Blame Game

As the oldest of four girls, I heard the question, “Who did this?”, a lot. “Where did that come from?” ran a close second, but never knocked “Who did this?” out of first place.

The question, of course, always led to pointing fingers and defensive whines. The words “…but she…” were thrown around quite a bit. I’m not saying those fingers were usually pointed at me…but my mother would.

Fast forward lots of years. It’s the late 80’s. MTV still played music videos and John Bradshaw was the darling of public television. Mr. Bradshaw wrote a book called “Healing The Shame That Binds You”, among others. He was featured prominently during pledge week. At the time, I was hoarding quarters in hopes of collecting enough to buy a box of Hamburger Helper, but I often dreamed of pledging and, when I did, I determined to do the magnanimous thing. I’d tell them to keep their silly old umbrella.

Bradshaw fascinated me for a number of reasons. He was good looking for one. And he had a great voice; a voice a father would have if you had that kind of father. You know the kind; the kind whose lap was yours for the taking, the kind that listened, the kind that comforted.

No, I didn’t have that kind either.

The thing I remember most when thinking of John Bradshaw, besides his delicious shock of salt and pepper hair, is the mobile. That’s what sucked me in, really; it was a simple thing. It might even have been made from a clothes hanger. Family members, represented by shapes cut from shiny paper, dangled from it. Bradshaw used the mobile to demonstrate that instability in one family member threw everyone else off balance. With a flick of his finger, he’d send one paper doll spinning. The rest followed suit in a crazy chaotic dance that demonstrated it didn’t matter who jumped first; in the end they were all hopelessly tangled up in their own strings.

Everyone loves a good whodunit…Who was the last one here? Who took the last paper towel? Who left the seat up? Who spilled the tea? Who moved the remote control? Who left the window down? And the classic…who let the dogs out?

Our society’s obsession with blame is the main reason I no longer talk politics. It’s impossible to make a comment, no matter how innocuous, without someone borrowing from my sisters and I; “But, he…”, “But, she….”, “But, they…” And we all know what happens next.

Mom gets the switch.

She never seemed to notice, but I did. Nothing good ever came from getting a switch. Despite her admonitions to the contrary, there was always lots of crying and, afterwards, Mom was red-faced and sweaty. We didn’t stop doing what she didn’t want us to do, we just did it better, more quietly, and with a heightened sense of accomplishment.

As the rare liberal living and working in a red sea of Bible-based Republicans, I’ve kept my head down since the partial government shut-down. (Even typing those words feels ridiculous…but I digress.) You can hear better with your head down, and what I hear is a lot of blaming. The paper dolls are dancing, and everyone is so busy pointing out who jumped first that no one noticed Mom going for the switch.

Maybe Ken Fisher watched John Bradshaw too. Fisher is the chairman of the Fisher House Foundation. On Wednesday, Fisher House committed to providing death benefits and transportation to family members of soldiers killed in the line of duty. Ken Fisher didn’t ask “who”. He kept his fingers to himself and, instead of muddying the waters with feckless accusations; he provided a solution to a problem caused by lesser men with bigger titles and lots to lose.

You can learn more about Fisher House Foundation here: http://www.fisherhouse.org/

Photo credit: http://www.diabetesmine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/pointing-finger.jpg

Seen With Joy

I see him in you sometimes.

He lives in yours eyes,

behind your brow,

and in the bridge of your nose where it crinkles when you grin.

He comes with joy.

Last First

Tonight, at 10:36 pm, exactly one year will have passed since I received the news that my son, Trey, was dead.

Within minutes I had my first conversation with a county coroner.

Within the hour, two policemen stood on my front porch. I’d never had policemen on my front porch before.

Two days later I wrote my first obituary.

And, the next day I designed a funeral program for the first time.

Five days after the call came in, I greeted the first guests to arrive at the first funeral I’d ever arranged for one of my children.

Despite never having done so before, my brother-in-law led the service beautifully.

Afterwards I hosted my first wake.

Friends and family, anxious to express their sympathy, appeared at my door; some for the first time.

Eight days after my son died, I returned to work from bereavement leave. I’d never taken bereavement leave before. I’d never been so bereaved.

A couple of days later I made my first request for a copy of my son’s death certificate.

The following Wednesday, my oldest son visited the sheriff’s department for the first time to collect his brothers “personal effects”.

Easter was the first family gathering that didn’t include Trey.

Several weeks later, we maintained our tradition of having a combined birthday party for both Trey and his older brother. For the first time, Trey didn’t attend.

