She sips her coffee, thinking about Beth. Still no word from her. Every day, Olivia prays that Beth decides to write just a little bit more. Olivia can think of little else, consumed and desperate with the desire to read more of Anthony’s words, to hear his voice, to have the answer she needs.
Why were you here, Anthony?
She sips her coffee and sighs. Her journal will have to do for today. She opens it and finds one of her favorite entries.
December 7, 2008
Today we had David’s father and brother over to watch the Patriots game. Artie is really going deaf, but he refuses to admit it and get a hearing aid, so the TV volume was on screaming loud all day long. And they all yell a lot when they watch the game, especially when it’s against the Jets (and it doesn’t matter if they’re winning or losing, they yell either way). So with all that noise, I knew Anthony would be avoiding the living room today.
I spent the first part of the afternoon in the kitchen. I made an antipasto, chicken Parm, and lasagna for supper. Anthony doesn’t like being in the kitchen when I’m cooking. I think it’s all the noise I make banging pots and pans and dishes, and maybe all my unexpected moving around, and maybe even the smells. I don’t know for sure why, but when I’m cooking in there, he tends to steer clear.
So with the men hollering at the loud TV in the living room and me busy cooking in the kitchen, I worried Anthony would be out of sorts in the house. It was a nice day, so after lunch I sent him outside.
I’m so glad we got that new, fancy Fort Knox lock for the gate so he can be outside alone on the deck or in the yard, and we don’t have to worry about his bolting God knows where. I don’t ever want to have to search the neighborhood for him again. It’s the worst feeling, not knowing where he is, if he’s hurt or scared, if we’ll be able to find him before something awful happens. And I hated ringing some of the neighbors’ doorbells, watching their human faces change to stone as I explained what was happening. He’s a sweet, nonverbal boy on the autism spectrum, not an escaped sex offender.
So I knew he was outside and that he couldn’t leave the yard, but I didn’t know what he was doing out there, and I didn’t check on him for a long time when I probably should’ve. I would normally poke my head out every few minutes, but today I felt greedy—I just wanted a few more minutes of peace and quiet. A few more. A few more.
And it was interesting but of course not surprising to notice that David didn’t get up off the couch once to see how Anthony was doing. He assumes I’ll do it. I chopped and stirred and boiled and resisted the urge to check on Anthony in the yard, and I didn’t tell David to do it or fight with him because he didn’t think to do it himself.
I finished cooking the chicken Parm, had the lasagna baking in the oven, and even made the antipasto, all without interruption. No screaming from outside. That was good, but sometimes quiet that lasts too long is just as bloodcurdling as one of his screams, and I started to fear what he might be doing out there. He could be naked and playing with his own poop. This spring, he decapitated all the newly bloomed tulips. You never know. But most likely he’s just swinging on his swing or playing with the sand in his sandbox or lining up his rocks.
I finally went outside, and he was lying on his back on the deck in a square patch of sun. His arms were by his sides, palms up, his feet splayed, his eyes open. He was just lying there, staring at the sky.
The square of sun was big enough for two, so I decided to lie down next to him. It was a crisp fall day, cold in the shade but warm enough to be comfortable without a coat in the sun. In fact, the deck boards were hot, and the heat felt like heaven on my sore back.
The sky was a perfect blue, not a cloud anywhere. I looked over at Anthony looking up at the sky and wondered, How long has he been lying like this? Has he been doing this the whole time? What is he looking at? There are no clouds, no birds, no planes. What could be capturing his attention for so long? What’s going on in that head of his?
I started to feel antsy, like I should get up and do something. I thought, I can’t just lie here. I should be accomplishing something. I still had a sink full of dirty dishes. I should pretend to care about the Patriots and join the men in the living room for a while. I should throw in a load of laundry.
And I felt guilty for ignoring Anthony for so long. I thought I should get him up, redirect him, get him engaged in doing something he should be working on. I thought (with dread) about his upcoming IEP meeting. He’s so behind. He has so much to work on, so much to learn.
