Love Anthony Part 11

"You have to go."

"Okay, but can we talk?" His pants are still around his knees.

"Not now. Another time. When it's daytime, and you're not drunk, and you have your pants on."

He smiles at her, that crazy smile that still undoes her. "Okay."

"Now go."

"Okay, okay. Where's my hat?"

"There." She points to the counter where she threw it.

He fixes it onto his head, forward and straight this time. "I missed you."

"Go."

"Okay." He walks to the front door. "I'll see you later, right?"

She nods, and he leaves. She hopes he's sober enough to drive wherever he's staying. She wonders where he's staying. She wonders what he wants to talk about. She wonders what on earth just happened here.

The part of her that will have to face Petra and the rest of her friends, even Georgia, feels ashamed and stupid about what just happened. The part of her that has felt constantly threatened, like it had been thrown unasked into an unfair compet.i.tion with that tramp Angela, feels victorious about what just happened. But the rest of her doesn't know what the h.e.l.l to make yet of what just happened.

She walks over to the kitchen table, picks up the card, and opens it.

Beth, I'm sorry. I love you. Please take me back.

Yours, Jimmy

CHAPTER 15.

It's ten thirty in the morning, and Beth is in the library. She's writing. What she's writing began as a short story, inspired by a dream, but it's fast growing into something else, something more substantial, either a collection of related stories or a novella or maybe even a novel. She doesn't know yet.

She's writing about a boy with autism, but his story is different from those of The Siege or The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time or any of the other books that she's now read about autism. The story she's writing is about a boy with autism who doesn't speak, and yet she's telling it from his point of view, giving a voice to this voiceless child.

This morning, she is writing in her notebook instead of on Sophie's laptop. She can write significantly faster than she can type, but even with a pen, she's struggling to move her hand as fast as the words appear in her imagination, gripping her pen so hard her fingers cramp. She pauses to shake out her hand and look over what she's written about how her character believes his mind works.

I'm always hearing about how my brain doesn't work right. They say my brain is broken. My mother cries about my broken brain, and she and my father fight about my broken brain, and people come to my house every day to try to fix my broken brain. But it doesn't feel broken to me. I think they're wrong about my brain.

It doesn't feel like my knee when I fall outside in the driveway and break the skin, and the broken skin bleeds and hurts and sometimes turns pink and white or blue and purple. When I fall and break my skin, it hurts and I cry, and my mother sticks a Barney Band-Aid on my broken skin. Sometimes the Barney Band-Aid loses its sticky in the tub and comes off, and the skin is still pink and broken, and I'll get another Barney Band-Aid. But after a few tubs, the Barney Band-Aid will come off, and the broken skin will be fixed.

My brain doesn't hurt, and my brain doesn't bleed. My brain doesn't need a Barney Band-Aid.

And it's not broken like the white coffee mug I knocked off the table yesterday that split apart into three pieces when it hit the floor and that my father said he could glue back together but my mother said to forget it, it's ruined, and she threw the three pieces that used to be one white coffee mug into the trash. Broken things are ruined and go into the trash.

My brain didn't fall on the floor, it didn't split into three pieces, and it doesn't belong in the trash.

And it's not broken like the ant I stepped on and cracked and flattened so it couldn't move anymore, making it dead. Dead things are broken forever. That ant is broken, but my brain isn't. My brain can still think about the ant and remember the sound of its body cracking under my shoe, so that is my brain still working.

My brain isn't dead like the ant.

I wish I could tell them that my brain isn't broken so they could stop crying and fighting and people could stop coming to my house to fix me. They make me tired.

My brain is made up of different rooms. Each room is for doing a different thing. For example, I have an Eyes Room for seeing things and an Ears Room for hearing things. I have a Hands Room, a Memory Room (it's like my father's office, full of drawers and folders and boxes with papers), a New Things Room, a Numbers Room (my favorite), and a Horror Room (I wish this room would be broken, but it works just fine).

The rooms don't touch each other. There are long, looping hallways in between each room. If I'm thinking about something that happened yesterday (like when I knocked over the white coffee mug), I'm in my Memory Room. But if I want to watch a Barney video on the TV, I have to leave the Memory Room and go into Eyes and sometimes Ears.

Sometimes when I'm in the hallways traveling to a different room, I get lost and confused and caught In Between and feel like I'm nowhere. This is when my brain feels like maybe it's a little bit broken, but I know I just have to find my way into one of the rooms and shut the door.

