Left Neglected Part 20

I begin my homework by tracing the bottom edge of the tray with my right hand, moving left until I feel the right angle of the bottom left corner. An uneasiness invades me whenever I cross my own midline with my right hand and leave it somewhere in the unknown Land of the Left. The feeling reminds me of a trust exercise that I once partic.i.p.ated in at a Berkley employee workshop. Standing, eyes closed, I was asked to fall backward and trust that my colleagues would catch me. I remember that split second before allowing myself to fall, not being able to see or control how and where I'd land, not wanting to crack my head on the hard floor over a silly exercise, when common sense and primitive instinct chimed in, Do not do this. But somewhere inside, I was able to hit the override b.u.t.ton. And of course, my colleagues caught me. I go through a similar experience when my right hand crosses the orange line. Instinctive fear, inner courage, blind faith.

Now I scan to the right of my right hand, which feels natural and easy, and which happens to be across what is the left side of the tray.

"Four," I say.

"Yes! Good job, Mom!" says Charlie. "Gimme five!"

Finding the b.a.l.l.s is the easiest part of my homework and doesn't deserve a celebration, but I don't want to discourage his encouragement. I smile and give him a quick slap of the hand.

"High-five me with your left hand," says Charlie.

He loves working me. I have to find my left hand for the next part of this exercise anyway, so I humor him and begin the search. I find it dangling down by my side and manage to lift it up, but I can't say for sure exactly where it is now. Charlie is waiting, his high-five hand held up as my target. But he's using his right hand, which is on my left, which makes it less than easy to keep track of. Charlie might just be the toughest occupational therapist I've had yet. Without a shred of confidence that I'll succeed, I swing my arm from the shoulder. I miss his hand and smack him square in the chest.

"Mom!" he says, laughing.

"Sorry, honey."

He bends my arm at the elbow like I'm one of his action figures, spreads my fingers open, winds up, and slaps my hand with his, connecting with a loud and satisfying clap.

"Thanks. Okay, next step," I say, eager to finish.

Now I have to pick up one of the red b.a.l.l.s with my left hand and squeeze it. The palm of my left hand is still tingling from Charlie's high five, which is a nice stroke of good luck because that keeps my hand from disappearing, and I'm able to move it onto the tray with relative ease. I feel around and grab the nearest ball. Then I give it a feeble squeeze.

"Yay, Mom! Now put it back."

Here's where I get stuck. I can't release the ball. I'll carry that ball to bed with me, not even conscious of the extra pa.s.senger I'm toting, and wake up the next morning with it still nestled in my obstinate hand unless someone comes along and mercifully peels it out of my grip.

"I can't. I can't let go."

I try shaking it loose, but my grasp is too tight. I try to relax my hand. Nothing happens. My brain has always preferred holding on to letting go.

"Charlie, will you help me?"

He pries the ball out of my rigid hand, drops it onto the tray, and pushes the tray to the other side of the table. It's his turn now.

"I wish I had your homework. Your homework's easy," says Charlie.

"Not to me, it isn't," I say.

He aligns my red page marker on the left edge of his homework sheet so I can follow along, and we both start reading. But within seconds, the most noticeable thing he's doing isn't reading or writing. He's moving. He's wiggling all over the seat of his chair, rocking back and forth, up on his knees, back onto his bottom, swinging his legs. Before my accident, I always entered Charlie's homework process several hours in, after he'd already been beaten by it. By then, his body was a listless lump and resembled nothing of this chaotic, undulating bundle of energy I'm witnessing now.

"You're going to fall out of your chair. Sit still."

"Sorry."

His inner perpetual motion machine is quieted for a minute, but then something twitches, and all gears are up and running again in full force.

"Charlie, you're moving."

"Sorry," he says again and looks up at me, his gorgeous eyes wondering if he's about to lose another marble.

But I can see that he isn't consciously acting out or disobeying. I'm not going to punish him for fidgeting. But it's clear that he can't devote his mental energy to the words on the page when so much of it is ricocheting through his body.

"How about we get rid of your chair? Can you do your homework standing up?" I ask.

He pushes the chair back and stands, and I notice the difference immediately. He's tapping one of his feet on the floor, as if he's keeping time with a stopwatch, but the rest of his squirming is gone. And he's answering the questions.

"Done!" he says, tossing his pencil down. "Can I go play Mario now?"

"Hold on, hold on," I say, still reading the third question.

Jane scored 2 goals in the first game and 4 goals in the second game. How many goals did she score in all? I check his answers.

