FAMILY ROOM

Dad and I bought our house in 1980 and poured all our earnings into it. Lollie and Pop-Pop came from Philly to see it, and when Zaidy picked them up from the airport and drove them to the house, Lollie refused to leave the car. “I can see from here that it looks just like Aunt Evie’s tiny little place in Mt. Airy. Norman,” she hissed at Pop-Pop, “I can’t believe they spent so much money to live on a dead-end street in a house that has a front stoop.” And with that, she ordered Zaidy to “please drive on.” Lollie was right about many things, but our house turned out to be the smartest move Dad and I ever made.

Three years later, when we knew we were having a family, we decided to add a family room. Neighbors teased that the perimeter of the house was expanding along with my belly. The contractor was Dutch and told us he “refused to add boxes to houses.” Instead, he produced a pentagonal addition that was as unique as it was difficult to furnish. Our new room’s longest wall had no windows, three other walls had window banks, and the fifth wall housed a French glass door that opened to the deck. But for a large, leafy green plant, the room sat empty for quite some time. With so much light and so many sight lines into the yard, it was hard to tell whether the plant was inside or outside. When we finally found a perfect marble coffee table with a four-foot by four-foot top, it spoke to us and came home to anchor the new room. Its large surface became the steady center of movie nights, birthday parties, holidays, sleepovers, and family get-togethers. You and Jonathan hid beneath it and presented puppet shows. We ate pizza on it, argued across it, slid mini-pucks end to end, and stained it with plenty of good times.

One January day, I came home from work and found you in the family room—a six-foot, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound pillar of stone rooted to the floor in front of our marble coffee table. The lines in your forehead were twisted into ruts, and your hands held each other in a death grip. Knowing something was terribly wrong, I got distracted for a minute thinking that you looked like your old André the Giant wrestling figure and half expected to hear Vince McMahon announce, “Here he is, impervious to pain…André the Giant…looking bigger than I’ve ever seen him look!” For years you used to imitate that announcement and crack us up.

I took a chance. “Hi, Joel. How was your day?”

You lurched for the phone, and a strange voice burst out of your mouth: “I’ll show you how my fucking day was. I’M DIALING 9-1-1 RIGHT NOW!” You were on the verge, but I was hoping you were crying wolf.

“Please, JoJo, you know you should save 9-1-1 for real emergencies.”

De-escalation had trumped hysteria in the past, so my default tone was slow and steady.

I know that living just next to normal has been an enormous challenge for you; and I don’t know how you have done it for your whole life. I know that watching normal, wanting it, and trying but never achieving it has taken a toll. Your bounce-back quotient has been extraordinary. But it wasn’t this time.

You stopped mid-dial and shrieked, “Diana dumped me again, and this time she says she means it. She said she never wants to see me again, and no matter how many times I call her, she won’t pick up her phone. What will I do now?”

The agony of permanence landed on my little boy who once told his father, “There’s no such thing as the wrong bus, Daddy; buses can’t be wrong.”

Another meltdown, courtesy of a life of misunderstanding. The Vaseline-smeared glasses of Asperger’s clouded your perception, leaving you desperate to live in our world, but only in your own rigid, repetitive way.

Before I could speak, you hoisted and somehow hurled the marble tabletop across the family room. For a split second, it seemed weightless, until it thundered down, clattering into hundreds of miniature pieces. Roman ruins cast across the hardwood floor.

“There,” you heaved. “Broken, just like my whole fucking life.”

At that moment, I was terrified and froze as Piper yelped and bolted for cover.

You grabbed the phone again and this time stabbed out 9-1-1 in my face. The connection was almost immediate.

“This is a domestic emergency,” you bellowed. “I’m calling in a domestic emergency…. No, no one is hurt yet, but I just smashed a marble table and really scared my mom and the dog. Here with me? Just me, her, and the dog. Yes, my name is Joel Schwartz. Yes, that’s our address. You have to come soon.”

You hung up and instantly looked relieved that it was done.

