The Practical Navigator (18 page)

“Smile,” says Michael.

“Hiccup,”
says Anita.

*   *   *

Michael has brought Abigail with him and so they drive in separate cars to North Beach, adjacent to the racetrack, where the San Dieguito River enters into the sea. It's a dog beach, a leash-free zone, and it's hard to tell who's having more fun, the packs of racing dogs or the laid-back dog owners, some walking barefoot in the low tide, some sunning on the coastal bluff above. At the water's edge, they roll their pants up, and as Jamie runs on ahead, Michael and Anita follow down the beach together, watching as he throws a tennis ball he's claimed for Abigail. It's an awkward, clumsy motion, almost girlish, and the ball balloons up into the air, not going more than ten feet. The dog bounds after it, young again, barking with excitement.

“Tell me something about him I don't know,” says Anita.

“He can't throw, that's for sure.”

“Why?”

“Must be your side of the family.”

“Be serious.”

Michael shrugs. “Developmental coordination disorder. Comes with the territory.”

Anita watches as Jamie throws the ball again. Better this time though not much. But who really cares. “What else don't I know?” she says.

Michael muses a moment. “He likes pickles. Kosher dills. The more sour, the better.”

“I do too,” says Anita.

“I know,” says Michael, making her smile. She lived on them when pregnant with Jamie.

“What else?”

“He has a hard time telling you what he's feeling. I think a lot of times he just doesn't know.”

“I don't either,” says Anita.

“I know,” Michael says. “Believe me, do I know.”

*   *   *

They go to Rubio's for fish tacos where Anita discovers it's not just sour pickles that she and Jamie share a fondness for. “Eat this,” he says, putting a dollop of dark red house-made habañero sauce on the back of his hand and thrusting it at Anita.

“Is it hot?” she asks, knowing it is.

“No,” he says. “It is not.”

She slurps it noisily off his hand. “Hmmm. Pretty mild.” Taking the hot sauce, she puts a small puddle of it on the inside of her wrist and offers it to Michael. “What do you think?”

As Jamie squirms with delight, Michael takes her hand and sniffs it cautiously. “This isn't going to hurt me, is it?”

“Stop being a chicken and set an example for your son.”

Michael licks, tasting her as much as the sauce. His eyes grow wide with feigned alarm. “Holy shit!” he cries and he grabs for his Tecate. Anita hasn't heard Jamie laugh before and the sound fills her like warm air.

*   *   *

“Tell Mom about the time—tell her about the time—tell her—”

The food or the company, probably both, thinks Michael, has turned Jamie into a raconteur who refuses to talk, instead insisting Michael do it for him.

“Why don't you, bub?”

“No. You.”

And so Michael does. He tells Anita of the little boy who never took naps in bed but, rather, dropped to the floor or ground wherever and whenever the need took him. He tells her of the three-year-old who danced the Macarena naked in the driveway, of the four-year-old who walked into the neighbor's house and surprised her sitting on the toilet. “I've come for the cat,” he said ominously. Michael tells her of the child who solemnly referred to himself in the third person.
A boy.
Because
a boy
needs to, wants to, hates doing, should be allowed to, doesn't have to eat, bathe, dress, undress, brush his teeth, comb his hair, come inside, go outside, get up, go to bed, wear the same T-shirt three days in a row, use a napkin. And when it is of particular importance,
a boy
resorts to collective bargaining. This is because
a boy
is a
human being
and
human beings
need, want, hate, and should be allowed to, et cetera, et cetera, because
human beings are people too
!

“Ain't it the truth,” says Anita.

*   *   *

Mom and Dad are laughing. Jamie doesn't know why but Mom and Dad laughing makes him feel good. Especially Mom. Mom laughs different from Dad. Dad laughs loud. Mom laughs quiet. Like he, Jamie, does. Maybe there are other good stories to tell Mom.

Tell her about the time.

