Stuck in Neutral (6 page)

I dream about Ally. I am alone with her and we begin to kiss. It feels great. Even though we don't know each other, somehow we're in love. I wonder where we are; the room doesn't seem familiar. I think about where I'd like to be, and an instant later we are sitting on the top of the Space Needle in downtown Seattle, six hundred feet above the city. Our legs dangle over the side. We face east, looking out past the hills leading up to the mountains. The sun is rising over the tallest peaks of the Cascades. The horizon, the huge length of it, is blazing in pink, red, and orange. The mountains look purple and blue, the snow tinted by the colors. There is such a huge feeling to this sunrise, like all the universe spreads out from the light, and the entire universe looks back toward it.

“God, this is beautiful,” Ally says.

We sit holding each other, the morning's first light covering us.

Ally whispers again, “It's so beautiful.”

“I love you,” I say to Ally. She is the first girl I've ever said these words to. And even though I'm only a kid, even though I'm young and inexperienced and I know it would sound stupid and corny, I almost add, “Darling.”

“I love you too,” Ally whispers back; then she pulls herself close to me. It feels as though we are blending together, I can't tell where I end and she begins. Then Ally says, “I love you, my darling.”

Suddenly, even though I know that I am only dreaming, I feel so loving, I feel so loved, that I begin to cry.

When I wake up, there is a fly on my face. I can feel its tiny feet moving across my cheek. It is looking up my nose. Every few moments its wings lift it off me and I think it's going to go away, but quickly it returns. Of course, there is nothing I can do about it. I can't move my head or my hands to shake it off or swat it. I can't holler for help. This has happened a lot of times before and I really hate it. All I can do is lie here and try to think other thoughts. I focus on last night.

I can't remember exactly how or when my dream of being with Ally ended. I had started to cry—dream crying, not real tears. She had held me close to her, dream holding, not our real bodies.

The next thing I knew, it was morning, and I was waking up in my bed: real self, real body, real breathing. I was lying here quietly, relaxed and fantasizing, when this damn fly arrived. As it rises from me, I can see its bulbous blue eyes, hear the annoying, torturous
buzzzz
of its wings. Then I feel it land again, crossing my face, over my cheek, onto my lips, pausing at the corners of my mouth. Is it feeding? Laying eggs? Soon it wanders up into my eye; I blink, an involuntary but appreciated reflex.

Dreaming about Ally, about being with her, was wonderful. Before last night, when I'd think about Dad killing me, my fears were based on what I guess everybody fears about death, just not knowing what's coming next. Before last night, I only worried that there might not be life after we die. Of all people I guess I should know, because of my spirit travels, that we are more than just our bodies and our brains. I should believe that we have souls. Yet I'm still not sure. Before, it didn't matter so much if Dad's deciding to kill me might stop everything. Now, for some reason it matters a lot! If feeling the way I felt with Ally is this nice, how many other wonderful things might I still get to feel someday?

I can't stop thinking about love. I've never been
in love
before. I know my mom and dad love me. They're required to by all the rules of doing the right thing. They love me, but they don't really know me, and they never will. They can't. If it hadn't been for me, Mom and Dad might have stayed together. I think about Cindy and Paul. It's the same thing for them; I'm sure they love me, but how can they not feel resentment, toward me? I ruined our family. Whatever their feelings, they don't know me; they've never known me. For the first time in my life I'm thinking about being loved and being known somehow going together. What if somehow, some way, I could get somebody to love me and know me? What if there is a way that I could let somebody know that I am smart and that I like my life and that I don't want to die!

If my dad walked into this room right now and killed me, no one would ever know what I was really like. I want to love someone, and feel loved in return, for my real self. What if someone loved me enough to somehow break through and discover that I'm inside this body? That I am in here? Maybe that person could tell my dad what my world is really like and that I'm not in any pain. Aside from everything else, if I were loved enough to be truly known, maybe that could save my life?

Something is happening;

Lindy won't look at me,

and I can't look at myself....

Words,

once real as firewood or concrete …

become meringue of dust
.

B
reakfast time. When I eat, I know that it's
not a very pretty sight. It's the same every morning. Mom pulls up the kitchen chair she always sits in when she feeds me and places my bath towel–size “bib” around my neck. Then she scoops oatmeal into an ancient green plastic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles bowl (Donatello). She always uses this bowl, I think because she can hold it by the turtle's head up close to my face and spoon the mush into my mouth.

Putting food in my mouth is only the first step to feeding me. I can't voluntarily swallow, so we have to wait for my swallowing reflex to kick in. Because of this, half the food oozes back out before any of it goes down. Mom has fed me practically every meal I've ever eaten, so she's an expert. She shovels a spoonful in, then leaves the spoon under my lower lip, resting it lightly on my chin until half the food slides back out, then she spoons it in again, repeating the procedure as many times as it takes until my body manages to swallow. Then I get the next spoonful. It takes a while to feed me. I cough and spit a lot too, spraying my meals, like that time with my dad. I know I must look terrible. I'm glad Ally left before I got up.

This morning Mom seems distracted. She lets more oatmeal than usual slide out of my mouth and down onto the bib. She keeps running her fingers gently across my chin, wiping away the drooled cereal. There is something in her expression, something in her eyes, that tells me something is wrong.

When I'm done eating, after Mom has gone to the bathroom and washed the sticky oatmeal off her hands, she comes back into the kitchen and calls for Cindy and Paul, who are both upstairs.

“Yo,” Paul calls back.

Cindy doesn't answer.

“Cindy!” Mom calls again, louder.

“What?” Cindy answers.