But luckily, for some reason, I stopped myself. I decided to continue to lie there and do what Anthony was doing, seemingly nothing, for as long as he wanted to do it. So we lay there on the deck, side by side, only a couple of inches separating his entire body from mine, and watched the unchanging blue sky.
My mind wandered all over the place at first. I imagined all those dirty dishes sitting in the sink, not even soaking in water, begging me to come wash them. I worried about his IEP meeting and thought about everything that I need to do to prepare for it. But I stayed. And I eventually let it all go. I did nothing, and I experienced simply being—the blue sky, the warm sun, the cool air, the hot decking, and Anthony next to me.
At some point, I looked over at him, and he had the biggest smile stretched across his face. God, his smile makes me so happy. And so there we were, the two of us lying on the deck together, smiling at the sky.
And then the sun moved on, and our square turned to shade. Anthony sat up and shot me a sideways glance and a pleased grin that I swear said, Wasn’t that AWESOME, Mom? Didn’t you have the best time looking up at the sky with me?
And then he screeched and flapped his hands and ran into the house.
Yes, it was, Anthony. It was one of the best times I’ve ever had.
CHAPTER 37
Beth is sitting in her seat at the table in the library with Sophie’s laptop opened to the last page of her book. She’s rereading the ending. She likes it. It works, but she begrudgingly admits that it doesn’t knock her socks off.
But how else would she end it? She taps her teeth with the chewed nail of her index finger and reads it again. She leans back and stares vaguely at the stage and the oil paintings of Thoreau, Emerson, and Melville on the wall behind it.
You don’t have the right ending.
Why should she listen to Olivia? Endings are so subjective. She reads the last chapter again. It’s a perfectly reasonable way to end this story.
What purpose did Anthony’s life serve?
It is a powerful question, and if Beth is being honest, she can see how she skirted around answering it, how readers might be left wondering after turning the final page. But what’s wrong with leaving them wondering? Isn’t that a good thing? Leave the reader with something to think about. Resonance.
Beth sighs and pushes the laptop aside. She pulls out a brand-new notebook from her bag and opens it to the first blank page. She taps her teeth with her pen and stares out the window. No one else is here today except for Mary Crawford, who is sitting behind the circulation desk.
The library is hot and quiet and still. The clock ticks. She looks down at her notebook.
Blank.
She doesn’t need to write any more. The ending she chose is good enough. Even if she does write another ending, it might not provide Olivia with the answer she wants. Beth can’t guarantee that. She caps her pen and closes the notebook, but she doesn’t leave. She stares out the window, debating with herself, listening to the ticking clock.
You don’t have the right ending yet.
The ending you wrote is fine.
What was the purpose of Anthony’s life?
Maybe there’s a lesson in the story for you.
Jimmy.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
She stretches her arms up over her head and arches her back. She plants her feet on the floor, sits in her seat a little straighter, opens her notebook, and uncaps her pen. She stares down at the blank page.
Blank.
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She hasn’t bumped up against this kind of resistance since she first started writing here all those months ago. But here it is again, feeling bigger than ever, a fifty-foot brick wall standing between her and the possibility of a new ending. Maybe there is nothing left to write.
What was the purpose of Anthony’s life?
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Hey, Anthony. Do you have anything more to say here?” she whispers.
She holds her breath and listens.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
No voice from another dimension. She exhales, feeling relieved. But then something does come to her, a question asked in her own voice.
What’s the purpose of my life?
And then a thought barrels through her mind, big and full of confidence, not composed of sound or an image in her mind’s eye, but knowing, ethereal, yet as real and sure as the chair she’s sitting in—the answer to her question.
They are one and the same.