Jamie suddenly remembers last year and immediately he wishes he didn't because it is not a good story. He is out in front of the house on the wooden deck. He is doing what Dad calls stimming—holding and shaking a thin piece of broken stick, his stick, his special stick, the one he made, in front of his face. He's not supposed to do it but it feels good to do it. To shake the special stick. That he made. It makes Jamie feel quiet inside. You look at nothing but the stick. The part where it's broken. The way it moves. The way you move it. Everything else goes away and you feel quiet. It's always so noisy and bright and hot and itchy, but moving the stick, the stick that you made, makes it all quiet.

“Time to come in now,” Dad calls to him.

“No,” Jamie says. If he goes in, he'll have to put down his stick and then it won't be quiet anymore. He feels angry at Dad for saying words.

“Time, kiddo. It's getting dark.”

“No!”

Dad moves to him, takes the special stick from his hand and lifts him to his feet. “Let go, little man,” says Dad.

He screams at Dad. He screams as loud as he can. Dad has taken away the stick—Jamie's special stick—and he screams. “Ahhh!” he says. He pulls away from Dad and throws himself down onto the wooden deck. It hurts but he doesn't care. “Ahhhhhhh!”

“Jamie, stop.”

But he doesn't stop. He's so angry. The quiet is gone and he screams and he is so angry at Dad. Then Dad picks him up. He loves Dad but he hates Dad because Dad is not letting him be. He hits Dad as hard as he can and he kicks Dad. With his arm around Jamie's waist, Dad carries him into the house. Because hitting Dad doesn't work, Jamie begins to hit himself. He hits himself in the face and in the stomach and the head as hard as he can. Dad grabs and holds Jamie's hands to stop him.

“No!” he yells at Dad. “No, no, no, no! Leave it! Leave me—leave—”

Inside the house Dad closes the door and puts him down and he scrambles back toward the door and he bangs at the door and he digs with his fingers to open the door but the door won't open and so Jamie throws himself down on the floor and screams. He screams now because his body feels so hard and pulled tight it's going to break and he kicks at the air and he slaps at himself and his teeth are trying to find something to bite.

Where is the stick? Where is the quiet? Gone.

Dad holds him down and lies on Jamie so he can't move or kick, holds him, holds him and is still. Dad is heavy and it feels good. It feels good not to be able to move or hit or kick or bite. It feels like a thick blanket all over his body. After a while the blanket makes Jamie feel quiet like the stick makes him quiet. It doesn't hurt so much to breathe now. The loud sounds, the sounds he has been making, the crying sounds, are going away. Jamie lets everything else go with them.

“Jamie?” Dad says to him after a little while of the quiet.

“Yes.”

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“What happened there?”

“I don't know.”

“‘I don't know' is not an answer.”

Dad says this sometimes. So does Mrs. McKenzie. It means it's important for Jamie to say something about what he's really feeling. Sometimes he doesn't know.

“I had a hard day.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No. I want to go to bed now.” He does. He feels very tired. Bed will feel good. The blankets, the real blankets, will feel good too. It will be quiet and warm and dark in bed.

“How about some
Jungle Book?
” Dad asks him.

“No.” He likes
Jungle Book
. He likes it when Dad reads to him about Mowgli, but Mowgli is tired too.

“Okay. Come on, I'll tuck you in.”

And because he's Dad, Dad does.

No, thinks Jamie. He won't tell Mom this story. It might worry Mom and he doesn't want Mom to worry. He won't tell Mom that he has no friends and doesn't want any, that he only likes to talk to adults. He won't tell Mom that he forgets to look at people and that he only likes asking questions because when you ask questions, people answer and then you don't have to. He won't tell her that sometimes he forgets to look when he crosses the street and he only likes to pay with a dollar because he doesn't like to make change and if left alone he'll sit and he'll flap his special stick if he has one for as long as you let him, and even though it feels good, Dad says this isn't okay. Dad worries about him. He doesn't want Mom to worry about him too. So, no, he won't tell her any bad stories. Only good stories.

The bad stories will happen all by themselves.