I found the dog and, dragging him with me, backed away, edged my way upstairs to the bedroom and closed the door. You’d lashed out before, but never like this. The surreal notion that you might actually hurt me snuck into my head and settled painfully.

You followed me upstairs and begged me to open the bedroom door.

“Mom, what will happen now? I’m so sorry, and I promise I won’t ever do this again. I can help clean up the mess right now…. Please don’t tell Dad.” A guilty puppy whimpering for forgiveness.

I have been your ambassador for twenty-five years. I’ve explained you, cleared paths, broken ice, pleaded for services, cheered you on, and picked up the pieces each time you crashed. But 9-1-1 was an indelible call, and I couldn’t protect you anymore.

The dog barked, and from the bedroom window I could see that a police car had already arrived and parked across from our house. Two officers strode gingerly up our driveway. One was tall, dark, and slim; and the other, short, stocky, and pale. It seemed like it took this oddly mismatched pair only seconds to get to our house.

You were at the front door as soon as they knocked. I crept out of the bedroom and worked my way down onto the landing. I was numb. My mind was stuck, and I think my heart was actually broken. You yanked open the door, announced that you were the caller, and ushered them into our front hall as if you were the doorman. I remember thinking how composed and friendly you were.

“Joel, can you tell us what happened here?” The tall policeman turned slightly sideways and addressed you by name.

“My girlfriend dumped me, and I got so upset I threw our big marble table across the room. It felt like a real emergency, so I called 9-1-1.”

“Are you feeling like you might hurt yourself or anyone else, Joel?” His measured tone said the officer had asked this question before.

“Not on purpose. I don’t hurt people. I don’t like when they tease me, but I don’t hurt them. I think I just got so upset about Diana dumping me that I went out of control. She keeps telling me she doesn’t want to see me anymore, and I don’t get it…. I buy her Tim Hortons Iced Capps and I give her money for her phone cards and I always take her to her bowling and baseball even though I don’t like the people she hangs out with there.”

“What if you get this upset again?” the cop probed gently.

“Like you mean if Diana dumps me again? I don’t think I could stand it…. I really don’t know what I’d do.”

Now addressing me, the stocky policeman said, “Mrs. Schwartz, those are the magic words. Joel’s telling us he’s not certain he can control himself, and that means for everyone’s good, we’re obligated to take him to the hospital.”

“Can my mom come with me?” You were beginning to look anxious and started to chew your fingers.

“No, son, but she can come to see you later.”

A piece of my broken heart swam up and got stuck in my throat when you asked if Dad and I would visit. Somehow, I managed to deliver your favorite double thumbs up signal. When the tall, dark officer produced a set of handcuffs, I couldn’t believe it. You stopped gnawing your hands and stretched your arms out in front of you, but the shorter policeman told you to put your hands behind your back. “Joel, you’re a big guy, buddy, and the restraints are for everyone’s protection.”

You followed his instructions, put your arms behind you while he applied and locked the cuffs. I watched the two officers take you out our front door and lead you down the drive to their patrol car. They guided you into the back seat of the cruiser, shielding your head with their hands. It was the last professional courtesy you ever received.

But for the dog, I was alone. It felt like molasses had filled the void as I struggled to make my way from the front door down the hall to the family room. Piper stopped sniffing for new smells around the foyer and followed me. Once the scene of warmth, comfort, Sesame Street, and WrestleMania, the angled, light-filled room had morphed into a box holding a crushed gift. I managed to sweep up many of the bits and small pieces of marble but couldn’t lift the bigger slabs no matter how hard I tried. I gave up and crumpled onto the sofa. Piper stayed at my feet.

Intellectually, I think I had reached a stage where I realized nothing else could be done, but emotionally, I remained driven to keep trying to make things better. It’s quite like being on a hamster wheel, and even though you see the bait receding, you run harder and faster trying to reach it. That is what makes it all so sad. Now that I am ten years off that wheel, I see others still on it. I get together with my friends who have adult children with special needs, and I can’t advise them to get off because I know in my bones that they can’t. They look at me and imagine my grief, and I see them, imagine their struggle, and sometimes reimagine my own. I may well be the lucky one here.