The Freak Observer (5 page)

What a pretty smile.

The doctor didn't even tell my mom what she was looking for when she ordered the tests. The doctor didn't tell my mom because she didn't want to find the little messed-up genes hiding in Asta's blood sample.

Doctors have to do a lot of things that are terrible.

When the nightmares started, my parents said they would pass. Everyone has bad dreams. By April, though, my parents thought it might not be passing. My screaming in the night was making everybody edgy. So I started going to grief counseling at the clinic.

It was useful. The first day I went in, my mom made sure everyone was clear on the project. The insurance would pay for six visits. The plan was to get me fixed up in six hours or, if that wasn't quite possible, to make me stop screaming in the night.

. . .

The first visit I learned that there are some responses to grief that are pretty common: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance.

It isn't like baking a cake where you follow the recipe and get it done:

 

1) Heat the oven to Denial

2) Prepare the pan with a spray of Anger

3) Mix in two medium-size Bargains with The Bony Guy

4) Add 1/3 cup of Depression (tears will do if you want low fat)

5) Bake for 35 minutes, or until you can jab a toothpick in your arm and it seems Acceptable.

It isn't a recipe. Some people only experience a couple of those things. It isn't a recipe, but it worries me.

The way I see it, we were in denial for years. The clock started when we got the diagnosis: Rett syndrome.

It's a genetic mutation.

If genes are the assembly manual for a person, there were pages missing from Asta's book. While she was a baby, we were still in the earliest pages, the first little modules were in place, and everything seemed fine. Then, when it was time to bring more of the assembled pieces together, some important pages were missing. Without those pages, things start to fall apart. She stopped trying to stand up. She stopped crawling.

The doctors told us what to expect: Her body will grow, but it will never be hers. She will not walk. She will not talk. She will always wear diapers. It may become harder and harder for her to swallow.

It doesn't matter. She is still our Asta. We know how to take care of our baby. And we are going to do whatever it takes as long as it takes.

And maybe science will catch up. If we can only hold on long enough, the missing pages might be found. And we can help her start over again.

But science didn't catch up.

. . .

After all those years of fighting hard, we lost. Now we get drunk. We hit each other. When the truck won't start, we punch the windshield so hard the shatterproof glass breaks. Is this depression or anger? Are we going to spend ten years or twenty doing this shit?

And what about bargaining? Did we just miss that part? Or maybe Mom and Dad were striking bargains all the time with The Bony Guy. Then, finally, they were all out of chips. Asta died. The Bony Guy always wins. He doesn't even cheat. Nothing up his sleeve but his radius, ulna, and humerus. Nothing funny about that, ba-dum-bump.

. . .

On the second visit to the grief clinic, I talked about a dream:

I'm at the grade school and there is a dance in the room where we had rummage sales and showed movies and played dodgeball. The lights and windows have wire cages over them so when we throw balls at each other with lethal force we won't break any glass.

But we aren't playing dodgeball in the dream. It is a dance. Or maybe it is more of a cakewalk to raise money for the school. There is a circle of chairs, and they are all empty. The music starts and there are only two of us—just me and The Bony Guy dancing to the music.

It must be Halloween, because I am wearing a mask. So is The Bony Guy. He is a good dancer. He is a better dancer than I am and I'm going to lose the cakewalk. It is inevitable.

The music hasn't stopped, but I sneak out into the hall and then I push through the door into the playground. The moon is shining on the chains of the swings. I run across the road as fast as I can. The Bony Guy is smart and he will notice that I'm gone soon.

I cross a little creek. There is a board over it to make it easy. I could go to a house but I am sure The Bony Guy would know to look in there so I keep running. But then I see Asta. My dream-Asta is sitting by the water washing carrots. She looks like Little Red Riding Hood. I guess that is her Halloween costume. I try to tell her to run. The Bony Guy is coming. She has to run. Doesn't she see? She just keeps washing the carrots.

I give up and run away but I don't run far. There is a barn, a big old barn made out of squared logs with little tiny windows. There is a buffalo skull hanging over the door. I think it is hopeless to hide. The Bony Guy can find me if I hide. I need to keep running.

I know all that but I pull the door open and I try to hide in the barn. I find a window where I can watch Asta by the water. I see her. Then I blink, and she is gone.

The next time I blink The Bony Guy is standing beside me. I'm not scared. I'm just so tired.

And when I woke up, I was still tired.

It isn't the sort of dream people have when they finally get to magic-happy-acceptance land.

. . .

My very favorite thing I learned during counseling happened during my fourth session.

I was talking about my dog, Ket. I don't know why. Maybe the clinic counselor liked dogs, and I saw a little flicker of happiness on her face when I mentioned mine. Counselors don't tell you much about themselves. That is part of the therapy bargain.

Ket was great. He used to sit by Asta and just let her crazy hands do whatever they had to do. Sometimes her hands would go bonk-bonk-bonk on the top of his head. Sometimes her hands would pull out some hair. That dog was always patient and let it happen. Ket was such a good dog.

