Jamie's Rain

FEBRUARY

         I have only one photo in my wallet.
         It lies alone, surrounded by receipts from the coffee shop, unused credit cards, and an occasional business card.  The photo was shot a little more than a year ago, on the gravel driveway outside the house.  In the photo, my son, Jamie is caught in the act of stomping in a puddle outside the house, after a long rain, galoshes bright against the pavement.  I would have thrown it away along with the other photos, but I can’t bear to let this one go.  It is the last one I put in my wallet. 
The last one before everything changed.
         The photo whispers to me, as it always does, as I sit drinking coffee at the small corner diner.  I’ve been here since just before lunch, drinking coffee and watching the rain pour down outside the windows, running in long crystalline rivulets down the large glass pane next to me. I remember that Jamie had those red and black galoshes with the look of a ladybug, in which he would go around stomping in puddles singing “Rain, Rain, Go Away,” over and over as if the refrains could really make the rain stop.  Whenever it was raining, Jamie insisted upon spending precious minutes of our day stomping around and belting out the song at the top of his lungs. 
        I shake myself free of the memory.  As I stare out the window, the streets and sidewalks of Rooster Crow -- a town which I chose for its remoteness as much as its name -- are shiny with rain and completely empty.  The town reminds me of an abandoned mining town in some ways, lonely and empty most of the time, with the exception of the local bar, aptly titled “Y’all Come Back Bar.” Rooster Crow is a town long past its prime, wallowing in alcohol stills and trailers.  Never in my life did I imagine myself here.
         “More coffee, hon?”  The coffee shop’s only waitress pauses next to me.  Her brown hair is short and curly, more a frizzy jumble than defined curls, and her brown eyes are painted with startlingly green eye shadow.  Despite coming here every day for a month, we've only spoken a dozen times.  I don’t know her name, or how old she is.  Somewhere between forty and sixty, I imagine, studying her.  I like to think of her as “Alice”, like the TV show, and in my mind that will always be her name.
         I nod at her question, moving the thick-rimmed white cup a little to the side for her to pour.  Despite the fact that I am the only customer int he diner, the glass decanter is very nearly full with dark brown, steaming liquid, which pours out in a quick wave, splashing a little on the table in front of me.  She made a fresh pot of coffee, just for me.  The thought makes me feel guilty.  I glance up at her, meeting her eyes for the first time today. 
         Alice takes my look for an invitation, and slides into the booth across from me, setting the coffee pot down on the melamine table and lighting a cigarette.  She puffs and thoughtfully blows the smoke away from me.          
        “Rough night? she asks.  I am immediately self conscious of the dark circles under my eyes, and the kinks in my hair. 
         “Yeah,” I tell her.  “I miss him, but I’m afraid to go back.”
         She nods again, a gesture of understanding, and stubs out the cigarette in a glass ashtray.
         “Yeah,” is all she says.  I wonder if she doesn’t know what to say, or if she doesn’t really care.
         “My son, Jamie” I say, in explanation, the first time that I have ventured to tell anyone about him.  I stare at the table, cradling the cup in my hands.  “He's five...no, six by now.  I left him behind when I came here.  Like he meant nothing.”
         Alice raises her penciled eyebrows.  “I have a grandchild that I’ve never seen.  My daughter, his mother, moved away before he was born, and now they live in California.  It’s too far to go there, and she doesn’t come here.”
         She looks me over, an evaluative gaze that piques my curiosity.  “I was wrong about you,” she says finally.  “I thought you had run away from a man.”
         She’s not far from wrong, but I don’t tell her that.  I don’t really want to tell anyone about Jack, my husband, though the pain of the memory of him has receded a little, like the ocean at low tide.
         “Why doesn’t your daughter come here?”
         Alice shrugs.  The uniform is a bit too tight, and the buttons across her chest pull a little.  “She’s angry with me,” she says, quietly, lighting another cigarette.  “Rightly so.  Her daddy came near to killing me once or twice.  I never told the cops anything cause I didn’t want them to put him in jail.  He used to beat Stevie, too – that’s my daughter – just like his daddy used to beat him.  At least, that’s what he told me.  He was good man, just ruined by the alcohol.  Dead now of liver disease.  Stevie blamed me, I think, for letting him beat her.  She got pregnant at 15 and ran away to California.”
         I stare at her, not sure what to say.
         Alice stands, cigarette in her hand.
         “Go home,” she says.

