The Practical Navigator (23 page)

Pretending in real life is another thing entirely.

The woman from the class who has become sort of a friend calls one day to ask if she'll emergency sub for her at a restaurant—a hostess position. She does and finds it busy and fun. Flirtation with strangers. A faux social life. A paycheck that she has automatically deposited into a savings account in Jamie's name—automatic because the actual setting up of the account sends her into a sinkhole she can't climb out of for a week. Automatic means you don't have to think about it anymore.

Within a year she's named an assistant manager. It's more money, more responsibility, and more hours, and after three days, she quits and takes another hostess position for less money at a different restaurant.

She drinks. Not too much at any one time but constantly and consistently, effectively creating a state where she's never quite drunk but never exactly sober. She likes to think of herself as a dentist using Novocain to dull a throbbing tooth. She offsets the alcohol with exercise. She runs, she spins, she does yoga—often all three in one day. She goes to clubs and dances till the early hours of the morning. Exhaustion also dulls painful teeth.

She occasionally sleeps with men. She very occasionally sleeps with women. Usually not more than once and never at her own place. Almost always it feels like an athletic event she's supposed to be good at and isn't. It makes her self-conscious. It makes her uncomfortable. Talking afterward is still excruciating.

At least a dozen times she gets in the car and drives south, determined to confront her past, to admit her mistakes and failings and beg forgiveness. Invariably she gets there and immediately turns around and goes back, not even stopping for gas.

She wakes up one morning. Alone. It's three years later. It's Christmas morning. She thinks of Michael. She thinks of Jamie. She longs for a warm, safe place. By four that afternoon she's in the emergency room at Cedars-Sinai. She has consumed a quart of vodka, gotten into her car, and crashed it head-on into a telephone pole. The doctor on call tells her she's lucky to be alive and then asks her out.

At last, she thinks. The bottom. Never once considering it's not.

*   *   *

The black phone on the nearby side table suddenly rings, startling her and sending waves of nausea through her gut. The damn thing—
is that actually still a rotary?
—jangles again. And then again. And then it stops.

Thank God.

Anita settles back on the couch, pulls the silk throw up and over her face. She hears the approaching footsteps out in the hall. Not what she needs right now. And then, the door to the library opens and her mother is standing there, somehow making drab pants and a man's cotton shirt look chic. Not for the first time, Anita wonders if her mother isn't secretly from another planet.

Which means both of us are aliens.

As if reading Anita's mind, Tisha Beacham frowns in annoyance.

“Oh, for goodness sake, Anita.”

She moves across the room toward the heavy drapes. With hard jerks, she pulls them open.

“Let in some light.”

Bright sunlight pours in, filling the room with dust motes. Anita moans and winces in pain. Tisha turns to her.

“You know these headaches of yours are purely psychosomatic. You only get them when you want to avoid things.”

“Thanks for the sympathy.”

“You don't need sympathy, you need two Tylenol. Now please, pick up the phone. Your
son
is calling.”

*   *   *

“Hi, Mom, this is Jamie.”

As if it could be anyone else. His voice is excited. He sounds pleased. Which thrills her to the bone. The landline—this rotary phone—is a wonderful invention.

“Hi, baby, I'm so glad you called.”

“I know. Mom, can you play soccer I gotta go now bye.”

“Can I what? Jamie? Are you there? Hello?”

“Guess who?”

The who being Michael. It makes her smile. “What's going on?”

“He's playing soccer this afternoon and he wants you to come and watch.”

“I didn't know he played soccer.”

“He has never,” says Michael, “played soccer in his entire life.”

“Sounds like an occasion.”

“You have no idea. Why don't you come by the house around noon and we'll all go together.”

Ten minutes later, in the shower, washing her hair, Anita realizes her headache is gone.

 

39

She sees immediately that it is more than just a soccer game. It's not just the tents and banners that line the wide swathe of green that is Presidio Park. It's not the groups and families manning the grills and sitting on blankets and beach chairs and playing volleyball. And it's not the parents and grandparents and coaches and volunteers.

