Secrets

I woke up in a cold sweat, screaming, one Tuesday morning in the middle of fall.  It was 3 a.m. and I checked to make sure Tristan was still sleeping.  He was.  No sign of distress or worry crossed his face.  I was silently thankful that my child couldn’t hear in that moment.  That because he was deaf, I wouldn’t have to explain why I’d shot up in the middle of the night and screamed like my life was about to end.  Because he couldn’t hear, I’d never have to tell him why.  I’d planned never to tell him why. 

I must be a monster to be thankful for a deaf child because it makes my secret-keeping easier.  That he couldn’t hear the raised voices that dominated our lives before we moved.  That he didn’t know the sound of a palm against a cheek.  That he wouldn’t know the sound of a gunshot and have vicious memories replayed each night when I can hear bullets in the alleys. 

But I try not to think about that.  And so, I tuck my angel under blankets and I stand up.  I put on my slippers because the floor is splintering and head to the kitchen.  One packet of stop and shop generic hot cocoa left.  It tastes like brown water and it makes me long for better times when we’d all sit around a fireplace after a snowball fight and sip Swiss Miss cocoa, two packets to a cup, with mini-marshmellows frothing at the surface.  I toss it in a cup, fine bits of the brown dust lingering in the air, and turn on the faucet, hoping the water will run hot this early in the morning.  It doesn’t.  It looks a brownish grey and I debate forgoing any cocoa in exchange for keeping my water bill down.  I let it run.  It clears up.  Or, at least I see clear water, and I let it cascade into my mug, lukewarm and depressing.  I use my finger to stir and the mixture clumps, cold.  Shutting off the faucet

I place my mug on the radiator, cursing as it burns my skin, hoping it will heat the water enough to have the clumps dissolve and allow me the illusion of comfort.  I long for a marshmallow to dissolve in it, adding that sweetness.  One day. 

I nestle into a bean bag chair salvaged from my parents’ house, in the days before they told me not to come back.  It’s stained and limp, at once both a comfort and a reminder about how family love isn’t always unconditional.  My parents taught me what not to do with Tristan. 

My cocoa is bitter and lukewarm, but I drink it anyway.  I need something in my body.  Tristan and I had to share a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner and before I’d taken a bite, he’d finished his half and was making the sign for more.  His face half questioning, half hoping.  I didn’t eat so that my angel wouldn’t go hungry.  I don’t know what either of us will eat tomorrow.

I dream about fixing up the house in Waynesport and living by the lake without having to stay in this pit, with its splintering floors and disintegrating walls, its leaky pipes and its semen-stained mattress that was in the corner when I rented the place.  It was hard enough making sure we had beds in the house.  I couldn’t afford anything else for the studio, so I sprayed it with Lysol and triple covered it with scratchy walmart sheets that were buy two get one free.  I dream of affording a better school for Tristan in a better place where nightmares don’t follow him. 

I wonder if he remembers.  What it’s like to hear, I mean.  Does he remember before the accident?  And if he does, what sounds does he remember?  Screams? Gunshots?  Arguments?  If he remembers, are there happy sounds for him?  Or would happy sounds make him miss his hearing?  Could my baby be grateful to not have to hear?  Does anyone remember things from when they were two? 

He looks so peaceful sleeping, innocent beauty surrounded by squalor.  I always try not to cry, even though I know he can’t hear me, but this time I do.  He can’t hear me, but Tristan wakes up anyway.  He can’t see me sign to go back to bed, but he can see my eyes.  The flickering street light outside the dingy window reflects off my tears.  He comes over to me and sits in my lap, putting his tiny hand against my cold, rough cheek.  I put down what’s left of the brown-water I try to call cocoa and we fall asleep there on the ratty bean bag chair, just my little angel and me. 

Waking up here is always the hardest when dreams have been good.  Suddenly  I’m cast back into the hell that is reality and I sometimes wish I wouldn’t wake up because then the dream never has to end.  But, Tristan depends on me.  So, I get up.  I warm a pot of water over the radiator and I get the dish soap.  It dries out my skin, especially now, when the wind is getting crisp and cold.  My skin cracks around my lips and knuckles, anticipating the soap and the sting of the suds against raw skin wakes me up.  The sponge I use feels like a scouring pad.  I don’t have to worry about buying coffee.