*************************************

EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER

         “Jamie, how many times do I have to tell you to let Lily go?”  The question was rhetorical, and I hurried over to free the squalling ball of feline fur from the grasp of my four-year-old, before she scratched him with knife-sharp claws in her attempts to escape his too-tight embrace.  As I plunked the cat from Jamie’s grasp, Jamie let out a high-pitched screech, throwing himself down on the rug.
         “I jutht wanted to hold her!” he wailed loudly.  “I wuv her, mommy!”
         He did love her in his way, but it was how he showed his love that was the problem.  I set the cat gently on the floor, allowing her to slink into my bedroom, presumably to hide under my bed.
         “But you can’t squeeze her like that, Jamie,” I told him, trying to lift his squirming body from the floor.  I growled under my breath as he kicked me in the arm, then lifted him to his feet, only to have him throw himself down again, still wailing.
         I gave up, resignedly leaving Jamie to his tantrum.  Walking into the kitchen, I hitched up the towel and started to pour myself a cup of coffee when the phone rang.
         “Hello?”  I turned away from the screaming mass of red hair and freckles, hoping that the person on the other end couldn’t hear him.
         “Hi, Sarah, it’s Mom.”
         My mother.  Her timing was impeccable, I thought as I glanced at the clock.  Already 7:30.  I’d be late for work if we didn’t get out of here soon.
         “Hey, Mom, what’s up?”
         “I wanted to let you know that your Dad and I are heading to Savannah this weekend, in case you need anything.  Is Jack home this week?”
         “No, he’s in Atlanta until Sunday.”
         My mother huffed, telling me in that one sound everything that she thought about Jack’s traveling.  I rolled my eyes, glad that she couldn’t see me.
         “Well, I hope he’ll be home soon.  I suppose that it’s his job,” she informed me, “but it’s just not right to be abandoning your family like this.”
         “He’s not abandoning us,” I told her testily, irritated with her constant criticism of Jack.  In the bedroom down the hall, the cat began to yowl again, and I turned to find Jamie missing.  Damn it.  “He’s regional sales manager.  The traveling comes with the job.”  I didn’t tell her that I thought it would be nice to have Jack home once in a while, and in fact, he’d been gone so often and so long recently that I had begun to wonder if it wasn’t intentional on his part. 
         “Jamie, leave the cat alone!  Look, Mom, I have to go, okay?  I’m not dressed and I’m going to be late for work.”
         “You’re not dressed?  What have you been doing this morning?”
         Talking to you, I thought uncharitably, rubbing my forehead with my fingers.  “Jamie’s having a bad day.  I need to go.  I’ll talk to you later.  Love you!”  Without waiting for her to answer, I hung up the phone and stalked down the hall to once more free the cat from Jamie’s loving embrace.
         Thirty minutes later, I hustled Jamie out of the car and into the day care center where he had been staying for the last two weeks.  Smoothing my still-damp hair back, I walked purposefully up to the counter to check him in.
         “Hi, Jamie Newton is here.  Can I sign him in?”
         The girl behind the desk, a teenager with straight blond hair and a heart-shaped face, smiled brilliantly up at me and reached for the sign-in book.  Flipping it open, she started to hand it to me and then stopped, studying the tiny note scribbled in red ink next to Jamie’s name before glancing up at me.
         “I’m sorry,” she said in a voice that was anything but sorry, “there’s a note here that Mrs. Eggert wants to speak with you.  Can you wait just a moment?”
         Linda Eggert, the owner and administrator of the day care, had been trying to speak with me for nearly a week, and I wasn’t about to let her do it now.  I bit my lip in frustration and stepped back from the counter.
         “I’m so late…Amanda, is it?  I’m really very late for work, perhaps I can speak with Mrs. Eggert a little later.”  I bent quickly down to kiss Jamie, who immediately wrapped his arms around my leg, trying to keep me from leaving.  I pried his fingers free and peeled him away from me.
         Behind me, Amanda watched us over the high counter, already dialing the phone.
         I had to get out of there, before Mrs. Eggert showed up.  Jamie was now screaming, tears running down his tiny face, as I leaned down to try to release him again.
