Stuck in Neutral (10 page)

“No,” I answer, a little shocked that we are actually talking.

“Dad, it's me,” I say, realizing that these are the first words he's ever heard me speak.

“Oh my baby,” Dad whispers, and begins to weep. “Oh baby boy, you're gone. Oh God, I'm so sorry you're gone.”

“Dad, it's okay. I'm okay.”

“Oh God, Shawn, you're gone.”

I interrupt, speaking firmly, “Dad, I'm right here, I love you, I need you to know—”

Ignoring me, Dad interrupts. “I'm so sorry I lost you, baby, I'm so sorry I had to let you go. You were my baby, my baby boy, and I said good-bye, I left you and I lost you.” Dad sobs.

“Dad, it's all right,” I insist, trying to interrupt; I want to comfort him.

Dad says, “You're gone, you became an angel because I let you go. Double-jointed thumbs, just you and me. I had to let go....” His tears choke off the rest of his words.

I begin to cry too. “Dad, Daddy … I … I can't.” I'm crying too hard to speak.

“I'm so sorry, baby boy,” Dad says, his voice trembling, slicing into me like a scalpel carving an aching loss.

“You're an angel, baby boy. The angels came and loved you away because I let you go.

“Good-bye, son,” he says softly. “Good-bye, baby boy. Go be an angel.”

“I love you, Dad,” I say, and in the instant before the dream ends, I add desperately, “I don't want to die!”

Inside me this moment changes

into something never felt before;

a flutter of feathers as two birds, falling,

pass down through a blind, silent prayer,

whispering good-bye to dreams and hope,

pass down, falling, and whispering good-bye
.

I
t's Saturday morning. Surrounded by sleeping
bags, coolers, suitcases, cosmetics kits, groceries, noise, laughter, and the high-pitched chatter of female voices, Cindy, her friends, and Mom are doing the last-minute preparations for their trip to Spokane. Go, Spartans!

After what seems like hours the van is finally packed. Mom stops to give me a kiss on the forehead as she moves toward the door. But before her lips can even pucker up, Cindy, laughing, pulls her away. And suddenly they're gone. In a burst of energy and collective chaos, they're out the door.

Vonda, my respite care provider, is nice. As near as I can tell, “respite care provider” is a fancy name for baby-sitter. She's taken care of me before. She's a little impatient at my feeding times, and I'm sure when she has to change my diapers, she comes up with lots of better ideas for making six bucks an hour. But most of the day she watches TV, chats on the phone, and reads
Good Housekeeping
or
Glamour,
which she has brought along with her. She doesn't give me much attention, but then nobody else does either.

Today she's happy. She's working on her nails, glopping on deep-purple polish, followed by a sprinkling of gold glitter. She's at least, league minimum, fifty pounds overweight, but her nails and her hair are perfect. I like her. Later tonight she'll feed me, then give me my meds. She'll put me in my pajamas, making sure I'm dry and clean; then she'll put me to bed.

The day goes by so fast. Each hour seems like a minute. Whenever I manage to focus on the digital clock on the microwave in the kitchen, I'm shocked by how much time has passed.

It's already early afternoon by the time I have my first seizure.

Outside of my body I decide to take a little tour of Seattle: Pike Place Market, the Seattle Art Museum, Pioneer Square, the waterfront with its cheesy piers and stench of fishy salt water.

I take this seizure slowly. I consider soaring down I-90 to see if I can spot Mom's van. But in my spirit I don't feel like flying or soaring or zipping across time and space. I feel relaxed, content. I float aimlessly; I am at peace. I think about all the things I remember, I think about all the things I've heard, and I wonder if …

I'm back in my body again. One second I was in Elliot Bay Bookstore, floating my way between the pages of some favorite old picture books, and the next I am in my bed. It's dark out already. I must have slept for hours.

I hear a car pull up. One door opens, then slams shut. I hear footsteps approaching the house. There is a knock on the front door, but then someone walks on in.

“Hello,” I hear Dad call.

“Hi,” Vonda calls back.

“It's Shawn's father.”

“All right,” Vonda answers. I hear an edge of excitement in her tone.

They exchange pleasantries in the entryway: Dad comments on her nails, she thanks him, a giggly blush to her voice.

Dad asks, “How was Shawn's day?”

“Oh, just fine,” Vonda answers. “It's so exciting to meet you. I read your poem, about Shawn … I mean, of course, the one about Shawn … I mean … it was
so
wonderful … I'm
so
honored. I always hoped I'd meet you.”

She sounds literally breathless, but she manages to go on. “I even have your book with me—I mean in my purse. I always bring it in the hope that I might … I mean that you might … what I mean is, would you autograph it for me?”

I can hear the smile in Dad's voice as he answers, “Sure.”

I hear a brief rummaging, as Vonda digs into her purse. Then I hear Dad speak. His voice has a slightly distracted sound to it. “I was thinking,” Dad says casually, “that I'd like to stay over tonight with Shawn. You've already fed him and put him to bed, right?”

“Oh yes,” Vonda answers. “Will you write ‘To Vonda Quarantos,' then something kind of personal?” She giggles, embarrassed.

“Of course,” Dad says, then, while inscribing her book, in the same casual, off-the-cuff tone, he adds, “I was just thinking, there's no sense in your being trapped here all night. I'll stay with Shawn.”

“Are you sure?” Vonda asks.

“Absolutely. You'll still get paid for the hours, of course, but I'm not doing anything else tonight, and I'm happy to help out.”

“Gosh,” Vonda says. “That'd be great.”

Dad says, “It's a done deal.”

I realize that in all my years of being alive, my dad has never before stayed with me all by himself overnight. Yet suddenly he's volunteered to take care of me.

