Know the Night (2 page)

B
egin again.

Orion is hunting, and black holes drink the universe while Gabriel’s squeals and bouncing rock the house. He was born three years after my miscarriage in Newfoundland. He is eleven, but it’s been years since R and I have heard him speak. In the absence of speech, then: spikes of sound, vortices, a repetitive soul-splitting screech. Not rage or frustration, not right now, but a wild laughing shriek. Speech pulled to its breaking point. Speech eviscerated. It’s just after midnight, and I walk the cold hall to his room, pulled by a loop of auditory fire.

When I open his bedroom door, I find him, small and beautiful, standing in the middle of his room. Autism is one of his diagnoses; there are others. He is capable of communicating—he uses picture symbols to let us know what he wants—but at the moment he’s lost, so consumed with laughing and shrieking that the sound itself begins to augment. He disappears this way, erects walls of sound around him as he scurries down internal corridors, leaving the shuddering, sirening body in place for his return.

Gabriel
, I say to him.
Gabriel
. He looks at me with blue eyes that contain chips of white, like ice in a sea, but he doesn’t see me. When he stops screaming, the air is still but seems marked by the sound. The question is there, too, of how we got to this place in the night and how to get back. How to return him to the other boy he is, the one who looks me in the eye and smiles, the one who
loves storybooks and hands me another so I’ll keep reading, the one who loves music, especially jazz. The boy in the dark is only one version of Gabriel, one aspect of the night. At the moment, it is impossible to catch and hold him, impossible to define him or put boundaries around him so that he’s knowable, though I can comb his vital statistics: four feet nine inches tall, ninety pounds, his sun in Gemini, lover of stuffed bears and applesauce, fearful of dogs, oblivious to cats. When he wakes in the morning, he’ll be unironically sweet and calm as he receives his oatmeal and buttered toast, his watered-down juice. He’ll wear khakis and a tidy polo shirt, and sneakers he’ll try to remove before long. A special-needs bus will pull into our driveway and take him to school, and once there, he’ll sparkle some more for the teachers and aides whose adoration of him borders on the ferocious. He has a talent for surrounding himself with loving lions.

But that morning is still far away, and the unpacking of night has just begun. There’s a picture on his wall of Louis Armstrong on stage, smiling and holding his trumpet, and it’s almost hard for me to look at him in the version of night where he’s been playing a gig. I’ve become envious of him because the night I’m in, the one somewhere in 2008, could as easily be the year before or the year before that. The dark hours have become more or less the same, and midnight is simply the place where we start waking, where we’ve been waking for two years.

Night used to be different. R and I enjoyed oblivious, unbroken sleeps, even as the parents of two young children—Gabriel’s little brother was born four years after him—because both boys slept
well. Then, at the age of nine, Gabriel broke one of his nights into pieces, and then most nights after that into more, and then more. Now I go to bed knowing that R or I will be lifted out any time before morning by the sound of clapping or humming or shrieking. Finding him coiled in sounds has become normal, or at least familiar, and it has made me wonder, there in the dark, moving the cat from my legs, about the other parents who are up. I picture them shuffling through hallways toward speechless children, the ones vibrating with the sound of the dark. A reversal happens, and the uninterrupted night becomes the curiosity.

The potency of midnight, when anything can happen, is where our waking begins. Now is the change, the start or end of the spell. We’re given a paradox: that in the indisputable presence of night is day’s origin, a quiet, winking birth so obscured by flooding ink and our dreams that we barely feel the transition. Midnight, and a corner is turned, and what is gorgeous is also sinister, but mostly we are unconscious or bathed in artificial light when it comes.

Thelonious Monk wrote the tune “ ’Round Midnight,” to which someone later added lyrics, though it didn’t need any.
I do pretty well ’till after sundown … But it really gets bad ‘round midnight
. The thing about Monk, apparently, was that he would just stop speaking for a while, just decide; days without talking, without explanation. Or sometimes he’d be playing and stand up and stop. Just stop.