Invariably, Tristan wakes up during this and I hand him a sample size bottle of body wash I’ve swiped from some hotel.  He gets the good stuff.  We wash over the radiator and share a piece of trident gum, using the wrapper to scrape our teeth clean.  It’s become a game.  Who can clean faster. 

We dress quickly and I grab my keys.  With the price of gas, maybe it would be better to take the subway, but there are too many people.  Our car time on the way to school is some of the only time we spend together.  Besides, no subways use tokens any more.  The fun of it is gone. 

I drop Tristan off at school and pray that the afternoon comes with no trouble.  The school, I’m told, knows what to do if I don’t show up at the end of the day.  What to do if something happens.  They only know of the potential of an occupational hazard.  But they don’t know what that means.  He runs through those doors and after I wave, I turn and strike a match.  A cigarette might be all that gets me through my day. 

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I always felt like he owed me.  That he owed me for not being as loving and supportive and interested as my other grandfather.  That he owed me for being distant and aloof.  I thought he owed me love and attention because that’s what grandfathers were supposed to do.  That’s what my other grandfather did. 

Except, I didn’t know it.  I didn’t know he was sick.  I didn’t know that June and January were cranky months because it meant testing to make sure it was still in remission.  I didn’t know that he’d beaten it back year after year, after only being given six months to live.  I didn’t know he was afraid he’d let us get close only to get sick again and leave us mourning.  I didn’t know his fear.  I didn’t know his worry.  And I didn’t know he did what he did because of his love.

But, when I did know, when he got sick again, what did I do?  I did what he did.  I pulled back.  If I didn’t talk to him, maybe it wouldn’t hurt.  If there wasn’t a lost relationship to mourn, maybe I wouldn’t cry.  Maybe I wouldn’t notice. 

I saw him last December.  We thought it would be good-bye for good.  We all cried and went home expecting a February funeral.  Ten years of fighting and testing and worrying would finally been over.  We said our goodbyes, but he didn’t die.  I was expected to call regularly because every conversation could be the last.  I didn’t.  I wouldn’t.  I refused to do what I had done in December.  Make small talk.  Weep.  Mourn a man still living.  I know I must have hurt him. 

My entire family gathered in North Carolina this Thanksgiving because he was still around.  That is, except for me.  I opted out for a number of reasons, but in the back of my head, he was certainly one of them.  If he was going to die, I wasn’t going to let him see me like this.  Not without enough time to rage, to forgive, to accept.  I wanted his last memories of me to be happy and I didn’t have the strength to say goodbye again. 

I called on Thanksgiving.  Mostly because my parents asked me to, and I knew that if I didn’t, I was going to be the bad child cutting them all out of my life.  But, I called.  And we talked.  And when I heard his voice begin to break, I told him I loved him but that I had to go.  I wanted to spare him the pain of crying when he talked to me.  I told him I’d call again soon and then hung up the phone. 

Eight days later he had a procedure to remove fluid from his lungs.  The doctors released him and said his final months would be comfortable.  He died that night, alone in his bed, while my grandmother made dinner. 

My dad left a voicemail near midnight to tell me the news.  My mom, the next day, suggested I didn’t care what was happening and what my family was going through because I hadn’t called back. 

I don’t know who owes me, but someone sure does.  Does he owe me for not letting me in?  Do the doctors owe me for promising a few more months?  Do my parents owe me for not being kind? 

Maybe cancer owes me.  Maybe cancer owes me the relationship I couldn’t have with my grandfather because he was too worried it would take him too soon.  That cancer is indebted to me because it meant that visits were filled with what-ifs and not joy.  That cancer owes me the hugs and walks and visits and laughs.  Cancer owes me phone calls.  Cancer owes me the chance to tell my grandfather who I really am. 

But maybe, just maybe, I’m the one that owes him one last goodbye.