unrelenting
sexual urges—though Gabe allowed me his perfected glare when I
mentioned that one.
Not to mention
the little details we left off, too. Like, how every hour Gabe’s
stomach would growl like a circus lion until food had been
deposited within; or the afternoon he promised to help with
rearranging the living room and single-handedly lifted the sofa and
carried it the width of the room like it weighted no more than a
bag of peanuts; or the intermittent muscle spasms that started in
his calves three days previous.
It didn’t
matter. With a small shake of his head and a smile teasing the
corners of his lips, the doctor had looked directly at Gabe and
said, “It’s your hormones, son.”
As if we needed
a doctor to tell us that .
So, back to not
knowing why my son was being dealt a harsher blow than all his
friends, we just had to deal with it. Which sucked—according to
Gabe.
***
Months passed,
with Gabe trying to keep his angst in check, and with my placations
to assist him along the way. His friends began dwindling, like
they’d had enough of his moods. Even the girls who’d shown an
increasing interest in the teenage wall of muscle grew tired of his
constant snubs and grunted answers.
Only Mia stuck
around, and the girl turned out to be a Godsend.
“She’s not my
girlfriend,” he’d tell me. “It isn’t like that.”
Except, he’d
sit on the settee, grouching about whatever was on the TV, or
anything else he could find to grouch about, and she’d lift her
feet to his lap, give him an order to, ‘Massage’, and within
moments of rubbing at her toes, he’d snap out of whatever dark
place he’d descended to—like the mere contact between the pair of
them was enough.
I’d never seen
two youngsters as close knit—so it came as no surprise that Mia was
there when Gabe suffered his first … episode .
Sunday
afternoons had always been a lazy day in our household: breakfast
in bed, staying in our pyjamas until time to prepare dinner, making
the effort to get washed and clothed whilst the joint was in the
oven, chased by an afternoon of food and loafing.
The Sunday it
happened was no exception—well, until lunchtime, anyway.
Mia arrived
about eleven-thirty—just in time to help peel the carrots—and the
morning rolled along in its usual merry way. Camaraderie was
present as vegetables were tossed into pans, as lamb was basted in
its juices, and custard spread over the trifle base. Gabe and Mia
had been laughing and joking when I stepped out to claim the
bathroom first.
On emerging
from washing and brushing my teeth, I paused on the landing.
“Bathroom’s free,” I called down to Gabe.
“’Kay.
Coming.”
As he reached
the bottom of the stairs, ‘it’ happened.
His unbearable
cry of pain gave the first alert. Followed by the folding of his
body, as he dropped to his knees—the tautening of every muscle
visible around his boxers and vest. During which he lifted his head
and stared up at me with terror-filled eyes.
At first I
remained still, frowning down at him, wondering how on earth he’d
gone from upright and smiling to screaming and writhing on all
fours—my brain not quite caught up with the switch. Either that or
willing him to quit fooling around and go back to bouncing up the
stairs like he should have been.
Except he
didn’t, and, slamming back to earth, I raced down the stairs.
At the bottom,
I almost collided with Mia, as she shot in from the living room. My
hands steadied her as I checked she was okay. When her fingers
pressed to her lips and her eyes widened, I followed her gaze.
“Mum?” Gabe’s
hoarse voice arrived thick with fear, uncertainty, and pain.
I dropped to my
knees. With one hand reaching to wipe the sweat painting his
straining face, my other rested on his shoulder to comfort, as I
peered up at Mia.
Standing near
the doorway, as though afraid to come closer, she stared wide-eyed
at Gabe, and her finger made a slow, upward journey to point,
sexual urges—though Gabe allowed me his perfected glare when I
mentioned that one.
Not to mention
the little details we left off, too. Like, how every hour Gabe’s
stomach would growl like a circus lion until food had been
deposited within; or the afternoon he promised to help with
rearranging the living room and single-handedly lifted the sofa and
carried it the width of the room like it weighted no more than a
bag of peanuts; or the intermittent muscle spasms that started in
his calves three days previous.
It didn’t
matter. With a small shake of his head and a smile teasing the
corners of his lips, the doctor had looked directly at Gabe and
said, “It’s your hormones, son.”
As if we needed
a doctor to tell us that .
So, back to not
knowing why my son was being dealt a harsher blow than all his
friends, we just had to deal with it. Which sucked—according to
Gabe.
***
Months passed,
with Gabe trying to keep his angst in check, and with my placations
to assist him along the way. His friends began dwindling, like
they’d had enough of his moods. Even the girls who’d shown an
increasing interest in the teenage wall of muscle grew tired of his
constant snubs and grunted answers.
Only Mia stuck
around, and the girl turned out to be a Godsend.
“She’s not my
girlfriend,” he’d tell me. “It isn’t like that.”
Except, he’d
sit on the settee, grouching about whatever was on the TV, or
anything else he could find to grouch about, and she’d lift her
feet to his lap, give him an order to, ‘Massage’, and within
moments of rubbing at her toes, he’d snap out of whatever dark
place he’d descended to—like the mere contact between the pair of
them was enough.
I’d never seen
two youngsters as close knit—so it came as no surprise that Mia was
there when Gabe suffered his first … episode .
Sunday
afternoons had always been a lazy day in our household: breakfast
in bed, staying in our pyjamas until time to prepare dinner, making
the effort to get washed and clothed whilst the joint was in the
oven, chased by an afternoon of food and loafing.
The Sunday it
happened was no exception—well, until lunchtime, anyway.
Mia arrived
about eleven-thirty—just in time to help peel the carrots—and the
morning rolled along in its usual merry way. Camaraderie was
present as vegetables were tossed into pans, as lamb was basted in
its juices, and custard spread over the trifle base. Gabe and Mia
had been laughing and joking when I stepped out to claim the
bathroom first.
On emerging
from washing and brushing my teeth, I paused on the landing.
“Bathroom’s free,” I called down to Gabe.
“’Kay.
Coming.”
As he reached
the bottom of the stairs, ‘it’ happened.
His unbearable
cry of pain gave the first alert. Followed by the folding of his
body, as he dropped to his knees—the tautening of every muscle
visible around his boxers and vest. During which he lifted his head
and stared up at me with terror-filled eyes.
At first I
remained still, frowning down at him, wondering how on earth he’d
gone from upright and smiling to screaming and writhing on all
fours—my brain not quite caught up with the switch. Either that or
willing him to quit fooling around and go back to bouncing up the
stairs like he should have been.
Except he
didn’t, and, slamming back to earth, I raced down the stairs.
At the bottom,
I almost collided with Mia, as she shot in from the living room. My
hands steadied her as I checked she was okay. When her fingers
pressed to her lips and her eyes widened, I followed her gaze.
“Mum?” Gabe’s
hoarse voice arrived thick with fear, uncertainty, and pain.
I dropped to my
knees. With one hand reaching to wipe the sweat painting his
straining face, my other rested on his shoulder to comfort, as I
peered up at Mia.
Standing near
the doorway, as though afraid to come closer, she stared wide-eyed
at Gabe, and her finger made a slow, upward journey to point,
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