Love Anthony (18 page)

And then I thought, Maybe I should try it. If he won’t mimic us, maybe I should try copying him. I dropped the bags of groceries and forced a loud screech, and I jumped and flapped.

So there we were—David on the couch watching the football pregame and Anthony and I shrieking and jumping and flapping. It felt so unnatural and weird, like I was making fun of him. It felt wrong. This is not how people express joy or excitement or love. And I thought, This is what retarded looks like. And I felt so ashamed for thinking that word. I hate that word.

Why can’t he just smile and say, Hey, Mom, glad you’re home? Because he can’t. Because he has autism. I HATE
autism. He shrieks and flaps and looks retarded instead, and this is Anthony showing joy, and I can’t join in and feel joy along with him.

And then I thought, This is it. This is all I’m ever going to get. No hugs and kisses. No “Hi, Mom!” No “I love you, Mom.” No Mother’s Day cards made by him. He jumps and flaps and screeches, and that’s how he shows joy. That’s how he shows love. And that’s it.

On some days, I can be grateful for this. I can. But yesterday, I couldn’t take it. I was purely pissed. Rationally, I know it’s the best he can do, and I love him for it. I wasn’t pissed at him. I was pissed at God.

I left Anthony and the bags of groceries, and I called Father Foley on the phone and unloaded on him. What kind of horrible God would give a boy autism? What kind of God would afflict a small child with this kind of suffering? Why? Why can’t Anthony talk to us? Why can’t he look at me and smile and say “Mom!” and come running into my arms like other little boys? Why does he have to live like this? What did he do to deserve this kind of life? What did I do to deserve this? Why?

Father Foley then said a bunch of completely useless words, something about the permissive will of God and manifestations of evil and original sin. I don’t really know. It all turned to meaningless static. I didn’t say anything. I was still holding the word WHY in my mouth, waiting for a real answer.

Then he said, Keep praying, Olivia. God will hear you if you pray to Him.

And here’s where I had my meltdown. I said something like I don’t want Him to HEAR me. I want Him to DO something. I want some fucking ANSWERS. I’m so sick of praying. Fuck praying. I’m done praying. I’m done with God.

And I threw the phone across the room and shrieked and wailed like I was being murdered, like this is killing me. And you know, I think it is.

This is killing me.

David missed the first half of the football game trying to calm me down. I drank a bottle of wine while he watched the second half, and I went to bed without dinner.

Today I woke up with the worst headache of my life. I swallowed four Motrin with a tall glass of water, and the worst headache of my life was gone by lunch.

We have pills for headaches. We have antidepressants for sadness. We have God for believers.

We have nothing for autism.

OLIVIA HAD FORGOTTEN
about that meltdown entirely, stuffed it in a box, locked it up, and buried it in the basement of her mind, but after reading her journal entry earlier this morning, she remembers it now as if it were yesterday. Those powerful and ugly emotions that took hold of her that day six years ago, awakened by the memory, stir inside her again, but they feel softer and misplaced now, like a shadow belonging to someone else.

It’s now late morning, and she is walking among the throngs of tourists in Town, an attempt at distracting her from herself. She doesn’t have an exact destination in mind, maybe The Bean or the library or Aunt Leah’s for more fudge, or maybe she’ll simply walk. Walking is the plan.

When walking is the plan, she typically goes to Fat Ladies Beach or Bartlett’s Farm, places where she can move freely and lose herself in nature. So it’s strange that she’s chosen to come here, confined to the narrow brick sidewalks, her natural pace impeded by the crawl of tourists in front of her, bombarded on all sides by shoppers and one-sided cell-phone chatter.

She feels her own phone vibrate inside her purse and stops walking to search for it. She grabs it on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” She waits. “Hello?”

She looks at the area code and doesn’t recognize it, but that’s not unusual. People come to Nantucket from all over the world. She’s already shot beach portraits for families who are from as far away as California and Germany. She begins to worry that she’s forgotten a portrait session scheduled for this morning, and the family is anxiously waiting for her on some beach. But the worry isn’t real. She knows she has today off.

