Without Absolution. Amy Sterling Casil

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СКАЧАТЬ why I feel this way about the children. Perhaps this pain is why I can understand their pain. Monique looks at me, questioning.

      “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s because I spent so much time waiting for my own father.”

      “You told me what happened,” Monique says. Her pale, shiny eyes narrow. “Your mother was too weak to tell the truth, that your father had another family and he’d stopped caring for you. Don’t make the same mistake with these kids. I may not know very much about the professional parts of your job, but I do know one thing. Lies always hurt more than the truth. Always.” Monique swiftly gathered the ceramic chips and spilled coffee with a napkin before she went back in the house.

      “Maybe you’re right,” I called after her. Monique’s unexpected insight disturbed me. Long ago, I had thought that she loved me. But it had been so long since she was there for me, so many little hurts gathered together, that I couldn’t remember the way I had once felt. I rested my chin on my cupped hand as I surveyed our pristine yard.

      “Tell the boy the truth, Hed,” she called from the kitchen window. “And ask for that time off. We need it.”

      Perhaps I would ask. Jonny’s face appeared in the back of my mind, demanding my attention, like a credit card bill I couldn’t afford.

      * * * *

      I walk beside Jonny as he wheels to his dorm. I’ve told him that his grandmother won’t be coming for Christmas. Snot streams over his upper lip. His third eye rolls aimlessly, the way it always does when he’s angry or upset. I feed a steady stream of tissues from my pocket into his left hand as he steers the chair with the other hand.

      “I can’t believe it, Doctor Arlan,” he snuffles. “Why won’t she come?”

      I keep walking, but the chair slows, then stops. Jonny turns. Now comes the hard part. “I don’t know,” I say. This isn’t a lie. I not only don’t know why she won’t come, I don’t know where the grandmother is. All of our letters and notices came back unopened. Her phone was long ago disconnected.

      “I remember her,” Jonny says. “She said she loved me. She gave me candy.”

      Though Jonny hasn’t seen his grandmother since he was three years old, I believe that he does remember her. Many of Sherman’s children have exceptional memories. “I know she did,” I say. “Maybe she’s sick, Jonny. Maybe something has happened to her, and we can’t get in touch with her, to ask her to come.”

      “You didn’t try! You don’t care!” Jonny wheels away, furious. My hand is caught in his wheelchair and a large piece of the skin on the back of my hand leaves with him. I swear softly and put my hand to my mouth, then trot after him. Some of the aides stop and stare. I wave them away as I grab his chair.

      “We did try, Jonny. Maybe something has happened to her. You have to understand…”

      “I don’t understand! You just want to keep us here. That’s why nobody ever comes, because you’re afraid they’ll take us away!” Jonny stares at me, his face slick with mucus and tears. His right eye, which is as blind as the one in the middle of his forehead, is cast off, fixed somewhere on the wall. The eye from which he sees gazes darkly, fiercely, at me. I turn away.

      “Sometimes people have things happen,” I say, my voice sounding as feeble as I feel. “My own father never came to see me at Christmas. I waited for him, time after time, but he never came. I wish someone had been able to tell me not to wait, then, the way I’m telling you now.”

      “You always lie,” Jonny says. “You told me gramma was coming last year, and she didn’t come. Now you say she can’t come.”

      His face is full of childish anger and pain. I try to kiss him atop his head, which is lolling forward at an alarming angle, and he pushes me away. My sore hand throbs. He hits me in the ribs and that hurts, too.

      “I hate you,” he says in a toneless voice. Then he starts down the hall. His wheelchair creaks softly.

      I murmur soothing things as I follow him to his dorm. He doesn’t respond. His left arm dangles as he manipulates the chair with the other arm. He enters the dorm and slowly, painfully, transfers from the chair to his bed. I watch through the security window. He doesn’t cry. Finally, I turn away. I’ll remind the aides to give him something special for Christmas, perhaps a drawing set. He enjoys artwork. I’m told his pieces are very colorful, though they all look gray to me.

      * * * *

      Monique has done the Christmas tree in silver and white. She’s obsessed with the new. I remember my childhood trees. The same little toys, the same fading tinsel, the hundred beloved objects, some paper, others glass or plastic, which my mother and I hung with care. Monique adores glamorous trees, the ones with each brand-new ornament carefully matched. Last year, she informed me that the tree was pink and burgundy. At least, I think, as I sip my egg nog and watch our fake gas log fire, I can tell that this year’s tree is silver and white, all the varying shades of the paler portion of the gray scale.

      Karen is off at some church program. They’re making stockings for poor children. It bothers me that she’s gone, and I’m alone again with Monique. How old was Karen, when Monique began decorating the tree? Five, six? Jonny’s age. Was that the age when children began to lose their sense of magic, their trust in the love in the world? I swirl the nutmeg atop my egg nog, then swallow the whole sweet mess in one gulp.

      I pour myself another egg nog and add a stiff slug of bourbon. The phone rings. I stay in my chair by the tree, staring at the fire. Monique is in the kitchen. She can get it.

      I hear her voice. She sounds frightened, or angry. Her face is white as she brings me the phone. “Here,” she says, thrusting it at me. The antenna stabs my chest. I adjust it and lift it to my ear.

      It’s the charge nurse at Sherman. Something terrible has happened. They’ve called an ambulance.

      “I’ll come,” I say. “I can be there in ten minutes.”

      “It’s Jonny,” the nurse says. My heart skips a beat. My foot slips a little on the thick rug as I stand. Monique glares.

      “You’re not going down, are you?” It’s not a question.

      “I have to. It’s an emergency,” I say.

      “You’re drunk. You can’t drive. I’ll drive you,” she says.

      Suddenly, I don’t want her with me, her accusing eyes, her porcelain face. I push her aside, grab my keys and I’m out the door. I speed through our quiet neighborhood, and I’m at Sherman within ten minutes. I park crookedly in my spot and run into the building.

      The charge nurse greets me. She leads me toward Dorm A. “I’m sorry, Dr. Arlan,” she says. Her voice is breathless, rushed. “We had a new aide on duty. Christmas Eve, you know. All our experienced people have the night off. He came from a place for autistic children.”

      We’re drawing closer to the dorm. Children are crying. Some of them are screaming. Nurses and aides crowd outside the dorm, peering through the security window. The charge nurse calls out a warning, and the crowd parts. We enter the dorm.

      “I can’t understand why the ambulance isn’t here,” she says.

      Jonny is in his bunk. СКАЧАТЬ