The Battered Heiress Blues - By Laurie Van Dermark Page 0,26
from the church take turns sitting with him from time to time when I have to work or run errands.”
“How old is he?”
“He’s four. He doesn’t speak yet, but I’m hopeful.”
“Do you mind if I…?”
“He has autism. He doesn’t communicate with words yet, but I have faith that we’ll find the right key to unlock his world one of these days. There are some promising therapies that may prove beneficial. I’m trying to educate myself.”
Not much had changed in the house. The walls were still a casual whitewash. Most of the same furniture still remained. We stopped in the kitchen.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Sure.”
I sat down on a stool while he busied himself brewing the coffee. The volunteer from church came in to speak to him, trying to ascertain when she’d be needed next. They reviewed his schedule, he thanked her, and she left. Mattie was in the living room, sitting on the floor alone, gently rocking back and forth while the television played cartoons. He left me briefly to hug his son, but he didn’t respond. Gabe looked sad, but quickly recovered and entered the kitchen composed.
“Cream and sugar?”
“Please.”
He poured coffee into the mugs and handed me the one that read ‘World’s Best Father.’
“Where’s his mom? Oh, sorry, that’s none of my business- it’s too personal. Really, I’m not fit for public company yet.”
“It’s okay. I don’t have any secrets. Oddly enough, it makes it more real to talk about it, you know? She left a year ago when it became clear that something was challenging our son. She couldn’t accept him like this. She wasn’t prepared for how she viewed him- as imperfect.”
“His own mom?”
“Don’t judge her too harshly. I’ve learned to accept her decision and just be thankful that she gave birth to such an extraordinary boy. Mattie is amazing. She’s the one missing out,” he replied, looking toward Mattie with love.
“How can you be so forgiving?” My face couldn’t hide the contempt I felt for a woman I had never met. I would have done anything to have my child with me and here she is, throwing her baby away, because he wasn’t perfect in her eyes. What a monster. I looked down at the half empty mug trying to compose myself. I felt bad for putting him on the defensive.
“Don’t misunderstand; I wasn’t always in this headspace. I was mad as hell a year ago, but I learned some very important truths about suffering.”
“Go on…” I was anxious to get a grasp on that teaching, considering this eternal state of being utterly pissed off with most everyone and everything.
“Suffering and punishment don’t necessarily go hand in hand. They’re not mutually exclusive. That mentality is a crock of shit; excuse my language.”
“What do you mean?”
“God is a loving God. He doesn’t look down one morning and decide to afflict a child with a disease, or in your case, take your son from you. It’s really kind of arrogant and self-centered to think that He derives satisfaction from our misery or has a need to stick it to us or teach us a lesson.”
“You’ve sure given this a lot of thought.”
“I was really angry at first, but what can you do with that emotion- it’s poison. It only harms you. My ex didn’t care that she was leaving me with a child. The world didn’t care that my son was sick. I didn’t see the point in being so pissed off after a month of feeling sorry for myself.”
“You don’t blame God- hold him accountable for your difficulties?”
“Man has some part in it- free will and all. We usually suffer because either we, or someone else, decided to exercise their free will to inflict pain or create disorder. And sometimes, shit happens-there’s absolutely no reason for it. Why are you so angry…unless you’d prefer not to discuss it?”
“I got my son killed.”
He felt uncomfortable with my answer and disengaged in the conversation. I needed to back-peddle.
“I’m sorry. That was too direct, wasn’t it? It’s just that we don’t know each other very well, yet, and it’s refreshing to speak openly about how I feel without having to edit. You don’t have any unrealistic expectations about my coping abilities since we’ve only just met. I can be mad at myself without you trying to convince me that someone else killed my son.”
“I read the article in the paper, Julia. You didn’t stab yourself.”
“No, but I put myself in the situation for that result to occur.”