         “Let go, Jamie, mommy needs to go,” I told him, a little too loudly.  He just grabbed on tighter, and in desperation I wrenched his arms loose, stepping over his tiny thrashing body, with freedom just in front of me.
         “Mrs. Newton?”
         The voice behind me was authoritative, and I turned to find a plump woman behind me, wearing navy slacks and a white blouse, her platinum hair pulled severely back from her face.  Her facial expression was the kind that you give to someone who has just discovered that they have cancer – that little tilt of the head, the expression of concern – and I knew what it meant.  I had seen it before. 
         Resigned, I picked up Jamie and cradled him close to me as I followed Mrs. Eggert into her office.  Jamie quieted almost immediately, and commenced sucking on his big toe.  I wondered vaguely where his shoe had gone as I sat down in a brown leather chair with Jamie nestled on my lap, hugging his limp body tightly.
         Mrs. Eggert folded her hands on the desk in front of her.  “Mrs. Newton,” she began, looking at Jamie, and not at me.  “I think this is not working for us.”
         I felt my stomach clutch at her words.  Not again.  My mouth was so dry that I felt like I had swallowed cotton. 
        “Why?  I thought he had settled down in Miss Angie’s class.”
         Mrs. Eggert was already shaking her head.  “No, not really.  He kicked Miss Angie yesterday, then hit another little boy in the face with a toy.  We’ve tried time out, and switching classes, but we can’t have him hitting the other children.  The parents are starting to get upset.  We just don’t have the resources here for him.”
         “No one does,” I said desperately.  “I really thought that of everyone, you would be able to help him.  I have to work, and I just don’t have any other options.”
         “I’m sorry,” she said.  I wanted to hate her, but I couldn’t, seeing the real remorse in her eyes.  “This just isn’t working for anyone.  He needs one-on-one attention, and that’s not fair to the other children.  I can give you until Friday, but he can’t come back next week.”
         Friday.  I had three days to find someone to care for him.  The prospect was daunting: with Jack traveling constantly, most of my time was eaten up by work and by Jamie, and the majority of the good day cares – the ones that Jamie hadn’t already plowed his way through over the last twenty months, that is – had long waiting lists. 
         The thought sent me into a panic.  “Mrs. Eggert…Linda…what should I do?  I don’t know why he’s so aggressive.  It seems like he just doesn’t understand.” 
         Linda shook her head, sighing, as she watched Jamie suck on his toe.  “Have you talked to his pediatrician?” she asked. 
         “What?  No, I haven’t really.  It’s not like he’s sick or anything.  What are you saying?”
         “I’m not saying anything.”  She picked up a round paperweight containing an image of colorful stick-figure children holding hands around the world, and rubbed the smooth glass with her thumb.  “He’s behind in his social growth, though, and there are just some things that aren’t right.”
         “Like what?”
         She glanced sharply at me.  “Like the aggression,” she said, pointedly.  “And how he covers his ears with his hands and screams when we ring the outside bell, and how he over reacts when someone touches him.  And he’s always trying to spin, or swing, or jump.  He needs a lot of sensory input.  I just think it would help to have him evaluated.” 
         Linda Eggert hesitated, then set the paperweight down.  She reached for a pencil and tore a sticky-note off the purple pad in front of her.
         “I’m no expert in this, Sarah,” she said quietly, dropping her formal tone.  “As I said, it may be that Jamie’s development is normal, if a little bit behind.  But all of my experience is telling me that something is not quite right.”  She handed me the sticky-paper, on which she had written, in precise, teacher-letters “Dr. Joseph Abramson”, along with a local phone number.
         “Dr. Abramson is a specialist in child development,” she continued.  “I’ve known him for a few years, and I think you should see him.  You can tell him that I sent you.”
         I stood, clutching the paper, and wondering what to do.  I had to call Jack.  I had to get to work before they fired me.  I bent to kiss Jamie on his cheek, but he turned away, as he did so often, trying to avoid my touch.  The tears began to spill as I handed him quickly to Linda, and I left the room without a backward glance.

