just had this intimate bonding session, the three of us, and we’d felt close—at least momentarily, but now she was acting like a witch, with this Wade guy and her persistent possessiveness. I felt let down, unwanted. I couldn’t believe she’d act like this.
She tried to maneuver Tommy’s wheelchair away from me, but I grabbed on, refusing to let go. She fought back, grappling against me, trying to unlock my grip on the chair’s side handle. She shoved me with her hips and I pushed back. The orderly jumped back and didn’t say a word, but his eyes were wide, and he stood there rigid as he rubbed his pockmarked face.
“He’s coming home with me!” I’d had enough of this BS. “It’s still my weekend with him, dammit!”
While we were fighting over him, Tommy was sitting in the wheelchair, biting his hands and droning, locked away in his private world. He seemed unbothered by the fuss. Completely oblivious, actually, tone deaf to the complex sounds of human emotions, even ones as confrontational as ours. Truly, his autism was a kind of emotional deafness.
Cheryl roared. “No, he’s not!”
And then Wade pulled up, driving a white Jaguar XJR, four-door sedan. We both looked his way. The man of the hour. His car looked brand new and instantly, it was as if the jealousy button in my heart had been pressed, the alarm rung. I swallowed hard, but the thick lump in my throat wouldn’t descend. Wade push-buttoned down the window on his car, his round face breaking out in a huge grin.
“Hey, sweetie,” Wade said to Cheryl. “How’s it going? Is Tommy all right?”
“Hey, babe. He’s fine.” Cheryl reciprocated with her own equally brilliant smile, standing straight now and smoothing her hair, pretending I didn’t even exist. God, they were in love. I could practically smell the romantic tension between them.
Emotional termites started gnawing on the walls of my stomach. Cheryl walked quickly to the car. She opened the back door of the Jag where a sturdy car seat awaited, one of those deluxe models, with mounds of foam padding, all snapped in and everything. The nerve. She had a car seat in Wade’s Jag? She’d been carrying on with Wade and I hadn’t known a thing? How could she? I had to step back and take a deep breath.
I studied the white Jag, which I noticed already had a slight ding on the side, then, keeping my grip on the wheelchair, my eyes found the
driver. Wade looked like he was about to say something, his lips parted, but in the end, decided not to. A blue VW pulled up behind Wade, waiting in line to pick up someone else.
“It’s four o’clock,” Cheryl said, glancing at her watch, her eyes lit with anger. She put a hand on her chest as she just stood there next to the open door, showing me the car seat. “He needs to come with me.”
“Radar’s still at my house and he wants him,” I said, trying my best to keep my voice calm. “I told him we could tell Max about what happened. I think he should come home with me. I’ll bring him tonight around eight. Weekends are my time. I can keep him as long as I want.”
“Really?” Cheryl glared at me. “You think so? Tommy?” She paraded back to where I was standing with Tommy and once again tried to maneuver me out of the way. I momentarily lost my grip on the wheelchair. Tommy still appeared undisturbed by the all the fuss. “He’s coming with me!”
She made some headway in the direction of the car, but I stopped her, yanking on the wheelchair, which tipped for a scary moment. Yikes!
“No!” I said as I struggled with the wheelchair. “I'm sick of you always getting your way on everything. He’s coming home with me, dammit!”
“Christ.” Cheryl rolled her eyes, took a long breath, and spoke softly to the orderly, who was waiting on the wheelchair to take back into the hospital. “I'm sorry my ex is such a lunatic.”
He just shot us a tense smile.
“You are so damn intractable,” she said to me. “Ugh!”
She let go of the wheelchair, pushing it slightly in my direction. Her crimson cheeks flared as she headed toward Wade’s car, adjusting her blouse.
“Stay with me, Tom-Tom,” I said, taking a breath.
“’Kay, Daddy.”
“You’re being a good, good boy. Daddy loves you.”
“’Kay.”
