Past Heaven (5 page)

Dad cleared his throat before speaking. “We were called about a month after Joy’s birth and told she had died.” Dad closed his eyes as he spoke, his body rigid and hands clasped in front of him. Mom watched him speak, her face contorted with pain and hands clutched on his forearm. “At first, I felt… please forgive me… relieved. Less guilty. Like a burden had been lifted.” He spoke so quietly, so weakly, that I almost didn’t recognize him. “But Grace—she’s a Mom through and through—she wanted to know what had happened.” Dad looked down again and swallowed hard, breathing deeply through his nose. I ran to the sink, poured glasses of water, and gave them a few minutes to recoup.

They both smiled gratefully and sipped the cold drink. Mom set her glass down and shrugged. “The reports were vague. At first, they claimed she had died in her sleep. That it was a result of her birth deformities. But I needed to know more, so I poked around. I asked questions. I made phone calls. Finally, it was a neighbor who was able to help me. Sue McIntyre’s sister, Dorothy, worked as a nurse at Ravenwood where Joy had gone. She called me one evening and told me she would tell me what had happened, but I couldn’t report it or she would get fired.”

Mom looked at Dad, and they each turned to me. The look of horror in their eyes, the sadness drawn across their faces, ripped at my heart. I came here and stayed in their home for weeks, sleeping late, drinking too much, and complaining about my life. What did I know of real suffering? What did I know of actual loss?

“Dorothy told me it was a blessing that she had passed. She said I didn’t want to hear the details, but that kids at Ravenwood were often abused and neglected. She tried her hardest to offset the cruelty by her working there. She didn’t want to abandon the kids she loved even though the conditions were horrible. Classified records showed trauma to Joy’s head had caused her death. Dorothy speculated that she had either been shaken or had been hit on the head most likely because she was crying.” Mom took a deep breath. “Babies cry.” Her voice broke and she took another drink of water.

“She told me it was more common than one could possibly imagine. I wanted to file charges and have someone pay for their crime, but Dorothy told me nothing could be done. Ravenwood had their own police force who had investigated and had ruled Joy’s cause of death resulted from natural causes. She was buried right on the site in their private cemetery.” Grace shuddered. “I visited the graveyard once, and I don’t think I stopped shaking for days.

“So you see, my Reyn, Joy died because of an ignorant choice your father and I made. We never researched what could be done for her special needs. We trusted the wrong people, and our baby was killed. It was our fault.” She pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out.

“You didn’t cause her death. You did what you thought was right. You can’t blame yourselves.” I clasped each of their hands in my own and squeezed, hoping to ease even an ounce of their pain. I couldn’t believe I never knew about this. How did they keep this from me all these years?

“We decided we would never bring another helpless baby into the world again. The doctors felt certain that Joy had genetic issues we could pass on to other children, so we decided we would adopt instead.” She got up and pulled me to my feet.

“Maybe we were meant for each other. Your birth mother picked us. Out of all the families you could have gone to, she knew in her very young heart to let us be your parents. Adopting you saved our lives.” She squeezed my hands tightly in hers. “You healed our broken hearts. You gave us a family. We never wanted to burden you with our pain. We just tried to give you as normal a life as possible. But when you called us perfect, I couldn’t stay quiet. We’re so far from it. The best thing we have done is to raise a man like you.”

Tears fell down my mom’s face, and I wrapped my arms around her. “You’ve been incredible parents to me. I love you both so much, and I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Dad stood up and placed his hand on my shoulder. “The point of this conversation is simple. We’re human. We make mistakes. The key is to not make the same ones over and over again. If something goes wrong, you change course. Why don’t you think about changing your course? What could it hurt?”

Any time I’d ever followed their advice in the past, I had been happy. Why not? I had always imagined writing my own screenplay. I didn’t want to write some stupid love story or a ridiculous comedy about adult men acting like jackasses. No, I wanted my movie to make a difference. The type of film that challenged people to be better and do something. I wanted to change people’s lives. Now I just had to find that story.

The next day, I was channel surfing when a local news story caught my attention about the closing of institutions in Pennsylvania. I turned up the volume and paid close attention. These places still existed? My mind couldn’t keep up with the facts reported. Fifty years later, and no one had stopped this before now?

The crash of a dish made me jump. “Mom?” I turned and saw her staring at the television.

“That’s it. That’s Ravenwood.” She pointed at a brick building on the television screen. “I don’t believe it. After all these years, they’re finally closing that place. Thank God!” She sat down on the sofa and listened to the rest of the story.

“New Pennsylvania legislation was passed to protect those individuals with disabilities housed in these institutions. This comes on the heels of a Maryland reform generated by local advocate, Jack Atwater, who was murdered last November, just days before the closure of the last state-run facility.”