She closes her eyes and breathes. She breathes to the rhythm of the ticking clock, and soon both seem to slow down and stretch out. She pictures the fifty-foot brick wall of resistance towering over her in her mind’s eye, but instead of trying to scale it or knock it down, she imagines walking along it. She smiles as she assesses the wall from this new perspective. That impossibly tall wall is only a few feet wide. She strolls around it, and standing there before her in front of a pure blue sky, looking straight into her eyes and smiling, is Anthony. She mirrors his smile and nods.
She opens her eyes and picks up her pen, feeling suddenly and powerfully inspired as her hand flies across the page.
CHAPTER 38
Olivia awakens still tired to yet another dark gray morning, not thinking yet, not realizing what day it is. She lingers in a steaming-hot shower, gets dressed, and then sits at the kitchen table with a book and a cup of coffee, like any other morning. Not until she drains the last sip does today’s date slap her across the face.
January tenth. And any semblance of a normal day evaporates in that realization.
Like today, January tenth two years ago started as a typical morning. It was a Sunday. Anthony got up first, and Olivia followed him downstairs. He parked himself on the couch in front of Barney while she got coffee and breakfast started, and David took a shower.
She toasted three French Toast sticks and served them with maple syrup on Anthony’s blue plate. She arranged his plate, his grape juice, a napkin, and a fork on the kitchen table at Anthony’s seat and went back upstairs to take a shower while David was still home. By the time she dressed and came back downstairs, Anthony had eaten his breakfast and David had downed his coffee. David said good-bye and left for an open house at least a couple of hours before he really needed to go, part of his daily practice of avoiding her.
Anthony was now upstairs in the master bathroom, playing with water in the sink. It was their typical weekend routine. After breakfast, Anthony played with water in the sink while Olivia cleaned up the dishes, drank a cup of coffee, and read some of the Globe. She’d long ago stopped chaperoning him in the bathroom while he played. He knew not to use the tub without her there. Tubby time was at night, and he understood that rule. He liked rules.
And he was finally potty-trained. He typically peed before breakfast, and he normally didn’t need to go again until after lunch. So while he played in the bathroom in the mornings, she didn’t worry about his using the toilet or poop and all the unsavory adventures that often came with poop.
This was what they did every weekend. She drank her coffee and read the paper, and Anthony played in the sink. He loved to run the cold water over his hands. He loved to fill a large plastic cup and dump the water down the drain over and over and over. He also loved to close the stopper and fill the sink. Then he’d scoop some water into his cup and pour it back in, water into water.
He also loved shampoo. She bought lots of travel-size bottles of shampoo for him and made sure to keep her expensive bottles hidden and out of reach. He’d take off his shirt first. He liked to empty the entire bottle into the sink and make bubbles. He also liked to rub the shampoo on his arms and body. He liked the feel of his skin wet and slippery with liquid soap.
When she was done with her cup of coffee, she’d go upstairs to his room, grab his clothes, go into the bathroom, hand Anthony a dry towel, and tell him that it was time to get dressed. Then they’d go to the bottom step, and she’d help him get into his clothes.
On January tenth, two years ago, she drank her morning cup of coffee and read the paper while Anthony played with water in the bathroom and David hid from her at work. Maybe if she’d drunk her coffee faster. Maybe if David had stayed home longer. Maybe if she hadn’t been absorbed in reading the paper.
The taste of this morning’s coffee still lingers in her mouth, a taste she loves, but it’s suddenly too bitter, foul, nauseating. She rushes to the bathroom and retches over the sink. She brushes her teeth, rinses her mouth with mouthwash, then sits on the cold bathroom floor.
She drank that cup of coffee two years ago in complete peace and quiet. She was reading the Arts section when something about the silence radiating from upstairs crawled under her skin and screamed. She put the paper down and listened. She heard nothing out of the ordinary, just the sound of water running in the pipes.
He’s fine, she thought, then the second she finished thinking it, she heard a thud.
THUD. Too big, too heavy, too loud to be a travel bottle of shampoo or a plastic cup full of water. She doesn’t remember anything between the kitchen chair and the bathroom. She remembers THUD, then instantly there was Anthony, lying on the tile floor, seizing.