Maintaining my firm grip on the wheelchair, I turned my attention to Wade, who had been watching our little tête-à-tête with his face all tightened up, as if he’d smelled something rotten.
“Hold on, Tom-Tom.” I handed him another token. I glanced at the orderly, who looked uncomfortable, his face turning red, his eyes pinpointed.
“Daddy, Mommy!” Tommy said. “Go. Go.”
“Yes, in a minute, okay? Are you okay? Can Mommy and Daddy talk just a minute more?”
“’Kay, Daddy.”
I turned to the orderly. “Can you please watch him a minute more?”
“Sure,” he said in a soft voice, shrugging. “No problem.”
I moved closer to the Jag and Wade shot me a good-natured grin. The guy was a real piece of work. A red patch of burnt skin stretched vertically across his Roman nose—too much San Diego sun, probably from driving his boat around.
“Chris, you remember Wade, don’t you?” Cheryl tried to sound casual as she climbed in the car on the passenger side and clicked on her seatbelt.
Wade’s good-natured grin turned cocky. “How you doing, Chris? You’re looking well.”
“Mommy, Daddy.” Tommy’s voice inched higher in pitch. “Mommy, Daddy stop.” He banged his hands together like cymbals.
“It’s okay, Tommy,” I said, turning back to face Tommy. “Mommy and Daddy are just talking.”
“Daddeee, Mommeee. Fine. Fine. Fiiiiine.”
I tried to keep myself together. I looked over at Wade again. He snapped off his shades, revealing eyes as green and clear as Caribbean waters.
Wade extended his hand through the open window and I found myself shaking it, his grip exactly as I remembered, a “real man’s” grip. He had huge hands and baseball bats for arms and a square face with a jaw that could serve as a doorstop.
“Wade.” It was the only word that found its way out of my mouth. Me, mister eloquence, mister voice-over guy. Wade. The awkward moment stretched lengthwise and sideways simultaneously. “How’s biz?” I asked, not knowing what else to say. I glanced at Cheryl who, now sitting in the passenger side, narrowed her eyes at me.
“Not bad. How about you?” He gave me that famous all’s-well-with-my-world San Diego grin.
“I’m making it.” I squinted.
“Hey,” Wade said. “Loved your work on that Presto Burger ad by the way. I thought it was great.” Then he mimicked my routine, doing a bad job too, blathering out a deep, manly voice. “You like it fast? You like it hot? That’s preeeestoooo!” He laughed. “Loved it! Here’s my card. Let’s keep in touch.”
“Thanks.” I hated to admit it, but I was appreciative of the praise. I glanced at his card. WC Productions. Evidently, he was freelancing, too.
“I want him home by eight,” Cheryl said sternly, her red-hot eyes gunning me down.
“Sure,” I said. “Not a problem.”
Wade gave me a friendly nod, push-buttoned up his window, then gassed away, the two lovers heading off into their own version of a happy ever-after future, leaving me once again, in reverse Disneyland with Tommy still in the wheelchair. He was now looking up at the sky and pointing to a bird that was flying above us.
“Can you wait with him while I go get my car?” I asked the orderly.
“Sure thing,” he said.
“Tommy,” I said, trying to get his attention. “You wait with the nice man and I’ll be back. I’m going to get the car.”
“Daddddeee,” he said in his monotonic way, forming his imitation smile and breaking my heart in the process. “Dadeeee.”
Wade and Cheryl; what a pair.
Chapter 8
“So, tell me, Tom-Tom.” I pulled past a slower car as we drove back to Weller, cruising down the interstate. Three thankfully uneventful weeks had transpired, and Tommy, safely secured, clutched Radar and Monkey in the backseat. “Does Wade play any fun games with you? What do you think about him? Is he fun? You want to tell Daddy?”