But if too much is happening at once, I can get into trouble. If I'm counting the square tiles on the kitchen floor (180), I'm in my Numbers Room, but if my mother starts talking to me, I have to go into my Ears Room to hear her. But I want to stay in Numbers because I'm counting, and I like to count, but my mother keeps talking, and her sound is getting louder, and I feel pressure to leave Numbers and go inside my Ears Room. So I go into the hallway, but then she grabs my hand, and this surprises me and forces me into Hands, which isn't where I wanted to go, and she's talking to me but I can't hear what she's saying because I'm in my Hands Room and not in Ears.

If she lets go of my hand, I can go into Ears. She's saying, Look at me. But if I look at her, I have to leave Ears and go into Eyes, and then I won't be able to hear what she's saying. So I don't know what to do, and I'm wandering the halls, and I can't make a decision on where to go, and I'm In Between, and that's when I get into trouble.

If I hang around in the hallways too long and don't get safe inside a room, I can get sucked into the Horror Room, and it's not easy to get out of there. Sometimes I'm locked inside that scary room for a long time, and the only way out is to scream as loud as I can because sometimes my really loud scream can pop open the door and push me straight into Ears.

The sound of my own voice screaming is the only thing that can get rid of everything else.

My voice makes screams and sounds but not words. But this isn't a broken room inside my brain. I talk to myself with words inside my brain just fine. I think I might have broken lips or a broken tongue or a broken throat. I wish I could tell my mother and father that my voice is broken but my brain is working, but I can't tell them because my voice is broken. I wish they'd figure it out on their own.

CHAPTER 16.

January 25, 2004 Yesterday was not a good day. I had a huge, ugly meltdown. That's happening more and more. My therapist thinks I should go on an antidepressant. I think this is some kind of perverse joke. I've been searching and begging and praying for a medication that will fix everything, and this is the answer to my f.u.c.king prayers? Anthony has autism, so give ME an antidepressant-problem solved!

How about a medication for HIM?! How about that? And one that actually works, please. How about a prescription for him that will make him talk and stack blocks and stop flipping the light switches and moan-shrieking and grinding his teeth? And how about one that doesn't turn him into either a doped-up zombie or a raging psychotic on crack? How about that? How about one that doesn't make him puke all over his sheets and the rugs and me? How about that?

But, no, let's medicate ME. There. Everything's all better now.

Anthony has at least one meltdown a day, and now I'm having at least one meltdown a day, and we can't manage his, so let's manage mine. Let's fix me, and then everyone can cope with Anthony's autism.

My therapist wrote me a prescription for Celexa last month. I threw it out. I see her logic, and I hate it. I'm trying not to hate her. If I'm depressed, so be it. Feels like a pretty normal reaction to my life right now. If she had my life, she'd be depressed, too. Anyone would. She can keep her nice and tidy solution to all my problems. I'll stick to wine, thank you.

So yesterday's meltdown. I went to the grocery store alone, and David stayed home with Anthony, and I was in a good mood. I love going to the grocery store alone. Then I got home, and first thing I saw when I opened the front door was Anthony standing in the middle of the living room. He shot me a sideways glance and then started jumping up and down, elbows tucked at his ribs, flapping his hands, screeching. This is Anthony excited to see me. And the first thing I thought was Hi, Anthony. I'm happy to see you, too.

And then I thought, Maybe I should try it. If he won't mimic us, maybe I should try copying him. I dropped the bags of groceries and forced a loud screech, and I jumped and flapped.

So there we were-David on the couch watching the football pregame and Anthony and I shrieking and jumping and flapping. It felt so unnatural and weird, like I was making fun of him. It felt wrong. This is not how people express joy or excitement or love. And I thought, This is what r.e.t.a.r.ded looks like. And I felt so ashamed for thinking that word. I hate that word.

Why can't he just smile and say, Hey, Mom, glad you're home? Because he can't. Because he has autism. I HATE autism. He shrieks and flaps and looks r.e.t.a.r.ded instead, and this is Anthony showing joy, and I can't join in and feel joy along with him.

And then I thought, This is it. This is all I'm ever going to get. No hugs and kisses. No "Hi, Mom!" No "I love you, Mom." No Mother's Day cards made by him. He jumps and flaps and screeches, and that's how he shows joy. That's how he shows love. And that's it.

On some days, I can be grateful for this. I can. But yesterday, I couldn't take it. I was purely p.i.s.sed. Rationally, I know it's the best he can do, and I love him for it. I wasn't p.i.s.sed at him. I was p.i.s.sed at G.o.d.

I left Anthony and the bags of groceries, and I called Father Foley on the phone and unloaded on him. What kind of horrible G.o.d would give a boy autism? What kind of G.o.d would afflict a small child with this kind of suffering? Why? Why can't Anthony talk to us? Why can't he look at me and smile and say "Mom!" and come running into my arms like other little boys? Why does he have to live like this? What did he do to deserve this kind of life? What did I do to deserve this? Why?