She now peels herself up off the bathroom floor. She gets bundled in her winter coat, hat, and boots and heads outside for a walk, trying to evade the memory of what happened next. Maybe if she keeps moving, maybe if she’s not sitting in one easily found, stationary spot, maybe the memories from the rest of that morning won’t invade her.
It works at first. She focuses on walking, on bracing herself against the painful cold, leaning into the biting wind. But soon she is literally numb to the weather, and everything she walks past is gray—the houses, the streets, the trees, the sky. Walking becomes one long, familiar, gray, numb blur, not enough to keep her mind and body distracted. And the memories begin marching through her.
Anthony lying on the bathroom floor. Anthony’s eyes rolled back in his head. His toes curled. Every muscle in his small, shirtless, pajama-bottomed body squeezing him, shaking him, distorting him.
She’d seen him like that once before when he was four. Just before it happened, he had an odd, blank look on his face. He was staring off at nothing, more so than usual, and he looked sort of washed-out. Then he dropped to the floor, unconscious, his whole body gripped tight and shuddering. It lasted about a minute, a completely terrifying, hour-long minute. Then it released him, and he came to about a minute later, drained but okay.
She and David were both there when it happened. David called 911, and she rode in the ambulance with Anthony while David followed in his car to Children’s Hospital. Anthony had an EEG and some other tests she doesn’t remember. The neurologist said Anthony had a seizure. He said that seizures are common with autism, that about a third of kids with autism also have epilepsy. He said that seizures are usually controlled well by medication and that Anthony might never have another one.
She watched him like a nervous hawk for a long time after that, but Anthony didn’t have another episode. She relaxed and convinced herself that the seizing was gone for good, that it was a onetime fluke. Finally, they were lucky.
The experience of that first seizure when Anthony was four did nothing to prepare her for the sight of this one. This seizure was different. It kept going. One rolled into the next, each one gripping him tighter, shaking him harder. As if someone were adding kindling to a fire, the blaze kept growing bigger, hotter, brighter.
She tucked a towel under his head, unaware th
at he’d already banged it against the porcelain tile floor with way too much force, and watched in helpless horror. Then it released him. The seizing stopped, and he just lay there. His eyes were still rolled back. His feet were splayed. His lips weren’t pink enough. His lips were purple. Purple turning blue.
Anthony!
As she wrapped her arms around him, she felt his limp wrists and his neck with her fingers. She couldn’t feel anything. She put her ear on his slippery, wet chest. She thinks that’s when she started screaming.
She called 911. She doesn’t remember what she told them. She doesn’t remember what they said to do.
She pinched his nose and began breathing into him.
Breathe!
She pressed on his small, naked chest with her hands the way she’d first been taught as a teenager on a lifeless doll named Annie.
Anthony, breathe!
Then there were two men. The firefighters. They took over. A bag on Anthony’s mouth, a large man repeatedly pushing the heels of his large hands down on Anthony’s chest. She remembers thinking, Stop! You’re hurting him!
Then two more people. Anthony on a board. Anthony down the stairs. Anthony on a stretcher. Another man, bigger than David, straddled over Anthony, sitting on his knees, pumping Anthony’s chest over and over with his hands. Violent. Unrelenting. A bag squeezed over Anthony’s mouth. All while they were moving. Two men carrying Anthony and the big man on the stretcher out the front door to the ambulance in the driveway.
The images are surreal and all too vivid. Even as she’s remembering each moment now, reliving that morning and crying as she walks, it still feels unbelievable, as if it couldn’t have happened. She walks faster.
She sat in the front of the ambulance, facing backward, trying to see Anthony, to see what they were doing to him, trying to will him to breathe, to open his eyes.
Anthony, look at me.
She doesn’t remember calling David, but she must’ve. Or someone did. He was there, standing next to her in the ER hallway when a short, balding, bird-nosed man, replaced in her mind’s eye with the image of her grandfather who was similarly small and bald, approached them.