A done deal, huh? Am I the done deal?

We sat in that silent darkness,

I felt my baby dreaming
.

His breath was Lindy and me saying good-bye
.

His breath was my grandfather's breathing,

his breath was my father loving us,

his breath was my breath, we breathed as one
.

I
hear Dad come into the room. I wait calmly
. There's nothing else I can do. I'm not afraid. My breathing is easy. I feel steady, relaxed, and alert. Whatever my dad has decided, whatever he decides—I can't know whether it's right or wrong, because I don't really know what is for the best; maybe death is nothing like I saw that day when that dog died. Maybe death is simply flying free forever. I just don't know.

“Hey, buddy,” Dad says. He comes to my bed, lowers the side, and sits next to me. He's quiet. He, reaches down to the foot of my bed in the corner where a quilted pillow lies. He grabs the pillow and sets it in his lap. My eyes happen to focus on the pillow. Mom made the quilted cover years ago, maybe even before Dad left us. There's a pattern of checkered blocks, light blue and off-white, and a thin band of dark burgundy along the edge. That dark-reddish band of color reminds me of the way blood looks in black-and-white movies. I'm remembering a part of Dad's poem, the night he almost ended it all. I remember Earl Detraux's description of killing his son.

Dad says, his eyes sad, “I hope you know I love you. I've always loved you.” He pauses, careful in his words. I can tell he's rehearsed some of this. He shifts the pillow nervously in his lap, his hands kneading the cushion. He reaches over, takes my hands. “Double-jointed,” he says, setting them on the pillow on his lap. He gently bends my thumbs into right angles, bends his own too. “Just you and me.”

I think the words “I love you too, Dad,” trying to will them into his mind.

Dad breathes slowly, staring at our hands. He's trying to maintain control, fighting back his tears and looking at me. “Shawn, I've always loved you,” he repeats, his voice soft and trembling. The weight of his words and thoughts seems to tug on him like a necklace of concrete blocks. He squeezes the pillow hard, blood draining from his knuckles. “I know I say ‘I love you' too easily, and that the words collapse in meaning when they're said too many times. But no one will ever know what I mean by ‘love' as I say it to you, unless that person has gone through what we have, unless he's going through it right now.” Dad breaks down. Through soft sobs he struggles to get the words out. I hear his words. “Never does a day go by when I don't think about you. Never does an hour pass when I don't wonder how you are, how you're feeling. The word ‘love' doesn't touch what I feel about you, for you.” He pauses, regaining his composure.

I will the words “I love you too” over and over.

My eyes happen to shift to his face; I watch his expression as he talks. I've never noticed before how much older he's getting. His skin is smooth and he's still handsome, but he looks almost frail. His eyes look like they've seen too much sadness; the creases around them are deep.

He says, “When I think about you, Shawn, my heart breaks at one moment and is at peace the next. When I think about you hurting, I can barely even breathe, my chest aches so badly. I sometimes pray, Just let this all be over.” He seems suddenly stronger again, almost angry as he adds, “When you were born, and we were told that you'd have these kinds of problems, do you know I got down on my knees and prayed harder than I'd ever prayed, begging God or Satan, or anybody in between, to let me trade places with you? I prayed, night after night, that I could be the one trapped inside your body and that you could take my place. I prayed so hard, for weeks, months, that I almost started believing in God.” He laughs at his irony. “I guess we know how that worked out.” His voice turns hard. “I could never find words strong enough to express the hate I felt toward God when those prayers went unanswered. It took years for me to sign in on
that
armistice. God was patient.” He sighs.

“Nothing is ever easy, is it, Shawn? Nothing is ever like it seems. You know none of us really knows you. I mean, it takes just as much faith on our part to believe that you're retarded as it would to believe that you're a genius.” He chuckles a little at that one. “Well, maybe genius is pushing it, but you know what I mean? What if you understand everything? What if you know what I've been thinking of doing, but you can't do anything about it?” He searches for the right words; I see the pain in his face and body, shoulders down, neck stiff, his hands quivering. “So many answers you can't provide, but does that mean you don't understand the questions? What would you tell me to do, Shawn? I dreamed about you the other night. I dreamed that you talked to me—I can't remember what you said. Were you happy? Sad? I can't remember....”

He seems tired from all his words. “I don't know what to do, son,” he says, his voice exhausted. I watch his chest rise. It's as though he is lifting himself up one last time. A final stand? I see the pillow in his lap. He pauses and takes a deep, slow breath. Has it all come down to this? With his thumbnail he unconsciously tugs at a loose thread on one corner of the pillow, sliding the thread over and over between the nail and the flesh.

My eyes have been shifting all over the place, but now suddenly, as if by some miracle, I look up directly at my dad. Our eyes lock. I see in my father's expression that he is staring back at me. We are somehow together again, like that night in my dream when we spoke. Dad stares not just at me, but into me. In all my life we have never been like this before.

“Shawn?” he says softly. “Son …” he begins. Tears come back into his eyes again as we sit in this strange, impossible moment. “I love you,” Dad says again.

I call the words out silently, from the deepest part of my heart, “I love you too, Dad,” wishing I could say it, wishing he could hear!

But before either of us can speak again, I feel
crackle—crackle—crackle
. I can't tell what's going to happen next. My seizure begins to spin slowly through me. What will my dad do? Whatever it is, in another moment I'll be flying free. Either way, whatever he does, I'll be soaring.

F
irst and foremost I want to thank my family. I
could not have written this story without the love of Patti and Jesse. Eric Nasburg, Peggy Yurik, Chad and Tami Gardner, Christie Nasburg, Wally and Kathy Egger, and my sister, Cindy Trueman, all read
Stuck in Neutral
at various stages of its development and offered helpful suggestions and support.