Father Foley then said a bunch of completely useless words, something about the permissive will of G.o.d and manifestations of evil and original sin. I don't really know. It all turned to meaningless static. I didn't say anything. I was still holding the word WHY in my mouth, waiting for a real answer.

Then he said, Keep praying, Olivia. G.o.d will hear you if you pray to Him.

And here's where I had my meltdown. I said something like I don't want Him to HEAR me. I want Him to DO something. I want some f.u.c.king ANSWERS. I'm so sick of praying. f.u.c.k praying. I'm done praying. I'm done with G.o.d.

And I threw the phone across the room and shrieked and wailed like I was being murdered, like this is killing me. And you know, I think it is.

This is killing me.

David missed the first half of the football game trying to calm me down. I drank a bottle of wine while he watched the second half, and I went to bed without dinner.

Today I woke up with the worst headache of my life. I swallowed four Motrin with a tall gla.s.s of water, and the worst headache of my life was gone by lunch.

We have pills for headaches. We have antidepressants for sadness. We have G.o.d for believers.

We have nothing for autism.

OLIVIA HAD FORGOTTEN about that meltdown entirely, stuffed it in a box, locked it up, and buried it in the bas.e.m.e.nt of her mind, but after reading her journal entry earlier this morning, she remembers it now as if it were yesterday. Those powerful and ugly emotions that took hold of her that day six years ago, awakened by the memory, stir inside her again, but they feel softer and misplaced now, like a shadow belonging to someone else.

It's now late morning, and she is walking among the throngs of tourists in Town, an attempt at distracting her from herself. She doesn't have an exact destination in mind, maybe The Bean or the library or Aunt Leah's for more fudge, or maybe she'll simply walk. Walking is the plan.

When walking is the plan, she typically goes to Fat Ladies Beach or Bartlett's Farm, places where she can move freely and lose herself in nature. So it's strange that she's chosen to come here, confined to the narrow brick sidewalks, her natural pace impeded by the crawl of tourists in front of her, bombarded on all sides by shoppers and one-sided cell-phone chatter.

She feels her own phone vibrate inside her purse and stops walking to search for it. She grabs it on the fourth ring.

"h.e.l.lo?" She waits. "h.e.l.lo?"

She looks at the area code and doesn't recognize it, but that's not unusual. People come to Nantucket from all over the world. She's already shot beach portraits for families who are from as far away as California and Germany. She begins to worry that she's forgotten a portrait session scheduled for this morning, and the family is anxiously waiting for her on some beach. But the worry isn't real. She knows she has today off.

She looks up and notices that she's standing in front of St. Mary's Church. It's a pretty church with a white clapboard exterior, large, polished-teak front doors, and a two-story tower with no bell. A simple statue of Our Lady, sculpted of white marble, stands on its front lawn, welcoming parishioners with wide, outstretched arms.

But Olivia is not a parishioner. Mary isn't welcoming her inside. Olivia vowed the day she had that meltdown that she'd never go to church again. If G.o.d was going to turn His back on her, she would do the same to Him. Two could play that game.

But even though she stopped attending Sunday ma.s.s and receiving the sacraments, even though she blamed and hated G.o.d, she still prayed. She didn't make a show of it, and she stopped making the sign of the cross, but she still whispered her prayers for Anthony. She prayed in the shower, while she brushed her teeth, while stopped at red lights, while she stood in line at Costco to buy diapers for a six-year-old, before dinner, before bed. She kept praying because even though she'd turned her back on Him, her boycott of G.o.d was more posture than real conviction. She still believed.

Until last year, when she stopped believing in Him altogether.

She continues walking down Federal Street. People are everywhere, taking up every conceivable outdoor s.p.a.ce. They're eating and drinking at outdoor tables, pedaling bicycles, walking their dogs, sipping iced coffees as they sit on benches, window-shopping as they walk and talk on their phones. A continuous stream of people in their cars inches along every road, breaking the line only to allow clumps of pedestrians to cross at the crosswalks.

She pauses for a moment, debating whether she should return to her Jeep and go somewhere with fewer people or keep walking here. As she considers a hike on Bartlett's Farm, someone b.u.mps into her, knocking her sideways.

"Watch it, lady," says a tall, lanky man over his shoulder as he continues past her, not even breaking his stride.

YOU walked into ME, she thinks.

