In the Stillness

CHAPTER 37



Ten years ago, I could spend hours wandering the streets or vegging at home after a therapy session. Today, a few hours after getting home and eating dinner, Eric calls in a panic.

I pause before saying hello, assessing the noise in the background, and quickly determine chaos is in full force.

“Eric? What’s going on?”

“Natalie,” he says almost breathlessly, causing my anxiety to rise a bit, “Ollie’s having a full-on tantrum and Max is freaking out . . . I can’t get Ollie to look at me to see what I’m saying and my sign language is total shit . . . I don’t know what to do.”

I want to wring his neck, I really do. First of all, it’s an hour past their bedtime, so of course they’re exhausted. Second, the therapists have talked with us about tantrums in deaf children, and how Oliver’s likely to act out for a while because he’s scared, angry, and whatever other emotion kicks in when you’re robbed of one of your senses. Instead, I use my exhaustion from the day’s emotional upheaval to feign levelheadedness.

“I’ll be right over. Sit tight.”

Ten minutes later, I can hear the screams coming from the 2nd floor Amity Street apartment—a place I only stand at the threshold of now when I bring the boys here every other week. The full-week alternating between our two houses seems to work best for them, for now.

Opening the door, I find Oliver face-down on the kitchen floor, kicking and screaming louder than usual, Max crying on the couch, and Eric crouching down next to Oliver, yelling at him to sit up and look at him.

First things first. “Max, Honey, go in your room and get a book, Mommy will be there in a minute, okay?” Max hugs my legs for a split second before following my request.

“Eric!” He seems to just process that I’ve walked in. “He can’t hear you! Stop yelling at him!” Though, yelling at Eric feels good.

“He was hearing me a little earlier today, Natalie!” Eric yells, running his hands through his hair. “He was sitting on my lap and I could . . .”

“They told us that his hearing could come and go without notice . . .” Not wanting to rehash our son’s diagnosis for what feels like the thirtieth time, I kneel beside Ollie and scoop him into my arms. Holding him tight against my chest, he’s still screaming. “He’s scared, Eric . . .” My chin quivers slightly as I rock him back to forth. “Go check on Max, please.”

Eric heads down the hall and I stand, still holding Oliver, and walk to the couch. Sitting down, I pull his face forward and smile. He presses his head into my shoulder and keeps crying. Logically, I know that this won’t do any good, but I can’t help it; I dip my chin so Ollie and I are cheek-to-cheek—my lips resting lightly against the skin next to his ear—and I start singing.

Rocking side to side I sing the entirety of “Return to Pooh Corner” to my son, who can’t hear a word of his once-favorite song.

By the time I reach the end, Oliver is fast asleep on my chest. I keep humming, in hopes that the vibrations from my throat are comforting to him somehow, and walk him to their bedroom, where Max is passed out as well. Eric’s standing in the center of their room, watching Max, as I set Oliver next to him.

Max stirs a little and opens his eyes. “Mommy, are you staying here?”

“No, Sweetie,” I whisper, “Mommy is going back to her house.”

“But I want you to stay here.” His sleepy voice slices right through me.

“I know, Honey. You get to come back to Mommy’s house in a few days, okay? Then we’ll have lots of fun with Auntie Tosha.”

“Okay,” he yawns his resignation, and Eric and I slip out as he falls back asleep.

Walking into the kitchen behind me, Eric lets out a long sigh.

“Thank you so much for coming, Natalie. I didn’t know what to do . . .”

I smack my lips. “You’d know what to do if you bothered working with his therapists when they were here.”

“Oh, and you’re so perfect?” His tone is suddenly sharp.

“Ha. Hardly. I just want to feel as prepared as possible, Eric, and that means learning every tool I can.”

He anchors himself in the center of the room with his hands on his hips. “And you don’t think I do?”

Eric and I haven’t talked this much alone since after I found him with what’s-her-name over a month ago. We’re able to play nice long enough to hand off the boys and get through meeting with our attorneys, but that’s it. Eric’s been functioning under some warped paradigm of denial from the second the doctor told us about Ollie’s diagnosis. He wants Ollie to be the rare case whose hearing returns and stays. Of course I do, too, but for the sake of my child, I have to operate in reality.

“What I think is that you’re hoping if you don’t learn sign language, or work with his therapists, or learn any of the coping techniques, that means he’ll magically have to start hearing again. All you’re doing is a disservice to you both.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

My stomach churns at the desperation in his voice, and I decide to put my sword down for a second.

Realizing I’ve been absentmindedly picking up toys and dishes from around Eric’s apartment, I drop the Transformer currently in my hand, cross my arms, and stare at him.

“Okay,” I breathe, “I think we have to start researching those nannies his OT gave us. The ones who know sign language and are certified in some of the therapies we’ve been learning. We’re lucky that neither one of us has to work much this summer, but you’ve seen how it is, it’s incredibly stressful to even take them to the playground by yourself . . . I think we both need some extra help for a while.” I walk over to a kitchen chair and sit, crossing my legs.

Eric follows, sitting across from me. “I agree. It’ll help take some stress off Max, too. The boy has to have his own childhood, you know . . .”

“Eric, I know he does. But, his life has changed just as much as ours and Oliver’s. He’s not being robbed of his childhood by learning how to live with a brother with a disability. It’s a new reality for all of us—Max included.”

Eric and I spend the next hour going over some of the nannies given to us, and decide to interview them over the next several days. We decide it’s best to use the same nanny to maintain consistency for the boys, and we agree to leave our marriage and divorce issues out of it.

“I really am sorry . . .” I nearly have my hand on the door when Eric starts in.

“Eric,” I sigh, “even if I believed that, I’m too tired to talk about it right now.”

“What do you mean, if you believed it?”

I can’t put any disdain into my voice; I’m too exhausted. “You say sorry after an accident. Was every day of the last year, when you carried out the affair, an accident?”

“It’s not just about the affair, Natalie.” Eric walks toward me.

“I know it’s not, but . . .” A tear finally falls and I think Eric’s going to break into a million pieces. He’s rarely seen me cry. Mad? Yes, a lot. In tears? Not often. “The affair was calculated and intentional,” I continue. “And, even though we both made choices about all the other things, we weren’t sure of the outcomes then, you know? How could you have thought an affair would work out well?”

“Natalie . . .” I still don’t hate those honey brown eyes, I just wish they had a shred of honesty behind them.

“Eric, don’t. I don’t want to rehash it. I’m just trying to move forward from it, okay? I had a bitch of a therapy session today, and I just want to go home and go to sleep.” Wiping under my eyes, I replace my hand on the doorknob.

“You’re in therapy?” he asks, barely sounding surprised.

“I don’t want to cut anymore, Eric. In order for that to happen, I need to start getting really honest with myself. I’ll see you Sunday when you drop off the boys.” I open the door a crack.

“Thank you for coming. I—”

“Any time, Eric. And I mean that. We’re still their parents.” With a smile I step out of the door.

“Natalie,” Eric calls quietly after me.

“Yeah?”

Eric runs a hand through toddler-messy hair. “I’m glad you don’t want to cut anymore. That scares the shit out of me.”

“I know, me too. I’m working on it though, okay?”

“Yeah. Bye,” he sighs and walks back into the apartment.

“Bye,” I whisper to the closed door.