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Elizabeth came down the stairs fresh from the shower, her face rigid, wringing her hands full of nervous energy. “Morning. Welcome back home.”
“Thanks.”
“I wanted to tell you before I forgot, one of your neighbor friends dropped by yesterday evening after you left town. A fuller figured gal, very chatty?”
“Beth?” I pulled a cereal bar out of the pantry and peeled back the wrapper.
“Yes, that’s the one. She stopped in to see what you were up to. She said you had your hair all done up and makeup on like you were going somewhere special. She wanted to know if you were cheating on her with your glamorous new LA girlfriends.” Elizabeth eyed me up, no doubt looking for signs of guilt.
I took a large bite of my bar and shook my head in disbelief. “Beth is so funny. I had makeup on from a meeting I had with Ben’s teacher. Nothing exciting.” The lie rolled off my tongue far too easily.
“Well, be sure to let her know that next time you see her.”
“Will do Elizabeth.” I polished off my bar. “That all?”
She straightened the gold bracelet on her wrist. “Do you have a moment?”
My stomach twisted into a tight knot. I was not in the mood to skirt around the issue of Alik. One lie per day was enough. “Will it take long? I wanted to go visit Mark at rehab while the kids are at school.”
Elizabeth sat down on the family room couch and smoothed the soft suede beside her. “There’s something you need to know.”
“You can just go ahead and tell me, Elizabeth.” I walked toward the kitchen counter to put some distance between us. Even though the housekeeper was coming later in the afternoon, I tore a paper towel off its roll and wet it with warm water and a dollop of dish soap. I wanted to scrub the granite countertop while we talked. It would be better to stay on my feet, do something physical to absorb the blow of whatever she had to say.
“You know I’ve been telling you about Ben, his rebellious behavior, the way he doesn’t listen to me.”
My entire body stiffened. She could point out my flaws, but I wouldn’t let her go after my son. “Yes.”
“Well his kindergarten teacher mentioned to me that he separates himself from his classmates sometimes. He goes in the corner and rocks his body. He makes strange noises and says he wants to be left alone.”
I scrubbed harder, mangling the paper towel in the process. Elizabeth and I had gone over this before. It bothered me that she was harping on the issue. “You know he’s been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. When he gets overwhelmed, he self soothes by rocking himself. It’s normal for him.” I said as I walked over to grab another paper towel.
“I guess,” she relented before revving up once again. “Well yesterday afternoon, your neighbor Marina dropped by for a visit. She brought over her new puppy for Lana and Ben to meet.”
“She mentioned she was going to do that,” I nodded, moving to the other end of the counter and picking at a dried ring of vanilla frosting. Glancing up at her, I gave her a tight smile. “I bet the kids were in heaven. They love puppies and chocolate labs are the cutest.”
“They were. Lana took to little Murphy right away. So did Ben. He couldn’t get enough of the dog. He lay on the floor, let it run up and down his body, lick his face, nip his fingers. He seemed quite taken with the dog.”
I wished Elizabeth would get to the point of her story. While I was the first to admit none of us would be coping as well without her, the woman could still work a nerve. Looking her straight in the eyes now, I spoke. “It sounds like it was a successful visit. I’m glad Marina brought Murphy over.”
“Well, yes.” She rubbed her hands across her skirt. “I’m not going to sugar coat this. I’m just going to tell you straight out what Ben said.”
I raised an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to continue.
“He said, ‘I love this dog so much I would let him lick me anywhere ... well except for my ...” Elizabeth stopped.
“Expect for his what?”
“Except for his dick. He said he would let that puppy lick him anywhere besides his dick.”
Resuming my scrubbing, I couldn’t hold back a slight giggle. Ben did say the strangest things sometimes. I could only imagine the horrified looks of disbelief on Elizabeth’s and Marinas faces when he said it.
“That is just not acceptable behavior. I know you said he has an anxiety disorder, but he seems more than just nervous to me, he’s downright disrespectful. I had to wash his mouth out with soap.”
I stopped my cleaning. “You did what?”
“I didn’t have a choice. He needed to know what he said was wrong. He’s a child who could benefit from a firm hand, someone to make it clear what is right and what is wrong. I had to do something he would remember.”
My hands trembled. Elizabeth had no right to put poison in my child’s mouth, to punish him for something he said in innocence.
“He’s fine Elizabeth. Not all children fit the mold. He’s five-years-old, and he says what’s on his mind. He doesn’t do it to be bad or get attention. He just thinks differently.” I threw away my paper towel with force and wrapped my hair into a tight bun. “I’m going to take a shower.” My curt tone polluted the air between us.
“I’ll just make my breakfast then.” She stayed seated on the sofa. “I organized the pantry yesterday while the children were at school. I hope I didn’t throw away anything important.”
