Are You Alone on Purpose? (6 page)

There was another thing Harry needed to know about. But there were mostly women around. Only a few men. And, somehow, it had been only the women who'd asked him if he had any questions. He'd been too embarrassed to tell them what he was worrying about.

And maybe too frightened.

Harry hadn't heard from Rachel Pearl.

He looked at his roommate, who was still occupied with the comic books. Maybe this Zabriskie kid would know. Maybe Harry would get to know him well enough to ask.

Oh, God. A book would be better. A book would be infinitely better than asking.

They lied to you. They lied by omission. They said the library was important for term papers. They never said you might need it for your life.

At night, they attached a bigger bag to the catheter, one that wouldn't fill up so fast, and then they hung it from the bed, right where anyone could see it. It was disgusting. At least the small bag could be kept hidden on his body, under his clothes.

But either way, what girl would ever want to look at it? Rachel Pearl? Harry had to laugh. He wouldn't make it on her short list now. And as for babes like Gina Collarusso, well, forget it.

The bag looked really full now. He touched its plastic side tentatively with a finger and felt the resistance. It needed to be changed. He'd have to push the call button for a nurse. He'd have to ask to have it changed. In front of this Zabriskie kid.

They'd said they'd teach him to take care of himself in this hospital. They said they'd teach him everything he needed to know. Harry hoped it was true.

It was about as much as he dared hope for.

“
A
lison,” yelled Mrs. Shandling as the phone rang for the fifth time, “could you please get that?”

The words penetrated into the paragraph Alison was reading. She grabbed for her bedroom phone, managing to pick it up midway through the sixth ring.

“Hello?” she said. There was no response. “Is anyone there?”

Finally there came a reply. “Mrs. Shandling? It's Avi Roth. Um, Rabbi Roth.”

Harry's father. Alison was astonished. “No, this is Alison,” she said finally. “Just a minute, Rabbi Roth. I'll get my mother.”

She put down the receiver and went down the hall and into the den, where her mother was working on a paper for one of her psychology classes. “Mom,” she said, “it's Rabbi Roth.”

Mrs. Shandling turned away from the desk. Alison could tell she was equally surprised. “What does he want?” she asked.

Alison shrugged. “I don't know.”

Her mother picked up the extension phone. Unashamedly, Alison lingered, listening in.

“Rabbi Roth. Hello . . . Oh, no, not at all. I'm, uh, actually I'm glad you called. We've heard about Harry's accident, of course, and we're so very sorry....You got my card, I'm glad.... Oh, you're welcome . . . .” There was a long pause while Alison's mother listened. Then she frowned. “Well. I suppose . . . . Right now I'm in the middle of a term paper. . . .If you insist. See you soon, then.”

Mrs. Shandling hung up. She swung in her chair to face Alison. “He wants to come over,” she said. “To talk.”

They stared at each other.

 

Unable to help herself, Alison went into the family room to peer out the front window and wait for Rabbi Roth. Adam was already there, wearing his favorite rugby shirt and the blue shorts he'd insisted on putting on that morning even though it was really too cold for them. He was sitting on the rug with the earphones on, hands flat on the floor on either side, rocking intensely back and forth. He ignored Alison. Idly, she picked up the CD case to see what he was listening to: it was an old Rolling Stones, one of her mother's.
Some Girls
.

“Adam still hasn't had lunch,” said Mrs. Shandling, wandering in. She knelt down in front of Adam, put her hands on his shoulders to stop him from rocking, and then removed the headphones. “Time to eat lunch,” she said.

They went into the kitchen. Alison kept looking out the window. What could Rabbi Roth possibly want?

Ten minutes later she saw his little brown car come slowly up their street. Rabbi Roth parked in front of their house and got out of the car.

“He's here,” Alison yelled. She opened the door and watched him come up the walk and steps. “Hi,” she said. She stood aside so he could come into the front hall.

“Hi.” Rabbi Roth looked as uneasy as Alison felt. He stuck out a hand. “How are you?”

Alison shook hands tentatively. “My mom and Adam are in the kitchen.”

“And your father?”

