kind.
I spun around to see that Ben had dropped the framed photo on to the rug, and was sitting, leaned forward in his chair, his hands balled up into fists, hitting himself in the head with the heels of both hands. And I mean
hard
.
‘Buddy! Hey! Don’t do that! Stop that!’
But he didn’t stop.
‘Hey! Don’t hit yourself!’
But I might as well have been talking to the picture, or the rug.
I tried to grab his arms. In fact, I did grab his arms. But he just kept hitting, pulling me closer to him on each strike. Pulling me right along.
Then I suppose he got tired of the restraint, because he pushed hard, with both arms at once, and I landed on my tailbone on the rug.
And that was the start of
my
temper tantrum.
I’m ashamed to admit this next bit, but I was tired, and beaten down, and emotional. And so I started yelling at my mom.
‘Why did you leave me with this?’ I screamed. ‘I can’t deal with this! I can’t do this! I don’t know how you did this all those years, but I can’t! You should’ve left me some kind of instructions or something!’
I paused, and listened to the sound of wrist bones on skull.
‘I don’t know how to help him! I’m not helping him! This is not fair to me! This is not fair to any of us!’
Then I started to cry.
I cried quietly for a few seconds before I realized the room was silent, save for an occasional sniffle from me.
A moment later, I felt his hand on my back.
‘Why are you crying, Buddy?’ he asked, plunking himself on the rug beside me and draping one long arm over my shoulder.
‘I miss her, too, you know. Don’t you think I miss her, too?’
Silence, while he thought that over. I expected him to say it was a hard question.
‘But you never saw her.’
I started to say, Not never. Just not for six years. But then I realized that, to Ben, six years was for ever.
‘But I always figured I could.’
‘I don’t like it when you cry.’
‘Yeah? Well, I don’t like it when you hit yourself in the head. I can’t deal with that. At all. How can you hurt yourself like that? I can’t watch that. That must’ve hurt like hell. Doesn’t your head hurt now?’
‘Sort of.’
‘You must’ve given yourself one hell of a headache.’
‘I guess.’
‘Want some aspirin?’
‘No. I don’t like pills.’
‘Now I feel like I should take you to a doctor. Make sure you don’t have a concussion.’
The arm disappeared from around my shoulder.
‘I don’t like going to the doctor.’
‘It makes no difference what you like, Ben. Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like.’
God knows.
‘But I don’t like doing things I don’t like.’
I laughed. In spite of myself. ‘Nobody does, Buddy.’
‘Please? I feel fine.’
‘Tell you what. This time I’ll figure you don’t have a concussion. This one time. But if you ever hit yourself in the head again, we’re going to the doctor.’
‘OK. I won’t, then.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
He pulled himself to his feet. I stayed, rooted to the rug. A moment later I heard the cartoons come on. Full blast. The roadrunner and the coyote.
I sighed, and got myself up off the floor. Picked up the picture of Mom and Dad from the rug.
‘I’m going to put this back now. Is that OK with you?’
But I asked just as the coyote ran over the edge of a cliff, felt around gingerly in the air with one foot, then waved goodbye and fell.
A hearty, deep laugh from Ben. I knew better than to try to regain his attention.
I carried the picture back to the living room and put it back in its place on the mantel. As I did, I looked at my mom, and thought I knew what she would tell me, if she were here.
She’d say, See? You’re figuring it out.
‘Not fair,’ I said, out loud. ‘Not fair that I should have to. Especially all by myself.’
Tell me all about it, she said.
At least, in my head that’s what she said.
18 September 2001
I WOKE UP early the next morning. Quarter after six. No
I spun around to see that Ben had dropped the framed photo on to the rug, and was sitting, leaned forward in his chair, his hands balled up into fists, hitting himself in the head with the heels of both hands. And I mean
hard
.
‘Buddy! Hey! Don’t do that! Stop that!’
But he didn’t stop.
‘Hey! Don’t hit yourself!’
But I might as well have been talking to the picture, or the rug.
I tried to grab his arms. In fact, I did grab his arms. But he just kept hitting, pulling me closer to him on each strike. Pulling me right along.
Then I suppose he got tired of the restraint, because he pushed hard, with both arms at once, and I landed on my tailbone on the rug.
And that was the start of
my
temper tantrum.
I’m ashamed to admit this next bit, but I was tired, and beaten down, and emotional. And so I started yelling at my mom.
‘Why did you leave me with this?’ I screamed. ‘I can’t deal with this! I can’t do this! I don’t know how you did this all those years, but I can’t! You should’ve left me some kind of instructions or something!’
I paused, and listened to the sound of wrist bones on skull.
‘I don’t know how to help him! I’m not helping him! This is not fair to me! This is not fair to any of us!’
Then I started to cry.
I cried quietly for a few seconds before I realized the room was silent, save for an occasional sniffle from me.
A moment later, I felt his hand on my back.
‘Why are you crying, Buddy?’ he asked, plunking himself on the rug beside me and draping one long arm over my shoulder.
‘I miss her, too, you know. Don’t you think I miss her, too?’
Silence, while he thought that over. I expected him to say it was a hard question.
‘But you never saw her.’
I started to say, Not never. Just not for six years. But then I realized that, to Ben, six years was for ever.
‘But I always figured I could.’
‘I don’t like it when you cry.’
‘Yeah? Well, I don’t like it when you hit yourself in the head. I can’t deal with that. At all. How can you hurt yourself like that? I can’t watch that. That must’ve hurt like hell. Doesn’t your head hurt now?’
‘Sort of.’
‘You must’ve given yourself one hell of a headache.’
‘I guess.’
‘Want some aspirin?’
‘No. I don’t like pills.’
‘Now I feel like I should take you to a doctor. Make sure you don’t have a concussion.’
The arm disappeared from around my shoulder.
‘I don’t like going to the doctor.’
‘It makes no difference what you like, Ben. Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like.’
God knows.
‘But I don’t like doing things I don’t like.’
I laughed. In spite of myself. ‘Nobody does, Buddy.’
‘Please? I feel fine.’
‘Tell you what. This time I’ll figure you don’t have a concussion. This one time. But if you ever hit yourself in the head again, we’re going to the doctor.’
‘OK. I won’t, then.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
He pulled himself to his feet. I stayed, rooted to the rug. A moment later I heard the cartoons come on. Full blast. The roadrunner and the coyote.
I sighed, and got myself up off the floor. Picked up the picture of Mom and Dad from the rug.
‘I’m going to put this back now. Is that OK with you?’
But I asked just as the coyote ran over the edge of a cliff, felt around gingerly in the air with one foot, then waved goodbye and fell.
A hearty, deep laugh from Ben. I knew better than to try to regain his attention.
I carried the picture back to the living room and put it back in its place on the mantel. As I did, I looked at my mom, and thought I knew what she would tell me, if she were here.
She’d say, See? You’re figuring it out.
‘Not fair,’ I said, out loud. ‘Not fair that I should have to. Especially all by myself.’
Tell me all about it, she said.
At least, in my head that’s what she said.
18 September 2001
I WOKE UP early the next morning. Quarter after six. No
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