"Charlie, the first three answers are all wrong. Go back."

He groans and stomps his feet.

"See, I'm stupid."

"You're not stupid. Don't say that. Do you think I'm stupid?"

"No."

"Right. Neither of us is stupid. Our brains work in a different way than most people's do, and we have to figure out how to make ours work. But we're not stupid, okay?"

"Okay," he says, not really believing me at all.

"Okay. Now why did you go so fast?"

"I dunno."

"You have plenty of time to play Mario. You don't have to rush. Let's slow down and do one problem at a time together. Read the first problem again."

I read it again, too. Billy has 2 pennies in his left pocket and 5 pennies in his right pocket. How many pennies does Billy have in all? I look over at Charlie, expecting him to be looking back at me, poised and ready for my next instruction, but instead he's still reading. And his eyes appear to be focused three-quarters of the way down the page.

"Charlie, is it hard to concentrate on one question at a time when there are so many on the page?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I have an idea. Go get the scissors."

I draw a horizontal line under each question with Charlie's pencil. He returns to the table with scissors, the very thing I asked him for, which is a significant victory all on its own.

"Cut each question out along the lines I drew."

He does.

"Now pile them like a deck of cards and hand them to me."

I hand him question number seven first. He taps his foot and reads.

"Eight?" he asks.

"You got it!"

His face lights up. I'd give him a high five to congratulate him, but I don't want to distract him or lose momentum. I turn over another card. He reads it and counts in a whisper as he presses his fingers one at a time on the table.

"Six?"

"Yes!"

With no other words tempting his attention, he sees only the one question, and it doesn't get jumbled up with any other information. I hand him all ten "question cards," and he gets all ten right. We're done in about fifteen minutes. A 22 Pilgrim Lane record.

"That's it, Charlie, no more cards. You did them all."

"I'm done?"

"Yup. Awesome job."

Jubilant pride skips along every inch of his face. It strikes me that he looks like me.

"Can I go play Mario?"

"You can. But you know what? That was so awesome, I think you earned three marbles back."

"I did?!"

"Yup. You can play for a whole hour if you want."

"Woohoo! Thanks, Mom!"

He barrels out of the kitchen and then barrels back in.

"Hey, Mom? Can you tell Ms. Gavin about the question cards and standing up? I want to do all my work that way."

"Sure, honey."

"Thanks!"

He's gone again as fast as he reappeared, and I hear his feet speed down the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs like a drumroll.

I look down at Ms. Gavin's homework a.s.signment, shredded into strips, and hope she'll understand. We could always tape them back together if she cares. Our brains are wired differently, and we have to figure out how to make them work.

I hear the familiar bleeping sounds of Super Mario and picture the unfamiliar look of self-satisfaction on Charlie's face. I stay seated at the kitchen table, waiting for my mother and the other two kids to come home, also feeling satisfied. Like a Super Mom.

CHAPTER 22.

It's the night of our anniversary, and Bob and I are going out to Pisces, our favorite restaurant in Welmont. I'm so excited. There will be no food served on plastic trays or out of Styrofoam containers; there will be no macaroni and cheese or chicken nuggets on the menu; there will be no children crying or whining or parents begging them to eat their macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets; and there will be salt and a wine list on every table. It's been a long time since I've enjoyed a civilized meal in civilized company. My mouth is watering already.

"Everyone's out tonight," says Bob as we inch along Main Street, desperate to find a parking s.p.a.ce, stalking pedestrians who look like they might be leaving, annoying every driver behind us.

We pa.s.s by a handicapped parking s.p.a.ce, which is empty and so very tempting. But we don't have a handicapped parking permit, and I don't want one. For the same reason that we call Charlie's Concerta pills vitamins, I don't want to own license plates or a sticker or any sort of paper sign stamped with that picture of a stick figure in a wheelchair. I am not a stick figure in a wheelchair. Bob supports this philosophy and applauds my healthy self-image, but right now, I'm wishing we had that s.p.a.ce. Bob slows down to a crawl as we approach Pisces and then stops, double-parked, right in front.

"Why don't I let you off here, and I'll keep circling?" asks Bob.

"Sure, I'll just hop out and run in," I say, not budging.

"Oh yeah," says Bob, realizing that I don't hop and run anywhere anymore. "They really should have a valet."

We eventually find a spot in front of The Cheese Shop, four blocks away. Four long blocks.

"What time is it?" I ask.

"Six forty-five."