“Uh, at the lab.”

“Oh.”

Rabbi Roth followed Alison to the kitchen, where he greeted her mother and tried to shake hands with Adam, who was sitting at the table with a cup of milk and a plate that contained three sandwich quarters and a number of orange sections. Adam ignored him.

“Coffee?” said Mrs. Shandling. Alison noted that she had just made a fresh pot. “Is decaffeinated okay? Oh, sit, please.”

“Decaffeinated is fine,” said Rabbi Roth. He sat down gingerly on one of the chairs in the breakfast nook, across from Adam. Adam did not look up. He put down the sandwich quarter he'd been nibbling and began to form patterns with the food on his plate.

Alison wondered if she should leave. But she wouldn't go unless she was asked. She took a seat as well.

She watched her mother pour coffee into two mugs, put out milk. She watched Rabbi Roth watch Adam, who had now lined the sandwich pieces in a row across the plate, with two orange sections between each pair. He put the extra orange sections down beside the plate. Then he picked one of them up and bit into it, staring at the plate.

Rabbi Roth seemed fascinated.

Finally Mrs. Shandling stopped bustling and sat down next to Adam. “You might want to let the coffee sit for a minute,” she advised. “It's pretty hot.”

“Thanks. I like it hot.” Rabbi Roth sipped.

“Well,” said Alison's mother. She looked at Rabbi Roth for a moment, a straight look, carefully neutral. Then she looked at her son. “Take one away, Adam. One of the sandwich pieces.”

Adam picked up a sandwich piece from his plate and put it aside, next to the leftover orange slices.

“No, honey. Take it away by eating it. Eat the extra orange slices too. That's how we take them away, remember? Otherwise they have to stay on the plate. And drink some milk. One third. Can you do one third?”

Slowly, Adam began to eat the food that wasn't on his plate. Mrs. Shandling watched him chew, watched until he picked up the milk and began to drink it, and then she turned to Rabbi Roth. “How is Harry doing now?”

“Okay,” said Rabbi Roth. “He's been transferred to University Hospital in Boston. They're supposed to have a really good rehab unit.”

“I think I've heard of it,” said Mrs. Shandling. She took a cautious sip of coffee, made a face, and put the cup down again. “And how are you doing?”

“Okay.”

Alison heard the odd note in Rabbi Roth's voice. He's not okay, Alison thought. Of course he's not, but he can't say so.

She suddenly felt very sorry for him.

“Mrs. Shandling,” Rabbi Roth was saying, hesitantly, “I didn't come here to talk about Harry. I came to talk about Adam. About his attending Hebrew school at the synagogue.”

Oh my God, thought Alison.

Her mother had leaned forward. “Excuse me? You've changed your mind?”

“Well, not exactly. I . . . that is. . .” Rabbi Roth paused, and Alison saw him look at Adam.

By creating ever smaller patterns, and eating what he took away to form them, Adam had managed to consume most of his lunch. There was one piece of sandwich left, in the exact center of the plate, with the last orange section sitting diagonally on top of it. Adam was absorbed in watching the plate, his hand hovering over it. He had paid no attention when Rabbi Roth spoke his name, and now he picked up the orange slice, delicately, between two fingers, and bit off half of it. He then returned the other half to the plate, this time upended, one inch to the left of the sandwich.

Mrs. Shandling had noticed Rabbi Roth's fascination. “Adam always eats like that,” she commented. “And he never finishes anything completely. We try to make a game out of it, but it can be very frustrating.”

Alison wasn't sure, for a moment, if Rabbi Roth had heard. He didn't respond immediately. He was watching Adam separate the bread that formed the sandwich. He put the separated pieces back down on the plate, one to each side of the bit of orange, peanut butter sides up, and cocked his head to one side, considering the effect.

“About Hebrew school,” Alison's mother said, reclaiming Rabbi Roth's attention. “What do you mean, ‘Not exactly'?”

Rabbi Roth returned his gaze to Mrs. Shandling. “I still don't see how he could be in class with the others,” he said. “But I could tutor Adam privately, if you'd like.”