************************************

      Six weeks later, I sat on the edge of my king-size bed, staring down at the grayish path that had been worn into the beige carpet.  My nose was running and I wiped it with the back of my hand, not bothering to get up for another tissue.   
      Jack sat across from me in the desk chair, his khaki pants perfectly cleaned and pressed, his white shirt starched and buttoned nearly to his neck, one new brown loafer crossed over his knee.
      “So now what?” he asked finally, rubbing a finger over his lip.
      “I don’t know,” I admitted.  I could feel the slump in my shoulders, the scratching under my eyelids from crying.  “The school district has some sort of early intervention program for developmentally atypical children, that’s four hours a day.  After that, I don’t know.”
      Jack eyed me steadily with blue eyes very nearly the color of the blue sweet peas growing in the garden.
      “Developmentally atypical?” he said, doubtfully.  “He’s not atypical, Sarah, or disabled.  Jamie has been reading since he was three.  Other than the lisp, he doesn’t have any language delays.  I won’t have some school administrator labeling him for the rest of his life.”
      “The doctor says…” I began.
      “The doctor can kiss my ass,” he said loudly, cutting me off.  He stood to pace, and I watched his loafers trace the worn path in the carpet.
      “That’s mature,” I said, bitterly.  He stopped in front of me.
      “What’s that supposed to mean?”
      I laughed shortly.  “A specialist says that he has pervasive developmental disorder, Jack.  It’s autistic spectrum.  He’s not neurotypical.”
      “I hate that word, ‘autistic’,” Jack said.  He planted his hands on his hips.  “He’s smart, Sarah, and this doctor is wrong.  He’s not autistic, he’s brilliant and different.”
      “Different?  Jack, we’ve been through five nannies.  He needs one-on-one attention.  I don’t like it any more than you do.”
      He shook his head at me.  “Yeah, right.  Like quitting your job, after we agreed that you need to work.  I think you like the way things are.”
      I felt the color drain from my face.  “What?”
      “Look at you.  You don’t want to work.  I’m trying to build up a career here, and we don’t make enough without your salary.  That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?  That you won’t look for another job, or only work part time?”
      That had been what I was thinking.  But not for the reasons he was implying.  I could feel the anger beginning to rise.
      “That’s not fair,” I said, tightly.  “My boss gave me an ultimatum: quit, or get fired for missing so much time.  I told you that.  How am I going to work if Jamie can’t stay in day care, and we can’t find a nanny, and you’re never here…”
      “So that’s it?” Jack said, his voice rising.  “This is my fault because I can’t be home all the time?  You know how hard I work and yet here you are, accusing me--”
      “This is not about fault--”
      “Yeah, right,” he said, interrupting me angrily.  He began pacing again, occasionally pinning me with a sharp glance.  “No fault, that’s rich.  You’re home with him much more than I am.  You need to discipline him better, and then he’d get in line.”
      Me?  This was about me?  Humiliated and furious, I jumped to my feet in front of him, an admittedly aggressive gesture that put us chest to chest. 
      “How dare you say that to me?  This isn’t about discipline, it’s about a developmental disorder.”
      “No it’s not,” he said loudly, leaning toward me.  “This is about discipline.  He needs a good spank on the bottom.  He needs to know who’s boss.  If he did, we wouldn’t be discussing this.”
      “A spank on the bottom?  You want me to teach him not to hit by hitting him?”
