Antonia's Choice (26 page)

“Whatever it takes,” I said.

But as I stuffed the pad and pen back into my bag, the lump took shape in my throat again.

How am I going to do this?
I thought as I went out to retrieve Ben.
I don't know how
—I don't!

I wanted to turn on my heel and go back to Doc Opie and make him give me specifics, details, directions I could scrawl on my pad and type up and print out in triplicate. But he had followed me into the waiting room and was already intent on a little girl of about seven who was explaining some malady that had beset her stuffed rhinoceros.

I felt a pang of jealousy for Ben that Doc Opie was focusing on some other kid—that he wasn't committed to Ben's care 24/7.

No. That's up to me. And I don't know how.

But God knows, I tried that weekend.

I made an offer to Ben to take him to McDonald's for supper. He immediately said he hated McDonald's. Doc Opie hadn't been kidding when he said this wasn't going to happen overnight. When I said I thought Ben loved McDonald's, he told me McDonald's had stupid toys and he wanted to go to Burger King.

Let him pick which of three healthy foods he's going to eat,
the Doc had said. Okay, so we were talking junk food, but at least it was a start.

Bath time was less of a success. I said Ben had to take a bath, but he could do it however he wanted. He chose to sit on the floor in the bathroom with the door closed and kick his feet on the linoleum. I then stood outside the door and gave him a list of three choices—play in the tub, play in the shower, or let me squirt him down with the hose. He hated all three and opted for dragging a washcloth across his face. I was going to have to ask Doc Opie about that one.

I started keeping a list of questions. By Saturday morning, it was two pages long.

What do I do when he throws himself down in the middle of the mall and holds his breath?

If he doesn't want any of the food choices, do I stuff one of them down his throat or let him starve?

Why isn't any of this working?

The one successful outing we had on Saturday was the trip to the toy store for a stuffed animal. I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to tell Ben this should represent safety and security and all the other things I hadn't given him, so I just took him to the stuffed animal display at the Discovery Store at the Green Hills Mall and said, “Pick any of these guys you want. Think of him as your Safe Animal.”

“Why?” he said immediately.

Given that we had just had a scene out in the mall and one at Baskin-Robbins, I was tempted to say,
Because I said so.
But I
restrained myself and said instead, “Because Doc Opie said so.”

“Oh, okay.”

Doc Opie was turning out to be a handy little fella to have around. I made a note to later try saying,
Doc Opie says you have to take a bath.

Ben stepped up to the display like he was about to do battle and surveyed the contents with discerning eyes. It was all I could do not to jump in there and recommend the thirty-pound lion, the plump grizzly that was bigger than he was, or the giant frog whose tongue when pulled out to its full extension would have gone all the way down our stairs.

Let him choose,
I told myself firmly.
He can't do it wrong, for Pete's sake.

Ben finally began to pick up various possibilities, and I watched in fascination as he examined their tails, smelled their fur, and rubbed them up against his cheek. His final test was a hard squeeze with both arms against his chest—until I was sure I saw the poor creatures' eyes bulge. After that, each one was returned to its shelf with such finality, I felt a little sorry for them.

I was starting to get a little afraid that he was going to decide he “hated” all of them and hurl himself into the sale bin, when he pulled out a slightly emaciated looking lamb.

Get ready for this one to go flying back in there,
I thought.
Poor thing.

Ben put it through the same paces he had all the rest of them; nobody could say my son wasn't an equal-opportunity chooser. When he got to the final squeeze, he closed his eyes, and I heard him sigh.

“This one,” he said.

I covered my bewilderment remarkably well, if I do say so myself.

“Oh,” I said. “Well—cool. Let's buy him.”

Ben surveyed me over the top of the lamb's semiwooly head. “Don't you want to know
why
I picked him?”

“Urn—yeah. But you should only tell me if you want to.”

He held the lamb out in front of him and looked deeply into its pink button eyes. “I don't,” he said.

“Oh. Well…okay.”

From there it was as if Doc Opie had put some kind of instruction chip in Ben's head. He hauled the lamb around with him the rest of the day and had it sit at a chair at the table while we ate the hot dogs he had selected from my choices of wieners, Hot Pockets, and macaroni and cheese. I decided I was worse than a meat and three and needed to work on my menu.

But Lamb was no help at bedtime. Ben started right after supper getting worked up about not wanting to go. I was tempted to tell him that Doc Opie said he had to go to bed, until I remembered that box thing he had shown me. I grabbed Lamb and headed for my study.

“Where are you taking him?” Ben shrieked.

“In here. If you want to have him, you have to come in here.”

Ben tore after me, and I pointed to a chair next to the desk. He climbed into it and pulled his face into a knot until I gave Lamb to him. The two of them then glared at me. There is nothing worse than being stared down by an animal with pink eyes.

“Okay,” I said. “Here's a box.” I drew one on a piece of white paper. Ben watched me warily. “Inside here I'm going to write down the things you don't get to choose.”

I could tell he hated it, but Ben still watched as I wrote
Go to bed at bedtime.

“Go—bed,” he said. “That's all I can read. Mrs. Robinette draws us pictures.”

Wonderful. I could draw stick people and pigs, my two artistic claims to fame. However, since he hadn't run for the television yet, I attempted to draw a bed. He nodded, as if that would do.

“You also have to eat,” I said.

“Draw a fork and spoon. And a knife.”

“You never use a knife.”

“I wanna eat something that you hafta use a knife for.”