So far, he’d had no more seizures, which was absolutely great news. Dr. Whitaker had evidently found the proper dosage—at least for now, it seemed. Whitaker and I had talked on the phone and I’d ended the call feeling satisfied with all that he was doing for Tommy. I’d called Rachel and told her about the seizure as well. I thought it only right that she should know. She sounded completely sympathetic. I felt grateful that she understood, glad that she was on my side. Truly, the seizure issue was something we’d have to closely monitor.
But as usual, there were other issues to deal with in my whack-a-mole life. Earlier that morning, my attorney had told me over the phone that the date for the hearing had been set. Cheryl was definitely going to sue for sole custody so that she could take Tommy to Houston without my permission, and so, the game was on. Talk about pissing me off. But anger would do nothing at this point. I would have to sharpen my wits and guard against all the attacks she would throw at me. She would try to prove that I was standing in the way of Tommy’s educational development and his best interests. I would have to fight for him to stay in San Diego so he could be with the chimps, fight as hard as I could. What lay ahead made me feel as if I were standing at the foot of a tall mountain, preparing to somehow climb it. But climb it I must. It was time for complete inner resolve.
Evidently, Cheryl believed she had a strong case. She was the mother, after all. Didn’t mothers know best? Mark reassured me that he felt we had a strong case, too.
“Can you tell Daddy what you and Wade do?” I asked softly as I continued driving.
“We play. Play.”
“So, what do you play?” I kept my voice light.
I wasn’t surprised that Tommy hadn’t mentioned Wade to me. Tommy was too withdrawn to even understand what a new relationship was. Still, I needed to investigate, do a little father-sleuthing.
“Can you tell me, Tommy? Do you and Wade play games?”
After a long pause, Tommy dropped another word: “Ball.”
“You mean ball games? Like what?”
“He . . . ball . . . throw.”
“Oh, well, that’s good.” I ran a hand through my hair, try
ing to maintain my calm. “You know, Daddy can play ball with you too.” I’d tried playing ball with him countless times. He’d never shown much interest. We were both silent, and then a minute later:
“Oooouuu.” Tommy whimpered and I stared at him through my rearview mirror, my gut roiling. He was frowning and I saw lines of sadness around his mouth as he shifted in his child seat.
“What’s wrong, Tom-Tom?”
“Ooooouuuu . . .Wade not you, Daddy. He not . . . youuuuu . . .” Tommy’s words were suddenly laden with real emotion; completely unusual for him. “Wade not . . . youuuu, Daddy.” It sounded like a plea, which reached into the depths of my fatherly heart and touched it like never before, deep in its most inner recesses. I couldn’t help it. A single tear wandered down my cheek. I wiped it away. Tommy wanted me over Wade, of course he did. But what could I do?
“No, he’s not me. He’s . . .” I didn’t know how to continue. The world seemed to suddenly spin. I felt completely mixed up, hanging upside down. Hurt and angry.
And then, as if mustering his words with all his might, Tommy spoke the best way he knew how: He leaned forward, extended his arms holding Radar, and let his stuffed pet rub the back of my neck, which tingled against the feel of it.
“Daddy, you,” Tommy said in a low, soft voice. “Want . . . youuuuu.”
It was my turn to be speechless. His words rumbled inside my heart, breaking it like glass. Oh, God.
“Oh, Tommy. And I want you too,” I said, my voice breaking. “I’ll always be here for you. You know that.” It was as if I’d suddenly swallowed a sad pill and its effects quickly spread throughout my body.
In the rear-view, our eyes met, direct contact, then my son said it all: “You, Daddy. You.”
I nearly lost it right there. Tommy would be going to Houston over my dead body.
*
When we arrived at Weller, still trying to handle in my mind what Tommy had expressed in his own unique way, I saw a Channel 2 news van parked outside the door to the main office. Their slogan was printed in blue on the van: We keep you up-to-the-minute. Pictures of Monica McReary and Randy Dowell, the hottest news anchors in town, were wrapped around the truck, both flashing their whitest, brightest smiles. Shootings, muggings, robberies—they handled it all.