*   *   *

When Anita opens the truck door for Jamie, he clambers in, seemingly oblivious to his still damp and sandy clothes. The dog, equally covered with salt and sand, squeezes past Anita and leaps in beside him.

“Bye! I will see you, Mom!” A question and a statement.

“I will see
you,
” says Anita. She hesitates, wanting to kiss him but decides against it. She closes the door and looks across the hood toward Michael, who's been so wonderful.

“Sorry about your seats.”

“It's what a truck's for.”

He's looking at her. He has been. And now he seems to decide something.

“You want to pick him up one day after school?”

She doesn't hesitate. “Yes.”

“Call. We'll set it up.”

“Thank you.”

Michael shrugs. “One less thing I have to do.”

“I meant thank you for today.”

That look from him again. As if this, her simple gratitude, is something else he needs to consider, has to decide if he can trust or not. She'd like to put his mind at ease. She'd like to tell him she's not expensive, in fact, is easily affordable, and that even with the wear and tear and bad parts, offers good dollar value. But she knows she'd be lying.

Give it time.

“Well,” Anita says.

A well is a hole in the ground. It's also something to say when it's time to disappear into the sunset and you can't think of anything else. “See ya.”

Michael watches as Anita turns away and moves up the sidewalk toward her car and unlocks and opens the door. He waits for it, knowing it will come. The look back, the small, seemingly surprised smile, the familiar quick wave. The dark blond hair catches and reflects light. He raises his own hand in careful nonchalance. And then she's in the car and the door is closing behind her.

“Dad?”

Michael turns to the open window of the truck.

“What is it, little man?”

Jamie is sitting quietly, his seat belt buckled. He is staring straight ahead through the windshield.

“Is it okay if I like Mom?” He sounds worried about it.

“Sure it is.” Michael hesitates, then decides to tell the truth. “I do.” There, he's admitted it. Ahead of them, the car pulls out from the curb and into traffic, and though Michael knows it's his imagination, there is the confounding taste of lavender and hot sauce on his tongue.

*   *   *

The truck comes up the street and pulls in the driveway. As Michael and Jamie get out, Leo appears at the gate, a thick slice of pizza in hand.

“Where you been?” Leo says, his mouth full. “You said six.”

 

IV. Ocean Phase: Navigating outside the coastal area in the open sea.

 

31

It's not like him to be late. It's not like him not to call. Her, not him. She's the one who doesn't return his messages. She's the one who goes out for a run without her cell phone, trying to pretend she's forgotten it, left it on the counter on the way out the door. She's the one who opened the expensive bottle of white wine she'd bought for them and, thinking he'd arrive at any moment, poured two glasses. Thirty minutes later she's the one who had inexplicably drunk them both. Inexcusable. Out of character. The running is punishment.

Fari often tells patients that if the mind were an internal combustion engine, anxiety would be water poured in the gas tank, responsible for the ensuing shudders and stops. She encourages them to describe their greatest fears, to be as dramatic and emotional in the telling as possible. She then asks them to start over and tell her again. By the third or fourth time, it all becomes a bit silly. A lipstick-marked, helium-filled balloon. Something to laugh about and move on from.

She doesn't feel like laughing and she's finding the moving difficult. She both likes and hates running. The bouncing makes her breasts hurt, but the fatigue calms her. So why isn't she calm? She's known this day was coming. She's known that what she began, she would inevitably have to end.

The need for control is most often a reaction to the fear of being at the mercy of others. Discovering the source of the fear—early abuse, abandonment, emotional neglect—is often the key to confronting the issue. Stupid words for which she's paid several hundred dollars an hour. Better the simple truth.

My father, whom I loved and trusted, sent me away to a private school when I was twelve, then brought me home to marry a venal, woman-hating shit.

Most mental health professionals, Fari knows, are at least as crazy as the general population they treat. Sigmund Freud, the father of modern psychoanalysis, was a neurotic who convinced himself he was going to die at age fifty-seven because that was his street address. She loathed the boarding school in England. She could hardly breathe enough to cry. The girls called her Princess Jasmine. The only way to deal with them was to be better than them.