“What? He was murdered?” Mom stormed up to the television set, her hands balled into fists. “This is appalling. All he did was try to help a group of people with no voice of their own.” Her outrage resonated within me. Jack Atwater’s face appeared on the screen, followed by an undated photograph of him outside of a building. He was kneeling beside a young woman in a wheelchair with his hands wrapped in hers as they smiled for the camera. He appeared confident, at ease, and optimistic. This man was an advocate for people like Joy. How the hell did he end up murdered?

I needed to know more about this story. I felt something important here. Something about this man was different. I could feel it.

I stayed up all night, researching everything I could on institutions and then this Jack Atwater. I couldn’t find much on him other than some basic stuff. He was married and had three kids. From the looks of it, he was a good guy. A husband and a father who tried to do the right thing.

I rubbed my tired eyes, staring at a picture of him with his wife. My heart sank. He was just helping people with disabilities. Why didn’t I know about this?

I was hooked and needed to find out more. Jack Atwater. This was it.

I had my story.

I TIED MY shoes and bent over, touching my toes and stretching my calf muscles. My neighbor waved from across the street just like she did every day as she got into her car. I was a creature of habit. As soon as the boys left for school, I’d take off running.

I started jogging down my street. Never having been a runner, I was surprised I had fallen in love with running, but the morning after Jack’s funeral, I took off.

Looking around my kitchen, all I saw were casseroles. Chicken divan, Chicago chicken, chicken with rice. The smell of chicken overwhelmed me. The generosity of my family and friends was heartwarming, but also overwhelming. Today the boys were back at school, and I only wanted to be left alone.

I fingered the soft petal of an orchid that was delivered to the house. Yesterday was a blur. The one crystal clear memory that I had from the funeral was walking up the aisle of the church, holding Hayden and Grayson’s hands. Griffin had followed with a hand on my back, trying to assume the role of the man of our family. Time had stood still, and I felt like I had been on the outside looking in. I could see the petrified young widow. Blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, face pale, eyes bloodshot and sunken, grasping her children as onlookers broke down in sobs. I had ached to shield my boys from their cries.

I moved away from the orchid, staring at it with a sad smile. I walked over to the window and watched the autumn leaves blow across the grass. I silently prayed for Jack to once again be my hero. Protect me, watch over me, and guide me. To save our family. To bring them some happiness again. Questions consumed me. What would I do when our life insurance policy was gone? What career would I go back to? How would I take care of the boys by myself?

Thinking through these momentous issues, a pressure built inside my chest until I was about to explode. My heart and my brain raced. I had to get it out. I needed a release. The phone rang and I peeked at the caller ID. My mom. Again. If I stayed here, inside this house of memories, they would keep calling me. I wanted to pull my hair out. I wanted to scream. I wanted…to run.

I threw on a pair of shorts, a sports bra, and a t-shirt of Jack’s. I dug my ratty gym shoes out from the back of the closet and blew off the dust. Opening my front door, I bolted outside, running as fast as my legs would carry me.

I hadn’t enjoyed the feeling. I had doubled over, gasping for air. My leg muscles would tighten and cramp until I thought they’d snap off like the delicate strings of an over-tuned violin. But I had embraced the pain—because it was better than the numbness. And the feeling in my lungs and legs had been like the feeling in my heart. It was a familiar, comforting ache, and after time, I had craved both the physical challenge and the outlet.

Remembering that first freeing feeling, I turned left at the end of my street and sprinted, fresh September air filling my lungs as I drew in large breaths. Turning into a neighborhood, I slowed my sprint down to a pace I could maintain and allowed myself time when I didn’t have to worry about anyone else or how they felt about my emotions.

I hadn’t wanted my boys to see me crying day in and day out. I was determined that they wouldn’t see me falter any more than they already had after their father’s death. They were frightened of the violence that had ripped their dad from their lives. So at home, I kept my emotions in check.

When I ran, I sobbed until I could barely see and screamed when the wind would drown out my sounds. I would yell at God for taking away my best friend, and I would hold my stomach as the waves of nausea rolled over me, terrified that I wouldn’t be able to do this on my own.

I turned at the end of the court and headed toward home. This past summer, the first without Jack, had been especially devastating for the boys. At least now that they were back in school, they would be distracted some of the time. As for me, week after week was exactly the same. But every day for the last ten months, as I would finish my run—part release and part punishment—a calmness would come over me, and I would get it the fuck together. That was my mantra. I used that time to let go and then get it together for my boys. Running had saved me. I wasn’t running away, I was running to temper the misery, to be strong in the face of fear, and to be the person I needed to be.