Our reservation is at seven. Fifteen minutes to walk four blocks. It's going to be close. I look down at my feet. I wanted to wear heels, but both Bob and my mother insisted that I wear my Merrell mules. They look ridiculous with my dress, but thank G.o.d I didn't get my way. I'd never make it four blocks in three-inch heels.

Bob opens my door, unfastens my seat belt (we'd definitely lose our table if I had to unbuckle myself), hoists me up by my armpits, lifts me out of the car, and plants me onto the sidewalk, where my granny cane is standing at attention, waiting for me. I grab onto my cane, and Bob grabs onto my left arm.

"Ready, m'lady?" he asks.

"Let's go."

And we're off, a couple of turtles racing to dinner. I've never before been a slow walker. I don't amble or stroll. I throw it into fifth gear, and I go. And I'm not unusual in this respect around here. I think most Bostonians walk quickly and with purpose. We've got things to do, important things, and lots of them, and we're running late. We don't have time to dillydally, chitchat, or smell the roses. This may sound self-important, rude, or even unenlightened, but it's not. We're most likely being practical and responsible and just trying to keep pace with everything that is demanded of us. And besides, from November to May, those roses aren't in bloom anyway. It's freezing cold outside, and we're walking as fast as we can to get back inside where the heat is.

Like tonight. Tonight the temperature has dropped into the low twenties, and the wind whipping down Main Street is soul stiffening. It doesn't help matters that I b.u.t.toned only the top two b.u.t.tons of my wool coat before I gave up, rationalizing that we'll barely be outside for a second. If I didn't have Neglect, I'd be game for running. But I do have Neglect, and so we plod along. Cane, step, drag, breathe.

The sidewalks are brick and unpredictably uneven, and they slope down and then up again with every cross street, making this terrain far more challenging than the yellow-lined hallways of Baldwin or our rugless living room floor. With every step and drag, I thank G.o.d for my cane and Bob. Without either one of them, I know I'd be sprawled out on the cold, hard ground, humiliated and late for dinner.

More so than usual because it's the week before Christmas, the sidewalks look like high-speed consumer conveyor belts. Oncoming shoppers whizz by us at an enviable clip, while the foot traffic behind us clogs, impatient at our heels, until a slight break in the oncoming lane allows them to weave past us. It's the typical demographic-women with newly manicured nails and newly done hair, boutique clothing store bags slung over one elbow, garish yet expensive purse slung over the other, and teenagers, always in packs of three or more, always carrying iPods and iPhones and sipping mocha Frappuccinos, everyone spending lots of money.

In the few moments here and there that I dare to steal a look up at the approaching crowd, I notice that no one looks directly at me. Everyone walking by us either has tunnel vision narrowly focused straight ahead at some pinpoint in the distance or is looking down at the ground. Embarra.s.sed insecurity swells in my stomach and then scrambles to hide itself. Let's face it. I may not have a picture of a stick figure in a wheelchair tattooed onto my forehead, but I'm handicapped. These people aren't looking at me because I'm too awkward to look at. I almost tell Bob that I want to go home, but then I remind myself that most people walking in downtown Welmont (myself included) don't typically make eye contact with anyone, especially if those people are fighting through a crowded sidewalk on a cold night, which everyone clearly is. It's not personal. The embarra.s.sed insecurity in my stomach apologizes and excuses itself, leaving only an intense chill and a building hunger. Pisces is one tantalizing block away.

BOB REMOVES MY COAT, GETS me safely situated in my chair, and takes a seat opposite me. We both exhale and smile, grateful to be in one piece, finally warm, and about to eat. I take off my pink fleece hat, hang it on the handle of my granny cane, and tousle my hair with my fingers as if I were scratching a dog's belly. Although by no means long, my hair is now just long enough that it looks like it has an intentional style, rather than looking like it's growing back after being shaved because I needed emergency neurosurgery. Catching my reflection in the mirrors at home looking like Annie Lennox still jolts me with the split-second flash, Who the heck is that? But there's a little less gawking and dissociation each time. Like with all the changes that have been thrust upon me in the last month, I'm getting used to it, redefining normal. I do love that my hair looks great without needing to blow it dry, straighten it, spray it, or fuss with it in any way. I simply shower, towel dry, dog belly scratch, and I'm done. I should've shaved my head ages ago.

As is typical for a Sat.u.r.day night, Pisces is full, seemingly recession-proof. From where I sit, I can see a young couple on a date, a table of serious-postured men and women in suits, and a large table of boisterous women-ladies' night out. And then there's me and Bob.

"Happy anniversary, babe," says Bob, handing me a small white box.

"Oh, honey, I didn't get you anything."