“Excuse me?” said Mrs. Shandling.

“I could tutor Adam myself,” Rabbi Roth repeated. He looked toward Adam again, speaking with difficulty. “That day in my office—you were right. I see that now. Or maybe I should say it's been made clear to me . . . . Harry's accident, you know. I've done a lot of thinking. Praying. Trying to understand what happened. What's right. What's just.” He looked directly at Betsy again, spread his hands, shrugged a little. “What God wants.”

What God wants? thought Alison.

“Excuse me, Rabbi,” said Mrs. Shandling. “Am I to understand that you think God wants you to tutor Adam?”

“Well, that's a dramatic way of putting it. But, in essence, yes.” Rabbi Roth met Alison's mother's eyes directly. “I know you and your husband are not deeply religious people, Mrs. Shandling. But I believe that things happen for a reason. I might not know the reason, but I believe there is one.” Rabbi Roth paused. He drank the end of his coffee and looked over at Adam again.

Rabbi Roth thinks God caused Harry's accident, Alison thought. On purpose. Because he didn't let Adam into Hebrew school?

The rabbi was continuing, leaning forward, speaking intently. “That day in my office, well, you said some very harsh things to me. About my responsibilities as a rabbi.”

And as a father, Alison thought.

Mrs. Shandling cut in. “I was very angry that day, Rabbi. I want to apologize—”

“No, I'm the one who should apologize. You were right, Mrs. Shandling.”

Alison saw Rabbi Roth move uneasily in his chair. She wished she could see his expression better.

“Harry's accident was a sign from God,” said Harry's father. “A sign that I was wrong about Adam, and you were right.”

Her mother was staring at him. “You can't possibly believe—”

“How can I not believe it? It's very clear. Do you know, at first I was just going to call you and apologize. But then I somehow knew it would be insufficient.”

Alison's mother had leaned her head in her hands and was rubbing her forehead, slowly, with her fingers. Finally she looked up. “I don't understand. How can you worship God if you think He would hurt Harry just to teach you a lesson?”

Rabbi Roth sighed. “I understand it looks that way to you, Mrs. Shandling. But I have faith that God knows what He's doing.”

Alison's mind spun so fast that, for a moment, she couldn't understand a single thought in it.

“I don't know what to tell you, Rabbi,” Alison's mother said. “Honestly, I don't.”

“Tell me that I can tutor Adam. Twice a week, maybe, one-hour sessions? We could start by learning some prayers. Does Adam like to sing? Adam?” Adam didn't look up, but his hands on the bread stilled, and Alison could tell by the stiffening of his shoulders that he knew he was being addressed. “Can you sing, Adam?”

Adam didn't answer. After a moment, he began moving the pieces of bread around on his plate again.

“He can hum,” said Mrs. Shandling. “He likes music. He does that rhythmic rocking, you know. To music.”

“Rock,” said Adam suddenly, softly. “Rolling Stones.” He didn't look up from his plate.

“He likes the Stones,” Mrs. Shandling agreed. “And the old Motown music, you know.” She smiled a little. “Probably not what you had in mind?”

“Well,” the rabbi said, “I could try. And Adam likes being in synagogue. I've noticed that.”

“Ah.” After another moment, Alison's mother sighed, exhaling. “I just don't know, Rabbi. You're offering a lot more than I had in mind, to be honest. In a class, well, Adam could just sit there. He might or might not take something in. I was willing to risk it.”

“Were you willing to risk it with regular school?”

Mrs. Shandling shook her head. “You're right, of course. Adam goes to a special school. Which brings up another problem. Have you ever dealt with an autistic child, Rabbi? Do you have any idea what you're getting into?”

“I could learn.”

“Maybe,” said Mrs. Shandling. She looked doubtful. “I just don't know.”

“At least think about it. Please.”

“It's not just my decision, you know. I'd have to talk it over with my husband.”

“Of course.”

“Even if we said yes, you should have the right to change your mind. After a session or two, you might decide it's not working out.”

“I suppose that's possible. But I would like to try, Mrs. Shandling. It would mean a lot to me. And possibly to Adam.”