She looks up and notices that she’s standing in front of St. Mary’s Church. It’s a pretty church with a white clapboard exterior, large, polished-teak front doors, and a two-story tower with no bell. A simple statue of Our Lady, sculpted of white marble, stands on its front lawn, welcoming parishioners with wide, outstretched arms.

But Olivia is not a parishioner. Mary isn’t welcoming
her
inside. Olivia vowed the day she had that meltdown that she’d never go to church again. If God was going to turn His back on her, she would do the same to Him. Two could play that game.

But even though she stopped attending Sunday mass and receiving the sacraments, even though she blamed and hated God, she still prayed. She didn’t make a show of it, and she stopped making the sign of the cross, but she still whispered her prayers for Anthony. She prayed in the shower, while she brushed her teeth, while stopped at red lights, while she stood in line at Costco to buy diapers for a six-year-old, before dinner, before bed. She kept praying because even though she’d turned her back on Him, her boycott of God was more posture than real conviction. She still believed.

Until last year, when she stopped believing in Him altogether.

She continues walking down Federal Street. People are everywhere, taking up every conceivable outdoor space. They’re
eating and drinking at outdoor tables, pedaling bicycles, walking their dogs, sipping iced coffees as they sit on benches, window-shopping as they walk and talk on their phones. A continuous stream of people in their cars inches along every road, breaking the line only to allow clumps of pedestrians to cross at the crosswalks.

She pauses for a moment, debating whether she should return to her Jeep and go somewhere with fewer people or keep walking here. As she considers a hike on Bartlett’s Farm, someone bumps into her, knocking her sideways.

“Watch it, lady,” says a tall, lanky man over his shoulder as he continues past her, not even breaking his stride.

YOU walked into ME,
she thinks.

She plants her feet in the middle of the brick sidewalk, partly as an act of defiance and partly because she doesn’t know where to go, holding her ground as dozens of people weave around her in both directions, as if she were a rock surrounded by wild river rapids. She feels oddly stuck in this spot and, at the same time, a building anxiety over remaining there.

She should’ve gone to the beach.

Then she registers where she is. She’s standing in front of St. Mary’s Church. Again.

She knows she vowed she’d never return to the Church, but she also vowed to love and honor David until death parted them. And now she’s getting divorced. So she’s already a vow-breaker.

And maybe she does still believe in God. Ever since David left for Chicago, she finds herself talking to Him again. She came to this island to disconnect from everyone and everything, to be alone, and her self-imposed isolation has been a needed salve for her battered soul. But knowing that David was still in Hingham was a lifeline she held on to with both hands. She could go back. Maybe not back to David or their marriage, although, if she’s being honest, there was that possibility,
too, but back to their house, her home, her life. Now David’s in Chicago, and there’s nothing to go back to. There’s nothing connecting her to her old life, to before. Before is gone.

Some other family will be living in their house, where Anthony was supposed to grow up, to become the best Anthony he could be, whatever that might’ve been, where David and she were supposed to grow old together. Maybe someone else will have that life there. Someone luckier than her. Someone blessed.

When David was still in Hingham, she could consider her life on Nantucket to be a trial run, a visit, a sabbatical, a temporary state of isolation. It was practice, pretend, a rehearsal. Now it’s real. This is her life. She is alone on Nantucket, and there is no undoing it.

She has become an empty space, and despite her grief and resistance, God has wandered back in. She finds herself talking to Him while cooking in the kitchen, as she’s doing the laundry, while walking on the beach. She recognizes that she’s not simply talking to herself. She’s talking to God. And so, there it is. If she’s talking to God, she must believe He exists.

She’s asking the same familiar questions, waiting in silence for answers. And in those silences, her loneliness feels too sharp, like it might slice her in half. It’s not loneliness for David or even Anthony. She’s not lonely for her old home or friends. She’s lonely for answers. Answers are the company she seeks.