I don’t look anymore for the reason, how a boy goes from reveling in sleep to simply dabbling in it. His waking, more than the shrieking, has seemed unsolvable, and sometimes I have wondered if the fault is mine. Hubris punished, as in fables. I probably took the unbroken
night and the sound of words for granted, and considered them, despite knowing better, as inviolate and maybe even commonplace. In the way that a person can appear to possess what happens out of sheer coincidence to be available, I must have thought they were mine.

When I was in my midtwenties and feeling that something was missing, I started wishing for him. Except that the wish was entirely open-ended—I didn’t even specify a him or a her—I simply wanted to be pregnant, and I got my wish, becoming pregnant three times before I was able to carry to term. I had gone to art school, but my mind was concerned with writing, not painting. I had been attempting novels since the age of ten. I completed a full draft of one when I was twenty-one, but by the time I was pregnant with Gabriel—and considering the loss of his words, this is prescient—I suffered a seemingly intractable writer’s block. R and I had been married for three years at that point, and I had left my job at a bookstore in downtown Toronto in an anxiety-soaked attempt to keep the pregnancy and to write. I did the latter unsuccessfully, though not for lack of trying; one memorable seven-hour period in front of my computer culminated in a single word on the screen:
jesus
. And I did the former with all the determination I had, as if life can be willed, gritted into being.

Overseeing the first half of my pregnancy with Gabriel was a fertility specialist whose methods for staving off miscarriage involved, among other arcana, the taking of progesterone, a ban on coffee, and no sex. Imagine carrying a raw egg on a spoon, and you have the effect. Imagine the metaphysical equivalent of threads and veils and thumbtacks. But being pregnant with Gabriel was also like being a radio receiver, and I became especially sensitive to my
body and knew that I was pregnant before taking a home test, and further that something unusual was happening. When I was five weeks’ pregnant, there was a heated point on the left side of my abdomen that felt like an ember hit with air. I curled fetally on the bed for hours on an autumn evening as the tiny pulse of alarm grew, until it was almost midnight and R took me to the emergency room.

We didn’t wait long for my examination. I had brought a book with me, imagining that somehow I’d be able to focus on it. The attending doctor, looking to the chair where I’d placed my jacket and the book
Memories, Dreams, Reflections
, by Carl Jung, said,
Whose is that?
While he examined me, he murmured how he admired Jung.

I was admitted, given a bed where nurses hovered and checked and spoke about the results of my blood and urine tests behind the curtain. One nurse said to another,
This woman is really pregnant. Really, really pregnant
. The intimation of excess, of hormones streaming in uncontrolled fountains, was both frightening and reassuring. An ultrasound was scheduled for the morning, and until then time crept. I badly wanted something to drink, but the nurse told me I couldn’t drink, or eat, or even brush my teeth, because I’d possibly be operated on due to an ectopic pregnancy. Ectopic, meaning that the embryo had rooted in a fallopian tube instead of the uterus, meaning that the pregnancy could possibly be excised. A sensation, then, like teetering. Pinpricks of waiting, coloured chips on the terrazzo floor, the hospital gown’s ties like spiders along my spine, and thirst. I waited under buzzing lights until dawn with the faint hope that this pregnancy was not what they thought.

In the morning, an attendant wheeled me through corridors to the dim room where the ultrasound machine stood. Its vision
passed coolly through me and glimpsed, there on the uterine wall, a speckling of light and dark. All was well, and the source of the pain was hypothesized to be the spot on the ovary, now a cyst, where the egg that would form Gabriel had made its exit. It had left behind a tiny, fiery explosion. The pain faded, and I shakily dressed in my own clothes again and pressed the gown into a bin. I staggered out with R into the early morning, surprised that I was pregnant; still.

Gabriel wasn’t born at night, but on a day in June that was a bright blade. There was the python clench around my abdomen, and the measuring of time in intervals I wanted only to be over. There were the hospital corridors, blank as laundry chutes, and clocks with enormous numerals on the walls. I saw the forms of other mothers moving through the halls wheeling drips, or else propped on beds, and some were talkative or focused, and others seemed not entirely there, as though floating away, like zeppelins. There was R, smiling and coaching me, and the growing feeling within me that all the birthing classes were really just an attempt to give him something to hang on to as I disappeared into the crevasse.