It's the children.

Anita doesn't need a program to tell that some of them are retarded, that some have Down syndrome, that some with their flapping hands and vacant expressions are severely autistic. And there are so many of them. They're everywhere, all ages, some bawling inarticulately, others twisting and moaning, their parents and siblings—
handlers
—encouraging them, restraining them, calming them with words and hugs and caresses.

Apprehensive in the most sedate of crowds, Anita feels her stomach churning like a pit of bubbling mud. She watches as Michael finishes tying the laces on Jamie's new soccer cleats, the laces he was helpless to tie himself.

“Lookin' like a star, bub,” says Michael.

“I know,” says Jamie.

Star of what? Anita wonders. Jamie, like many of the children, has been given a soccer shirt.
SPECIAL NEEDS FAMILY FUN DAY
is emblazoned like an advertisement across the chest.

Why advertise?

“All our soccer players! Let's get you over here!”

They turn. Near the first field, a man in a baseball cap is waving people to him. A group of older boys and girls, college-age volunteers, all of them tanned and athletic and smiling, are gathered around the man, holding soccer balls. All wear T-shirts with the
SPECIAL NEEDS FAMILY DAY
logo.

“Come on, who wants to play some soccer!”

The young volunteers cheer, such a wall of warmth and support that Anita can only assume they're Mormons.

“You ready to play, little man?” says Michael, kneeling.

Anita sees the sudden hesitation in the boy, the uncertainty. Good, maybe they can leave and go to lunch, just the three of them. But Michael puts his hands on Jamie's shoulders and speaks softly, warmly.

“We'll be right here waiting. Just like when you're in the therapy room with Bridget.”

Jamie nods. “I'm ready,” he says, and turning away, he hurries to join the other children, Anita noting again that his left arm flaps with excitement as he runs, that his stride is full of intermittent skips and hops. She feels embarrassed for him. And then upset at herself for feeling it.

“Hey.”

She realizes Michael is looking at her.

“He's glad you're here.”

“Me too,” she says. She smiles, hoping she's doing a better acting job than she did for Little Mary Sunshine. Mounties and petticoats and an audience of parents and peers didn't give her half as much stage fright as this.

*   *   *

The game begins and Anita and Michael join the other parents and families on the sidelines to watch. Most of the children have one of the college kids standing close by, instructing and encouraging. Shadows, Michael calls them.

“No headers!” shouts the man in the baseball cap. Meaning don't hit the ball with your head, Michael explains. Not that any of these children would. Most of them are skittish about the fast-moving, flying ball. Even the older ones flinch, put up their hands and shy away. And it's quickly obvious to Anita that most of them know even less about the game of soccer than she does. One boy picks up the ball and dribbles it as if on a basketball court. A painfully thin girl, wearing ballet slippers and a tutu with her soccer shirt, spins in circles and falls down on the grass. A child holds a ball and, wailing, refuses to give it back. Some children, upset by the noise and crowd, don't wish to join in at all. They rock, they run away, they stare into space, lost in their own worlds. But some of the children, Anita sees, do try to play, and their enthusiasm, as well as that of the parents and volunteers, is enormous. Just making contact, foot to ball, is a reason to applaud, and a kick that actually sends the ball in the right direction is cause for a celebration. And when Jamie breaks away from the middle of the field, chasing the ball toward the near goal, Anita is suddenly beside herself with excitement.

“Go, Jamie, go,” she screams.

Almost falling, Jamie kicks the ball down the field toward the goalie, who stands in place looking confused.

“He's going to score,” says Michael.

And he is. As Jamie runs after the ball, the goalie leaves the net and comes out to meet him.

“Oh, please,” whispers Anita. “Please.”

And then she gapes as instead of booting the ball past the goalie, Jamie picks it up and offers it to him. Smiling with pleasure, the goalie takes the ball, turns, and heaves it into his own net. “Score!” shouts Michael. He's laughing. Everyone is. The crowd begins to cheer as Jamie and the goalie raise their hands above their heads to slap clumsy high fives.