And whether or not she still believes in God, she has always believed in signs. Someone or something is calling her into this church. She hastens by the marble Mary, climbs up the steps, and, with more than a little reluctance, pushes open one of the shiny teak doors and walks inside.

This church is smaller than St. Christopher’s in Hingham, probably seating about three hundred at a Sunday high-noon mass. It’s dimly lit, and after her eyes adjust, she notices that
everything looks brand-new—the red carpet, the polished pews, the gorgeous pipe organ, the woven Nantucket collection baskets. And it’s air-conditioned. The money on this island trickles everywhere.

No one is here. The daily mass would’ve been said earlier in the morning, and confessions are heard on Saturday afternoons. Before walking to the front of the church, she kneels at a table of prayer candles. The candles here aren’t real. They’re plastic, battery-operated lights in the shape of candles. The town of Nantucket has burned down so many times that everyone on this island is, if not openly fearful, at least a little superstitious about fire, even, it seems, the Catholic priests.

She flips one over, clicks the button to
ON,
and replaces it on the table. It glows orange, but it’s not nearly as satisfying as a real flame. She “lights” another candle for Anthony as she always used to, and then one more. One for David. She closes her eyes and tries to pray, but she can’t find any words. She hasn’t prayed to God in church in a long time. She presses the palms of her hands together and tries again. No words.

Maybe she should go with someone else’s words, a ready-made prayer like a Hail Mary or the Our Father. She begins whispering a Hail Mary but stops after
the Lord is with thee
. The words feel memorized and meaningless, like she’s reciting a nursery rhyme. These are not the words that drew her inside here. Leaving her three “lit” candles, she wanders to the front of the church, behind the altar, and finds a closed door. She stands there for more than a minute before she finds enough courage to knock.

“Yes? Come in.”

Olivia opens the door to a small sitting room. A priest is sitting in the center of a brown sofa directly under a brass crucifix hung on the wall. He’s holding a closed book in his hands. A reading lamp to his left is turned on. An untouched cookie on
a white plate centered on an ivory doily sits on a small wooden table to his right.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she says.

“I’m not at all disturbed. Please come, sit.”

There are two chairs, one modest and covered in a floral slipcover and the other a Queen Anne upholstered in a bright peacock blue. She chooses the Queen Anne and sits with her hands clasped in her lap. She stares at the floor for a moment. It’s tiled in black and white hexagons. Anthony would’ve loved this floor.

“I’m Olivia Donatelli. I haven’t been to this church before.”

“Welcome to St. Mary’s. I’m Father Doyle.”

Father Doyle has a full head of silver hair and a bright pink face, flushed from within rather than from a sunburn. He’s wearing a short-sleeve, black T-shirt, black pants, black sneakers, and no collar.

“I’m not exactly sure why I’m here.”

Father Doyle waits.

“I left the Church five years ago, but I’ve been praying.”

“You haven’t left the Church if you’re communing with God.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it communing. There’s no conversation. I’m asking questions and not getting any answers. It’s just me talking to myself, I think.”

“What are your questions?”

She squeezes her hands together and takes a deep breath. “My son had autism. He was nonverbal and couldn’t make eye contact and didn’t like to be touched. And then he died from a subdural hematoma following a seizure when he was eight. So what I want to know is why? Why did God do this to my son? Why was he here and then gone so soon? Why did I have him? What was the purpose of his life?”

“These are hard questions.”

She nods.

“But they’re good questions. They’re important questions. I’m glad you haven’t given up on asking them.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know a lot about autism, but I know that every human being is made as an expression of God’s love.”

She’s received this kind of pat, Catholic-textbook response before from the priests in Hingham, and it was always the end of the conversation. A vague reference to God’s universal love isn’t helpful. If anything, it used to intensify the violent storm that was already raging inside her. She would normally be up and heading for the door after “expression of God’s love.” But for some reason, maybe because she doesn’t feel affronted by Father Doyle’s soothing voice, maybe because today she possesses more patience than rage, maybe because she likes the blue chair she’s sitting in, she stays in her seat.