She plants her feet in the middle of the brick sidewalk, partly as an act of defiance and partly because she doesn't know where to go, holding her ground as dozens of people weave around her in both directions, as if she were a rock surrounded by wild river rapids. She feels oddly stuck in this spot and, at the same time, a building anxiety over remaining there.

She should've gone to the beach.

Then she registers where she is. She's standing in front of St. Mary's Church. Again.

She knows she vowed she'd never return to the Church, but she also vowed to love and honor David until death parted them. And now she's getting divorced. So she's already a vow-breaker.

And maybe she does still believe in G.o.d. Ever since David left for Chicago, she finds herself talking to Him again. She came to this island to disconnect from everyone and everything, to be alone, and her self-imposed isolation has been a needed salve for her battered soul. But knowing that David was still in Hingham was a lifeline she held on to with both hands. She could go back. Maybe not back to David or their marriage, although, if she's being honest, there was that possibility, too, but back to their house, her home, her life. Now David's in Chicago, and there's nothing to go back to. There's nothing connecting her to her old life, to before. Before is gone.

Some other family will be living in their house, where Anthony was supposed to grow up, to become the best Anthony he could be, whatever that might've been, where David and she were supposed to grow old together. Maybe someone else will have that life there. Someone luckier than her. Someone blessed.

When David was still in Hingham, she could consider her life on Nantucket to be a trial run, a visit, a sabbatical, a temporary state of isolation. It was practice, pretend, a rehearsal. Now it's real. This is her life. She is alone on Nantucket, and there is no undoing it.

She has become an empty s.p.a.ce, and despite her grief and resistance, G.o.d has wandered back in. She finds herself talking to Him while cooking in the kitchen, as she's doing the laundry, while walking on the beach. She recognizes that she's not simply talking to herself. She's talking to G.o.d. And so, there it is. If she's talking to G.o.d, she must believe He exists.

She's asking the same familiar questions, waiting in silence for answers. And in those silences, her loneliness feels too sharp, like it might slice her in half. It's not loneliness for David or even Anthony. She's not lonely for her old home or friends. She's lonely for answers. Answers are the company she seeks.

And whether or not she still believes in G.o.d, she has always believed in signs. Someone or something is calling her into this church. She hastens by the marble Mary, climbs up the steps, and, with more than a little reluctance, pushes open one of the shiny teak doors and walks inside.

This church is smaller than St. Christopher's in Hingham, probably seating about three hundred at a Sunday high-noon ma.s.s. It's dimly lit, and after her eyes adjust, she notices that everything looks brand-new-the red carpet, the polished pews, the gorgeous pipe organ, the woven Nantucket collection baskets. And it's air-conditioned. The money on this island trickles everywhere.

No one is here. The daily ma.s.s would've been said earlier in the morning, and confessions are heard on Sat.u.r.day afternoons. Before walking to the front of the church, she kneels at a table of prayer candles. The candles here aren't real. They're plastic, battery-operated lights in the shape of candles. The town of Nantucket has burned down so many times that everyone on this island is, if not openly fearful, at least a little superst.i.tious about fire, even, it seems, the Catholic priests.

She flips one over, clicks the b.u.t.ton to ON, and replaces it on the table. It glows orange, but it's not nearly as satisfying as a real flame. She "lights" another candle for Anthony as she always used to, and then one more. One for David. She closes her eyes and tries to pray, but she can't find any words. She hasn't prayed to G.o.d in church in a long time. She presses the palms of her hands together and tries again. No words.

Maybe she should go with someone else's words, a ready-made prayer like a Hail Mary or the Our Father. She begins whispering a Hail Mary but stops after the Lord is with thee. The words feel memorized and meaningless, like she's reciting a nursery rhyme. These are not the words that drew her inside here. Leaving her three "lit" candles, she wanders to the front of the church, behind the altar, and finds a closed door. She stands there for more than a minute before she finds enough courage to knock.

"Yes? Come in."

Olivia opens the door to a small sitting room. A priest is sitting in the center of a brown sofa directly under a bra.s.s crucifix hung on the wall. He's holding a closed book in his hands. A reading lamp to his left is turned on. An untouched cookie on a white plate centered on an ivory doily sits on a small wooden table to his right.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," she says.

"I'm not at all disturbed. Please come, sit."

There are two chairs, one modest and covered in a floral slipcover and the other a Queen Anne upholstered in a bright peac.o.c.k blue. She chooses the Queen Anne and sits with her hands clasped in her lap. She stares at the floor for a moment. It's tiled in black and white hexagons. Anthony would've loved this floor.

"I'm Olivia Donatelli. I haven't been to this church before."

"Welcome to St. Mary's. I'm Father Doyle."