On winter nights, Ket would manage to get us all in one corner of the living room. He would just kind of lean against your legs until you budged. He was so patient. First, he would budge one of us in the right direction, then another of us. When he was done, we would all be together. Asta would be in the middle, and we would all be together. Then Ket would sort of flop on the floor and grunt like it had been hard work but worth it.

“Border collie personality disorder!” the counselor giggled. “You have border collie personality disorder! God! Don't tell anyone I said that!”

I wouldn't have told, but it is true. I do have border collie personality disorder. I would like to get everyone into one corner where I could keep an eye on them and then I could take care of them.

I'm not proud of it. It is a mental disease.

. . .

I give the clinic counselors credit for doing what could be done. They let me know it wasn't the end of the world. They told me I could work through it. They gave me what I needed—like a sleep guard to protect my teeth so I didn't grind them into bits. They taught me how to watch out for triggers—like the smell of Betadine. Then, when the six weeks were up, I said I was better. They did their best. I did mine. They said I should keep talking. They said that writing was also good, if I didn't have anyone to talk to. It didn't have to make sense, they told me. Just write like you are talking to someone who wants to listen. They told me to get lots of exercise. Finally, they offered me a prescription for antianxiety meds, but my mom said no to that.

I don't scream in the middle of the night.

I'm not sure that the clinic counselors would approve of my methods, but I don't scream in the night. I get exercise and I am writing, like they told me. But I do some other things too. When I have to, I stay awake all night and clean the bathroom grout.

And when I can get my hands on it, I drink. It sort of shuts things down, but it takes some care to reach the perfect level without getting sick. Then, when the depressing effects of the alcohol wear off, I wake up in the middle of the night, and it's almost impossible to get to sleep again. It isn't always easy to get anything to drink, so it is only an occasional solution. It's nothing I can rely on.

Preliminary thoughts on the Freak Observer:

I found a picture when I Googled “Freak Observer.”

Visualization of the problem is the first step.

I learned that the very first day of physics. Step 1: “Visualize”

Everything has been simplified to a purple cereal bowl sitting on the table of time and space. Inside the big bowl are other, tinier bowls. Each little bowl is a universe.

In a little blue bowl, there is a tiny Earth. The little blue cereal bowl is our visible universe.

There are many little naked brains floating in the big purple bowl. They look like little tan walnuts, the brains do. Some are curled like chicks inside the shells of little bowls, but others are just “out there” in nothing. Those little brains floating all alone are the Freak Observers.

Their job is to observe what we do not.

It must be frightening for the Freak Observer. It just pops into existence because it is hard for nature to make a whole universe. It is easier to create bits and pieces—a boot, a planet, a naked brain floating around in nothingness. It's just there, and it is conscious, so it observes and it remembers and it tries so hard to understand.

. . .

I wonder if Mr. Banacek thought much about Freak Observers before he wrote down the words and put the slip of paper in the extra-credit jar.

Honestly, this is not an ordinary physics problem.

“I need to find out . . .” I have no idea how to finish that sentence.

I wonder what Mr. Banacek thinks the right answer is.

Wondering what other people think is a dead end.

Even if they tell you, you can never be sure.

Especially, maybe, if they tell you.

Lies happen.

. . .

“Take care, Loa,” says the bus driver.

I swear, if I hear that shit one more time, I will not be responsible for my actions.

I know how to take care.

I can wash dishes, pull out slivers, sharpen a chainsaw, thaw out frozen pipes, pack a lunch, mop floors, serve five hot plates to a table, get poop stains out of little boy's underwear, and sterilize a nasogastric tube.

What do you want me to take care of?

Shall I stop the glaciers from melting?

How about malaria? For, like fifty cents, I can keep a family in Africa from dying of malaria.

If I get knocked around with a toilet plunger, does that mean somebody else doesn't? OK. It's a deal. I'm your girl.

I'll take care of it.

. . .

I trip up the stairs on the way to first period.

My stuff flies out of my bag and ricochets up, down, and sideway. Pens, calculator, idiotic index cards required for English: Kablooee! The stairs are crowded between classes. There I am, on my hands and knees. Nobody stops. Nobody bumps into me. Nobody even laughs. Nobody steps on my stuff. Nobody steps on my hands as I grab for my stuff and try to put things back in the bag.

I'm not invisible.

People just don't want to look at me.

A couple of my teachers won't call on me.

People don't want to see me anymore.

I used to be Corey's friend, and that was cool, but now I'm that dead girl's friend, and that is not cool. People used to smile and say, “Hey!” but now I'm like a pile of guts on the highway. Sure they see me, but they have places to go, and it would be weird and sick to stop and say, “What's up?”

. . .

Mr. Banacek brought an orrery to physics class this morning. It's like a clockwork model of the solar system. There are little metal spheres on little wire arms, and when you turn a little knob, the spheres travel through orbits. It's a gear-driven wonder that almost works most of the time. It needs a little push now and then to keep the solar system moving.

I love it.

It's pure beauty.

. . .