      Jack clenched his fists, leaning closer to me, and I took a step back.  We stared at each other for a long moment.  Then he stepped back as well, and deliberately unclenched his fists.  I felt relieved, for reasons I was afraid to acknowledge.
      “I was spanked when I got out of line, not all the time, but enough that I learned where the line was.  It’s what Jamie needs.  He’d learn not to hit really quickly.”
      I shook my head.  “I told you, I won’t hit him.  It won’t help.  Besides, do you think I’ve spent so much time with Dr. Abramson, because all Jamie needs is discipline?”
      Jack was silent for a long time.  He moved to peer out through the partially-opened blinds that blocked the light from streaming through the window. 
      “I don’t know,” he said, finally.  He rubbed his face with a hand, pulling at his nose like he did when tired.  “I just don’t want him labeled.  I don’t think it will be good for his future, for college.”
      I didn’t bother to point out to him that we had no idea, right now, if Jamie would ever go to college.  The diagnosis made two weeks earlier by Dr. Abramson, after a month of observation and testing, was probable but still uncertain as a result of Jamie’s age.  While most disorders wouldn’t stop Jamie from achieving what other children achieved, only time would tell what Jamie would be able to accomplish.
      “I can’t do this,” Jack said suddenly.  He turned to face me.  “I work like a dog, Sarah.  I can’t deal with this too.”
      I stared at him.
      “I think we should separate for a while.  I’ll still see Jamie, but I think you and I need a break.”
      I couldn’t breathe.  I felt the hairs on my head prickle with controlled emotion, the sweat trickling down my back under my white t-shirt.
      “You’re kidding,” I said.  My lips felt too big, and numb.
      “No.”
      I scrambled around inside my head and tried to find something to say.  How had this become about Jack?  How could he even contemplate leaving now?
      And then my mind went to all of the weekends Jack had traveled on business, all of the Friday nights that he hadn't come home, all of the Saturday golf tournaments with clients, all of the early Sunday flights.  I didn't want to believe what I thought I could see right before my eyes.  I felt my face heat up, as my heart beat faster in my chest and my stomach roiled with nausea.
      “Who is she?  How dare you...”
      Jack blinked, clearly surprised.  “Who--”  Then he had the grace to look away...and not deny it.
      I ignored the question, trying to get him to look at me.  He looked everywhere else.
      “God, I’m sorry, Sarah” he said, softly.  “Things are so hard here, with Jamie, and you’re never happy, and I just…I never meant…”
      “What?  You never meant to cheat on me?  You never meant to stab me in the back?  Tell me what you never meant.”
      “I never meant to fall in love with someone else.”
      And then his eyes met mine, and I knew it was true.  He was in love with another woman.
      Oh, God.
      I got slowly to my feet, blinded by tears and shaking with anger.  My palms hurt, as my fingernails dug deep into my skin, and I looked around the room searching.  There is nothing left for me, I thought.  My husband is gone, my child is gone, and I have nothing left.  I grabbed the ivory vase with the cut-out hearts, a wedding gift, which sat on the dresser next to me, and threw it as hard as I could at him as I let out a long screeching wail.  Jack ducked.  The vase hit the wall nearly two feet to his left, leaving a small dent and shattering into tiny pieces.
    “You bastard!”  I slid my feet roughly into my worn clogs and left him there, a dark shadow silhouetted against the bright August sunlight filling the window.