“Are you crying?” Michael asks her.

“This is laughing,” says Anita.

“You're doing both then.”

She is. Anita has been to sporting events before, usually begrudgingly, but in no stadium or arena or ballpark has she ever heard a crowd cheer louder.

For her son.

*   *   *

They picnic afterward. Tents and tables have been set up selling food and drink and Michael goes to one of the community grills and comes back with hot dogs and chips and Gatorade. They sit together on the soft grass, eating from paper plates.

“I did
very
well,” says Jamie, yet again.

“You did just great,” says Anita.

“You were fabulous, little man,” Michael says.

It doesn't seem quite so disconcerting now. The rocking children, the wordless sounds, the tics and spasms. Anita is more aware of the patience and devotion of the parents. They're like Michael. She wonders if you learn this with practice. She wants to. She needs to.

“Michael!”

A middle-aged man is approaching, stepping carefully through the picnicking families.
AUTISM ROCKS
! proclaims his T-shirt. A pale young man with a bad complexion is with him.

“Walter, hey!” says Michael, rising to his feet to shake hands.

“Jamie, you did great out there.”

“I
know,
” says Jamie.

“Mr. Modest,” says Michael, grinning and ruffling Jamie's hair.

The man, now identified as Walter, glances at Anita, nods quickly, and turns back to Michael. “Michael, this is my son, David. David, this is Mr. Hodge and his son, Jamie.”

No response. No words. The young man shifts uncomfortably and looks away. I'm being rude, thinks Anita, and she tries unsuccessfully to rise, her brain saying one thing, her body stubbornly doing another.

“It's been a big day for him too,” says the man called Walter. “Huh, David?” The young man, now identified as David, seems to be listening to a voice deep inside his head.

Not meaning to, Anita clears her throat.

“Oh,” says Michael. “This is Jamie's mom, Anita. Anita, this is Walter Seskin. He runs the autism lab at the university. Jamie's been doing some therapy there.”

Mom. With a title now and reason to be here, it's suddenly easy for Anita to get to her feet. Easy to hold out her hand. “Hi. Anita Hodge.” The married surname comes out by accident, unplanned and blurted. Impossible to take back. She glances at Michael who, if he's heard it, doesn't let on.

“Dad! Dad, look!”

It's Jamie and he's pointing. Across the grassy field a man wearing a blanketlike poncho and a wide-brimmed straw hat has arrived and is leading a string of complacent, oddly gaited animals behind him. “Autistic horses” is what flares, unbidden, into Anita's head. Now it's her brain that isn't obeying her.

“Llamas!” says Jamie. “The man has llamas! Dad, those are llamas!”

“Ah-mahs!” cries the young man, David, his dark eyes now wide and intent, his body suddenly shivering.

“What do you think, guys,” says Michael. “Wanna go see'm?”

“Yes!” says Jamie.

“No!” blurts David, his face suddenly frightened. “Too many.”

“Too many llamas or too many people?” says Walter Seskin.

“Pee-puh.”

Anita watches as Walter Seskin leans in close to whisper softly into his son's ear. “You can do it. You're my big guy. Go on. Go with Jamie.”

Like Michael.

At the sound of his name, Jamie grabs the older boy's hand. “C'mon, David! Let's go see the llamas!” He tugs, pulling David after him, the bigger boy reluctant at first and then less so, following the smaller boy.

“Ahmas! Go to see ahmas!”

“Incredible,” says Michael, shaking his head.

“Cool,” says Walter Seskin, as if it happens every day.

“I'll make sure they don't burn the place down.” And with that, Michael is off, following the boys across the field.

No. He didn't have to learn anything, Anita thinks. It's who he is. She envies him for it. With a start, she realizes Walter Seskin is looking at her and she forces another smile. She's begun to feel as if she's selling soap door to door. “Well, what a special occasion this is!” Sounding just like her mother.

The alien.

“You have a great little guy there,” says Walter Seskin.

“Thank you. I think so too.”