Short Story: "THE FEAR" 2013

I'm going to share with a short story I just wrote called "The Fear." Probably one of the most personal things I have ever written. This will be collected in a book with all my old poems and short stories sometime next year. For now, enjoy this.

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“The Fear”           --2013

I walk down the hall of the school, carrying my 9 month old in his car seat. It grows increasingly heavy as the unknown distance to our destination swirls in my mind. Far ahead in my oldest son, four years old and we’re here because of him. He’s set up for free evaluations and speech therapy for his autism. It is all we can afford. This is the best we can do. I holler out to him to stop and let me catch up to him before he goes too far. He ignores me and continues on. The car seat gets heavier and heavier with each walk. The old familiar sweat hits me and I start to feel the chest pounding, like clockwork. 

I'm angry today. Angry at the woman who cut me off on the way here. I'm angry about the person who was turning into the spot next to me at the grocery store and didn't recognize I was trying to put my sons in the cart but still sat there and honked impatiently. I'm angry I have to juggle both of them alone on this appointment that I don't know much about. I'm angry at myself because I think its a waste of time. 

The doors are closed around me. Inside there are moans and echoes of sound. I know what it is. They are too familiar. The stench of old urine burns my nostrils. Then it turns into the new carpet smell that I remember from when my parents put new carpet in our old home. I am five again. I am hiding under the table from him. I have my He-Man sword at the ready to protect myself. He won’t bite my head again. He won’t be angry at me anymore. I cower and cry, scared of him. My own brother. He walks by and doesn’t take notice of my hiding. I dare not lunge out to strike, because he has done nothing wrong. He doesn’t know better. Next week he’ll be going to a home for people who can give him the care he needs. My parents cannot do anymore for him. They’ve admitted defeat. I remember the pain in my mother’s eyes as they drop him off each time after a visit, resigned to the feelings of failure and grief. “How could this have happened?” They do not speak it. Their love for him conquers all despair in their minds. Their hearts reach out and slap down the anger. I don’t know how they did it.

I’m back in the hallway, still walking toward the door. The moans increase. A door opens near me and I jump slightly. I try not to act startled. Its rude to react or look back. I hear her. A girl born with the same disease as my brother. She waves at us and says “HI!” I wave back and say the same. Her teacher tells her “Good job!” We walk on, not to interrupt their training. My son is far ahead and has turned the corner. He knows where to go and I do not. I catch up with him and we wait outside the door where his speech therapy is. I sit the baby down with a great relief to my shoulder and back. Man, I’m out of shape!

The smell of urine still lingers. It has sunk into the carpets that should have been replaced long ago. But the school most likely cannot afford it. The moans and sighs continue. The rooms are filled with other kids that have this disease. They can never live a full life. They'll never read a book, enjoy a concert or fall in love. I pull out my phone and I try to ignore it. I want to run and hide. I’m afraid again. I feel like my brother is right around the corner and I don’t have my He-Man sword. It ‘s in a landfill somewhere. And he’s in a home an hour north of me. And that was thirty years ago. The fight is still in my mind.

I resign to the idea that I don’t want to return to this place. Surely my son isn’t this far gone. The sting of failure hits me. The question hits my mind. “How could this have happened?” The sweat on my brow warms in the air and I brush it away. The instinct remains. Run. Hide. Just go.

The door opens and we are greeted. A little girl emerges as her mother comes down the hall. She speaks and it’s the same pattern and style as my son. She’s just like him. In fact, maybe a little worse off. I instantly feel for her and her mother as they leave. She’s skipping down the hall while holding her mother’s hand. The mom is happy to see her and is proud that she’s doing so well. I find myself smiling after them, because I know what they are going through. The moans and echoes of the past are no longer in my ears. They’ve been drowned out. I didn't notice it.

We enter the room and I sit in the back with the baby. I get him out of the seat and hold him close, to keep him quiet while they work. In my mind I think the thoughts:

“This is useless. He won’t cooperate. He never does.” I hate myself for thinking it. But its the only truth that I know.

The flash cards go up. He names each object without effort. A ball. Cat. Dog. Cookie. Bird. Truck. Boy. Girl. Tree. Castle. House…. They look at videos and pics of his classmates from last year. He remembers all their names and smiles when he sees them on the ipad. He’s smiling and happy. He reaches out, for the first time in a long time, he reaches out.

My eyes sting. Tears flow out freely like it was air out of my lungs, so involuntary. My bottom lip quivers and I bite it to keep from making a noise. I quickly wipe away my face so I don’t show the emotion to the teacher. I don’t want to be seen this way. The baby in my arms stars at my face, wondering what is the matter. Then smiles when I notice him looking. He reaches into me for a hug. Then he bites my shoulder to soothe his teething. I cannot stop crying. I keep biting my lip to prevent sound, to not be noticed at all. Please teacher, don't turn around to see me. I am too proud for a stranger to see me this way.

In that brief moment, my fears are gone. All that remains is joy and anger. Joy at seeing him reach out further than I’ve ever seen. He’s almost showing off for me. “He’s gonna make it,” I think. “He’s gonna beat it!” I am angry at myself for thinking the fear earlier. I'm angry at myself for getting mad at the grocery store over such a small thing. But I pat myself on the back for not running away like a coward. The fear of the past dissolves in the air before me like smoke. The memories of the past are gone. If my brother could reach out like my son, he’d be as proud of this moment as I am. I want to run over and hug him tight. I want to jump up and down with complete abandon. We’re going to beat it. We’re going to beat it!

I suddenly think that I can be a better father. Maybe it’s the only thing I am truly good at. I still need work. My anger needs to subside. My compassion needs to be improved. I need to let the old battles go. I need to quit the part time job I hate and dedicate my life to creating art and creating a life for my sons. It would be my greatest accomplishment. I need to fix myself, finally. I see that now. I see what he is. I see what I can be. He helped me see that. I’ll never underestimate him again.

It is over quickly. I could have watched it for hours more. I suddenly don’t want to leave! He gets a sticker for a job well done and we leave the school. The smell of urine in my face is gone, replaced only with the scent of fresh cut grass outside. We get in the car and I strap him into his seat. I kiss his forehead and give him a hug. He hugs back and says “thank you” in his cutest voice. I don’t know why he says it, but he does.

I cry the whole way home.