Mom says, “I need you both down here for a second.”

Mom stands leaning against the wall between the kitchen and the family room. I happen to be looking at her. She looks pretty. Even though she's forty-five years old, she looks good. Mom's real name is Linda, but my dad gave her the nickname Lindy back before they were even married. It's stuck with her ever since. Watching Mom standing there, I remember so many things about her: I remember every soft word she's ever whispered in my ear, every gentle, silly lullaby, each and every time I've come back after a seizure to find myself cradled in her arms. If I had to name a single reason why I've been as happy as I've been, I know that it would be my certainty of Mom's love for me, love that's absolute, rock solid. Yet right now, at this moment, I think about Ally and how much I'd like to have a girlfriend. I even wonder what it would be like to love someone else more than I love my mom. I know that the secret to happiness is love, to be loved the way Mom has always loved me, and to love back the way I've loved her. Yet now, somehow, I think about a new meaning for love, something even bigger.

Cindy and Paul show up together, coming into the family room, pushing and teasing.

“I need to tell you guys something,” Mom says. She uses her best put-on-a-happy-face voice, so all of us know instantly that something must be wrong.

“I need to discuss something with you guys,” Mom says.

“You said that,” Paul counters, already on the defensive.

Both Cindy and Paul look guilty, not specific guilt, but more like “I wonder what she's found out about?” Mom notices this and laughs. “You're not in trouble,” she reassures them. “I just have to tell you something.”

By this time I can feel the weight of what's coming. I can hear it in her tone. Mom's a naturally positive and cheerful person. When she sounds as overly positive as she's sounding now, it has to mean something is pretty bad.

“What's going on?” Cindy asks anxiously, staring at Mom with the same suspicious feelings I have.

“It's about your dad,” Mom says.

Paul instantly groans and asks, “Now what?”

“I haven't even told you what it's about,” Mom says defensively.

Paul snaps back, “If it has to do with Dad, you don't have to.” He slumps down on the big blue couch in the family room. Cindy sits next to him.

Mom takes a breath, and she turns to Paul. “You're mad at your dad. I know that, but you need to set that aside for a moment and just listen.
The Alice Ponds Show
is going to do a program about your dad's newest project—”

Cindy interrupts. “The thing about the schools?”

“No,” Mom says.

“What new project?” Paul asks.

Mom sighs, just a quick little sigh, but all three of us catch it. It's her signature giveaway that the punch line is next.

“Your dad's writing a new book. It's about Earl Detraux.”

“Oh no!” Cindy snaps, jerking her knees up to her chest and burying her head.

“Who?” Paul asks sarcastically. “Who's Earl Dayglow?”

Cindy's voice comes out from her knees. “Has Dad gone crazy?”

Mom says, “Your dad thinks it's an important story. He thinks—”

Cindy interrupts. “Bull! He's not thinking at all. Jesus Christ!”

Paul yells, “What's going on?! Who's this Earl guy?”

Cindy looks up and hisses, “He's that monster from eastern Washington who murdered his kid.”

I placed the name immediately, the second Mom said it, and now the voice-overs of a dozen TV news stories flash back perfectly in my head: Earl Detraux killed his brain-damaged two-year-old son, Colin, a little over a year ago. He smothered the little boy and was convicted of second-degree murder. He received a twenty-year sentence in Walla Walla State Penitentiary.

Mom answers Paul, telling him about Earl.

“I don't get it,” Paul says. “Why's Dad into that?”

Mom says, “I won't speak for your father. I'm not going to stand here and lie to you and say that I understand or agree with everything he does. I think your dad believes that families like ours, families with kids like Shawn, are not very well understood. Your dad's work, his writing and his projects, are about trying to get people to think about what happens when a child like Shawn comes along.” Mom pauses a second. Her face is sad and suddenly she looks real tired. I think about all the times that I've heard her on the phone talking with Dad, crying, criticizing, and arguing with him. “Your father just wants you to know that he'd appreciate your cooperation for this project.”

Cindy snaps, “Cooperation?!” She sounds mad.

Mom adds, “He wants you both to know that if you want to, you can join him on the program and talk about life with your brother. The people at
The Alice Ponds Show
—”

Paul's burst of angry laughter interrupts Mom. “Right! Alice Ponds. I'd rather have ground glass pounded up my nose!”

“Paul,” Mom says, pushing down a nervous laugh.

“Join him?” Cindy asks angrily. “Why?”

Mom pauses a moment before she speaks. “I think your father believes that his work might help other families with kids like Shawn. I believe that your dad feels that kids like Shawn and their families need a lot more from society than volunteer stints with the Special Olympics. He knows that the problems that families like ours face are a lot more complex than they are presented on feel-good made-for-TV movies. Your father—”

Paul interrupts again. “My father is a hopeless jerk, and I wouldn't help him do
anything
, least of all go on a freak show and talk about my brother.” Paul pauses a moment; then he adds angrily, “Alice Ponds? Alice Friggin' Ponds!”

Paul's been mad at Dad for years, ever since he left us. Not all the time—they've tried to iron things out—but the peace has never lasted longer than a few months. Paul always finds something to get upset about and then refuses any contact with Dad. These days they're not speaking at all.

Mom says, “It's completely up to you guys, whether you want to go on
Alice Ponds
. Your dad would never make you, and, of course, neither will I. When your dad talked to me about this, he mentioned that the
Alice Ponds
producer wanted you guys on the show, but your dad didn't even ask me to ask you. He just wanted me to let you know that the invitation was there. If you want to go, you can; if you'd rather not, you shouldn't.”