*************************************

NOVEMBER 3

Dear Mom and Dad:

I have started to write this letter so many times.  Each time, I have written just a sentence or two, and then stopped again, not knowing what to say.  Finally I just had to get something down on paper.

I am leaving.  I’m sorry, I just don’t know what else to do.  I can’t stay here any longer.  All I do is cry, every time I think of Jack, or Jamie.  I feel like I am in a deep, dark hole with no way out.  I have nothing good to give Jamie, and he deserves everything good.  It’s been three months since Jack left, three months that I have been trying to do the right thing.  Three months of dealing with school, and trying to work part time to pay the bills.  Three months of doctors and therapists, of failed play dates and the judgmental looks that people give me in the grocery store or at school or at the park.  I’ve seen it in your eyes, too.  You think that I need to discipline Jamie better.  I have begun to doubt myself.  I don’t know what to do.

Perhaps that’s why I did what I did.

A few days ago, I received the divorce papers.  I was so angry, and so upset.  Here I am, dealing daily with Jamie and lack of money and stress and sadness, while Jack lives in relative peace in another state, with another woman.  So when Jamie grabbed the cat again, and pulled her tail, I hit him.  Not just once, but three times. 

What’s wrong with me? Why do I hate myself?  Why do I hate Jack, and Jamie?  I can’t get past the hating.  The only thing that I want to do is hit.  And Jamie is the only one here to hit.  I’m afraid of what is happening to me, of these terrible feelings that I have inside.  I really am afraid that I will hurt Jamie. 

Please take care of Jamie.  Jack won’t.

Sarah

*****************************************

APRIL

      I stand on the wrap-around porch of the white and black two-story house, listening to the echo of the doorbell die away.  I recognize the car in the driveway, a black mustang with a convertible top. 
      I wait a few seconds, shaking a little with nerves, but nothing happens.
      Oh, no, I think.  They’re not home.  After all this time, and all the effort it took to come here, they aren’t home, and I will never get up the courage again, please God, I can only do this once, I don’t think I can do it again…
      To my relief, just then the door opens a crack.  A woman appears there, petite and red-haired.  Her eyes are suspicious, and her mouth opens once and then shuts as she looks me over. 
      “You’re looking for Jack?”
      I nod, not trusting my voice.  She knows who I am.
      “I’ll get him.  Wait here.”
      She doesn’t say anything more, just steps back and shuts the door.  I turn my back on the door as well, gazing out over the front yard, with its tidy grass and single magnolia tree.  Just how Jack would like it, I think, very precise and very sparse.  Where my little Florida house is overrun with native flowers in beds – tangles of alamanda and lantana and passion vine – this house has nothing to make it stand out from the other houses in this big expensive community of big houses with big perfect lawns.
      Jack wants to be just like everyone else.  He doesn’t want to stand out.  The realization gives me courage, even as the front door opens again.
      He looks just as he had when I had last seen him, eight months earlier.  Khaki shorts, light blue t-shirt that set off the color of his eyes, brown loafers.  Looking at him, I wonder what happened to “til death do us part.”  I still love him, but I hate him as well.
      “Sarah.  What are you doing here?”
      “I came to bring you these.”  I hand the divorce papers to him, completed and signed.  He takes them from me and aligns the edges before looking at me.
      “Finally decided to surface, huh?”
      I shrug.  “I wasn’t the only one to run away,” I say.  His gaze flickers away to his shoes.  “But at least I had the courage to come back.”
      A muscle in his jaw flexes but he doesn’t reply, so I get to the point.  “I’ve hired a lawyer.  I want child support and alimony so I can work part time.  And I want the house taken off the market.”
      He shakes his head.  “You can’t afford the house.”
      “But you can,” I say quietly.  “I think you make more money than you let on to me,” I continue, looking pointedly around the neighborhood, “so you can help me with the house.  Jamie needs security, and you can at least give him that.”
      To my surprise, Jack doesn’t argue with me.  I hope that he at least feels guilty for what he has done, enough not to argue over the money.
      “And one more thing.”  I wait for him to finally meet my eyes.  “I want you to promise that no matter what, you won’t abandon Jamie.”
      He opens his mouth and then closes it, almost in perfect imitation of the woman who opened the door a few minutes earlier.  “I would never abandon Jamie.  He’s my son.”
      I point to the papers.  “You just did.  But he needs you, and I want you to promise that you’ll still see him.”
      “That’s not an issue,” he says, a little more forcefully than necessary.  I just nod and turn away.
      “Sarah, I…I’m sorry.”
      I don’t respond, because I know he really is sorry, and that he hasn’t so much fallen out of love with me, as he has fallen out of love with our situation and with our lives.  It is easier to start over, than it is to face the difficulties head on.
      I chuckle humorlessly to myself.  Poor Jack, in his attempt to escape and start over, he has chosen a woman who could be me: same red-auburn hair, same blue eyes, same slight build.  When she opened the door, it had been like looking in a mirror.  Except that she is new, and not worn by cares. 
      I get into the Jeep without looking back as it starts to rain, wanting nothing more than to see Jamie and his galoshes again.