“Got it.” I painstakingly sketched a set of silverware.

“Can I do one?” he said.

I could have cried. “Sure.”

We traded places, and he clutched the pencil in true kindergarten fashion.

“So?” Ben said.

“So what?”

“What do I draw?”

“Oh! Well, you have to take some kind of bath.”

He nodded and studied the box. Slowly, he put pencil to paper, and a very small bathtub appeared.

“It's little,” I said, “which is fine, of course.”

“It's only big enough for one person. I don't want anybody getting in there with me.”

“Who's going to get in with you? There's only one kid around here.”

“What else do I draw?”

We filled the box up with lopsided renderings of a school and a seat belt and a kid saying thank you and please. Ben was yawning by the time we posted it on the refrigerator door.

“Tomorrow we can draw some more,” I said.

Ben frowned. “There's
more
stuff that goes in the box?”

“No, there's stuff that goes outside the box. The stuff you do get to choose.”

His face smoothed, and he looked down at Lamb, who was crammed under his arm. “You hear that? We get to choose some stuff.”

I decided as we made our way up the stairs that Doc Opie was a genius. Although Ben stiffened when I told him to climb into bed and I pulled the covers over him, he didn't scream. Still, when I put my hand on his back to rub it, he jerked himself away.

“Well, good night, Pal,” I said.

I got almost to the door when I heard him turn over.

“You wanna know why I picked this lamb?” he said.

I didn't turn around. I just stopped and said, “Sure.”

“'Cause he won't hurt me.”

When I was sure he was asleep, I went downstairs and cried. I cried almost all night, until my throat closed up and my eyes were in slits and my ears felt as if they'd been stabbed with knitting needles.

The next morning I called Dominica's office and left her a message.

“I think I need to come see you,” I said. “Please call me.”

I
DIDN'T HEAR FROM DOMINICA
before I left for work Monday morning, and I was so divided between Ben and what was waiting for me at Faustman, I didn't have much time to think about my own angst. Think about it, no—but feel it, yes.

After the nightlong crying marathon on Saturday night, I spent all day Sunday trying to focus on Ben and finding it increasingly hard to concentrate—on anything. I tried to make corn bread from a box and lost my train of thought so many times while following the three-step directions that I neglected to put the egg in. Even Lamb refused to eat the result. I sat down to watch a video with Ben and realized halfway through it that I had no idea who any of the characters were. When Stephanie called that evening, it took me a good ten seconds to determine that it was my sister I was talking to.

“Ton'—are you okay?” she said a few minutes into the conversation.

“I'm two continents away from okay,” I said. “I shouldn't feel this bad. I've got Wyndham taken care of. I have Ben in therapy and he's going to be fine. It's all falling into place.” I sank into the couch in the study and dragged my hand across my eyes. The room blurred around me.

“You always make things happen,” Stephanie said. “I wish you were up here. I'm not trying to put a guilt trip on you—I know you have enough on your plate. I just can't help thinking you could handle Mama better than I am.”

“What's to handle? She's doing what she always does—exactly what she wants to.”

“That's just it. What she wants is for me to make this whole mess my entire life, which is what she's doing.”

“So sneak off to your apartment and take the phone off the hook.” I yawned, but there was no danger of my drifting off
midsentence. I was sure I'd forgotten how to sleep.

There was a funny silence on the other end of the line.

“What?” I said.

“I don't have an apartment anymore. I've moved back in with Mama.”

“You
what?
Why?”

“She needs me to help her with the twins.”

“The twins need professional therapy, not you giving up everything you've worked for!”

“It wasn't that great an apartment—”

“That's not what I mean and you know it, Steph. How long did it take you to break away from her?”

“Too long.”

“And now you're right back under her thumb.” I got up and paced. “Look—I'm sorry. Just don't let her take over your life again. You don't need her approval anymore.”

“I'm doing it for the kids.” Stephanie's voice wobbled, tears in the near future. “They're so messed up, and all Mama can do is hold them and cry, which I think only makes them more scared.”

“Try to talk her into getting them into therapy. Maybe my guy could recommend somebody up there.”

Stephanie snorted. “Oh, can I please suggest that to Mama? And while I'm at it, let me just poke a fork in my eye, too.”

“Why? They're in trouble. They need help.”

“She thinks all they need is their mother.”

“Oh? The same mother who let their father molest them?”

“He didn't exactly—”

“Steph, listen to me.”

I leaned against the desk, eyes closed, and told her everything Dominica had told me about pornography and molestation. I could hear her gasping, and then there was nothing.

“Steph?” I said.

“Yeah?”

The tears had started. I could feel them in my own throat, and I wanted my arms around my sister and hers around me.

“It just gets you right in the gut, doesn't it?” I said. “But you have
to tell Mama what I just told you, or those kids are never going to recover from this. Tell her I said—”

“Ton, if I even tell her I've been talking to you she'll probably tear out my liver with her fingernails. You're pretty much persona non grata around here right now. She'll get over it, but—”

“I don't care if she thinks I'm Quasimodo! Just find a way to get those children some help!”

I jerked my arm, sending the stack of files from Faustman sailing from the desk to the floor in one long cascade of chaos. I looked down at them without feeling.

“I wish you were here,” Stephanie said. “I
so
wish you were here.”

“No, I wish
you
were
here
,” I said. “You
and
the kids. We could kick some tail on this thing and hold each other up.” I thought I'd emptied myself of tears the night before, but I was starting to cry in earnest again. “I miss you, Steph.”