Finally, Gabriel emerged. He arrived lit as lightning, with white-blond hair, and hunched around the hand of the doctor who pulled him free. I can see him perfectly: he arrived as though backing in, facing away. He arrived with his twenty-first chromosomes dangling a third copy.

His Down syndrome surprised me only because I could see then that I’d been right. When I had reached the seventh month of pregnancy, and had been passed from the fertility specialist to my primary-care doctor, I had gone to the library to find books on parenting the typical baby I was expecting. Secretly, I was already
concerned. Sometimes the rocking baby inside me would become so still that I would lie down and inwardly beg him,
please move
. So an unease had begun to tingle, and when I walked into the library and started to examine the titles, there it was:
Your Down Syndrome Child
. The spine of the book didn’t say
The Down Syndrome Child
or
Children with Down Syndrome
, but
Your
. Mine. The book was old, having been published decades earlier, and full of misinformation. It sat dust-covered on the shelf, as though waiting for me.
Your
.

The diagnosis is both important and not. It is important in that he arrived signifying difference. His entrance was enough to generate a slow-motion tumult in the room, one that gathered speed when it became apparent that he couldn’t breathe. The doctor and nurses withdrew him like a magic trick, a flick of cloth and he was gone to the intensive care unit. But this wasn’t the only disappearing act: the doctor, one of three women who shared a practice, and who was the first to hold him, began, without my realizing it, to recede. We never saw her again—not once. But his diagnosis is also insignificant because it is only one of numerous that would follow, like beads on a string. He arrived and he was perfect.

Gabriel shrieks again now while I stand in his room. The shrieks are like cyclones, full of movement, and I’m engulfed by the vibrations. It’s amazing to me that his little brother, S, who is seven years old and whose room is at the opposite end of the hall, sleeps through this, always. I open one of Gabriel’s favourite storybooks, about a lost dog who eventually goes to live in Manhattan, and try to snag his attention, bring him down from the high pitch of his sounds. The dog charges through a park with a dog warden at his
heels, while a little boy and girl pretend he belongs to them. Gabriel laughs, wild-eyed, but not at the book; it’s some interior vision that has him. The children bring the dog home and lather him in the tub, then introduce him to his cosmopolitan neighbourhood. In the last drawing, he’s curled on a cushion and seems to be in a deep sleep. Gabriel bounces, his light brown hair flapping against his forehead.

Speech and language are not the same thing, of course. When he’s not caught in this midnight vortex, he’s eloquent with gestures and facial expressions; he speaks in a language composed of his smiles, grimaces, foot stamps, a range of calls, coos, and guffaws, the way he stands or plops to the ground. He signals with his body. A thrust elbow, he has taught us, is
no
; a clicking kiss sound rewards us for something we did or said. His headshakes and nods are too similar to be sure of, so he has a small board with the words
yes
and
no
written on them, and he points to the one he means.

In the photo that hangs on the wall, Louis Armstrong is on stage, wearing a tux. He’s dangling in his left hand his trumpet and one of his white kerchiefs and shaking the hand of trombone player Trummy Young with the other. Armstrong’s face, in profile, is electric; he’s smiling enormously, and Young is grinning right back at him. You become aware, looking at them, of the silence where you stand and the din of the concert audience where they are. A few feet away from the photo is another image, an abstracted blue trumpet. Underneath it sits a stereo and an iPod loaded with jazz. Gabriel has a captain’s bed with drawers underneath, a blue quilt, and a shelf at the head of the bed that’s usually kept clear. His mattress has a waterproof barrier and a cushioned pad on top; fresh bed linens are stacked nearby. Before the captain’s bed, when he was
a preschooler, he’d had a futon flat on the floor because we’d been afraid he’d tumble from a taller bed, even one with guardrails, and the futon had been dubbed his bachelor pad. His grandfather built a hope chest that sits against one wall. It has a secret compartment, but the compartment’s existence, its purpose, is hard to convey to someone who has no secrets and is all secret at the same time, and so it remains empty.