I didn’t give a damn whether or not she cleaned out the pantry. None of her help gave Elizabeth the right to take over the job of parenting my child. “Elizabeth, thank you for being here and for taking care of Lana and Ben while I’m at work. We all appreciate you more than I can say.” I stopped at the stair rail and looked at her. “Also, please don’t ever put soap in my child’s mouth again. It’s not how Mark and I discipline. There’s no spanking and there’s no soap. We talk to our children. We give them time outs when necessary.”
Elizabeth tended to a piece of invisible lint on her prim white cotton skirt. “Maybe he needs more than a time out.”
I grasped the handrail a little tighter. “I’m going upstairs now.”
***
I made sure the water was as hot as possible, eager to burn the conversation with Elizabeth off of me. Steam rose in the glass encasement and fogged the mirror. Elizabeth’s old-fashioned ideas of right and wrong were archaic and unyielding. They left no breathing room for a child who was unique.
I stepped inside the shower and watched my thighs turn cherry red. Ben’s school psychologist had mentioned autism after evaluating him in his pre-school classroom. I told her that was not possible. I knew what autism was, I had watched those terrifying exposés on the horrors of a disorder that stole a child’s ability to communicate or connect with loved ones. My son adored his parents, worried about his older sister. He spoke before he was a year old and hadn’t shut his mouth since. The school therapist backed down. She said she was sure I was right, Ben probably just suffered from separation anxiety.
I took him to a supremely expensive, out of pocket psychiatrist, just to be sure. Mark and I sat on her bloated couch in a cramped, humid office with a view of the Pacific Ocean while Ben played with toys in the waiting room. We answered all her questions, regurgitated our family history. Next we sat and watched while she spoke with Ben. She asked him questions, observed him, and typed an inordinate number of notes on her laptop.
When we finished, she mentioned Obsessive Compulsive Disorder or the possibility of autism. She suggested we treat the OCD, a type of anxiety disorder, and then reevaluate. Ben went on Prozac for his nervousness and the medication made a big difference. We moved on.
Flames of water pelted my back. I turned to reach for the shampoo and let the full force of the spray strike my chest. I twisted the handle further left. More heat. Ben had been doing worse lately. I had attributed it to his father’s accident, to my going back to work, to his annoying grandmother living with us.
My mom mailed me a newspaper clipping on autism recently which listed a bunch of symptoms that had made me think of Ben. High sensitivity. Ben hated getting haircuts. He had a complete meltdown every time I tried to take him to the salon. I couldn’t turn up the radio without him holding his ears and crying. Unusual movement, inability to sleep, inappropriate responses in social situations. Ben’s head banging had become more intense. He couldn’t sleep through the night. His teacher had already sent him to the office twice this year. Once for grabbing her breasts, a second time for telling a kid he looked retarded.
I thought of the way he clung to me sometimes. The way he rubbed his head up and down my arms and stomach like a cat, sniffing me, smelling me, and then rubbing and smelling himself. My own body would go rigid in response. His touch could make my skin crawl. A mother wasn’t supposed to feel that way about her child.
I shut off the water and marched over to my bedroom door to make sure it was locked, dripping puddles of water off my naked body along the way. Then, as tears blurred my vision, I stomped over to my bed and began beating the helpless pillow. Taking turns, using each fist, I hit harder and harder. I bent over and shoved my head into the fattest one and sobbed until I screamed. I needed to break things, but I didn’t want to make a scene with my mother-in-law.
Inside the walk-in-closet, I proceeded to tear every piece of clothing off its hanger. Cheap temporary drawers went next. I pulled out the plastic bins holding my bras and underwear and old panty hose, all of my socks and scarves and faded, useless bathing suits, gutting each of the little compartments, and flinging their contents against the wall. Collapsing on the soft piles of clothes, I ripped the buttons off of each one of Mark’s dress shirts. He didn’t need them. He never left his room at rehab and his mother helped him get dressed.
Elizabeth had no right to imply there was something wrong with my son. She ought to have kept her soap and her opinions to herself. Our family had enough problems.
Standing up, I placed an old silk blouse under my bare foot, pulling and tugging, wrenching the soft luxurious material until it burst its seams. The resilient, purple fabric tore in one long nasty rip.
Exhausted, I rubbed the frayed blouse across my face, drying my tears, and finding comfort in its silky caress. Everything is good. Everything will work itself out. I’m overreacting.
Digging through the tangled, pathetic piles of abused clothing, I found socks, underwear, and a pretty black lace bra. An old cotton sundress lay crumpled in a corner. I put on some makeup and combed my hair.
As I left the house, Elizabeth asked if I was all right. Even with makeup, the puffy welts under my eyes must have been hard to miss. I told her I was fine.