Not since before my youngest was born had I celebrated Mother’s Day with just three children.

On September 1^st, I spent my birthday knowing that, for the first time, I could never have the only thing I really wanted.

For the first time in decades, I served Thanksgiving dinner without having to answer the question, “Are there any onions in here?”

As Christmas neared, I realized that for the first time in years I wouldn’t need to order that expensive chili water from Hawaii. I hadn’t anyone to give it to.

For the first time since 1997, I placed Christmas gifts for only three children under our tree and, during our Christmas party, no one visited the dessert table before dinner was served.

This past Sunday I didn’t watch The Oscars on television. It was the first time I’d missed watching since I was a kid. The last time I watched, I had to pause the show to answer the telephone. It was February 26^th at 10:36 pm.

Today is the one year anniversary of my son’s death.

There will never be another one year anniversary.

There will be another first.

This is the Last First.

Mixed Blessings

2013 started out gray. 2012 ended the same way. For most of the last week the skies have been heavy, bloated, on the verge of crying. I know this feeling. I spent a good portion of last year feeling this way.

I don’t like to hear someone say “This day can’t be over soon enough!” or “I wish it was Friday already!”. Ask my son how many times he’s heard me say “Don’t wish your life away!”.

And yet, as I sit at my desk watching the first few drops of rain ping one leaf at a time on their way down, I am aware of a sense of relief that a new year has begun, that the old one is finished, and that we’ve careened past yet another milestone no more damaged than we were going in. And, I am grateful.

Thanksgiving was different; not bad, not difficult, just different. Christmas was different, too…a little sadder, and angry, but not in a fierce way. Angry in a wistful way. Wistful as in “Isn’t it a shame he chose not to be here?” Because, he did. Trey chose not to have Christmas with us. And we know how to do Christmas! We have great Christmases! I don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to be here…

There are lots of things I don’t understand.

I don’t understand why a general practitioner happily rewrites a middle-aged woman’s Zoloft prescription for months on end, but when that same woman suggests her adolescent son might also benefit from anti-depressants, he refuses without listening and looks at her as though she should be ashamed.

I don’t understand a therapist who, after several unsuccessful attempts at getting an obviously troubled teenager to open up, dismisses his mother with “You’re wasting your money and my time. Don’t bring him back until he’s willing to talk.”, or a high school counselor who, upon being alerted by a classmate that a student is cutting himself, shakes her head at the parent saying “We simply can’t have that here.”, as though mental illness is somehow catching and another kid will see his scars and think them cool and before you know it everyone is cutting.

Anyone who tells you mental illness carries no stigma never tried to get help for a disturbed child.

I do understand, though, the horror inherent in the realization that the weapon-wielding monster might have been my son and the ever-present fear that the next time he might not be pulled over before crossing the center line.

My son is dead but he didn’t take anyone with him. I understand that. And, I am grateful.

I am told that the black hole in my memory where last January and most of February used to be is normal. I likened the space to a blank chalkboard when describing it to my therapist who agreed that the missing chunk of time may, indeed, contribute to my feeling that every moment since is a do-over.

In one of those moments, several weeks after I began seeing her, I realized parts of me I hadn’t missed are back. My wounds are healing, as all wounds do, by reclamation. The “skin” has grown back, not as new skin but as a continuation of the old, only better, stronger, scarred and thus resilient. I like her, the woman I am becoming; the one I was before but newer, stronger, with a chance to be better.

That is his gift.

He always did that. He always brought me gifts. From the time he was very small, if he went outside, he came back in with pockets full of rocks and handfuls of dandelion heads. He was sure every rock was a gem. And they were. I kept them all.

At Thanksgiving last year he brought me bird’s nests to add to my collection. He frequently came across them in his work and saved them for me. Some were square, as though formed inside a box. Some were round and tiny. And one had parts of blue eggshell inside.

And he wrote me notes like the one I found a few weeks ago while cleaning out a file cabinet.

Thank you so much from all of us. Without you I/we would be nothing. In my whole 21 years you have never let me down. You are absolutely without question the best mom in the world. I love all you guys with all my heart.

Thank you.

Love, Trey

Warm Whispers

I have a thing for sleepwear. I like cotton nightgowns, silk nightshirts and girly pajamas. I own six bathrobes; one of them purported to be “The Softest Robe Ever”. It’s soft, alright. It’s also very fluffy, and putting it on makes me feel like a lavender-hued Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I hold on to it for those two or three days a year when the temperature dips so low that warmth trumps frump.

Two of my robes are girly. The silky peach one channels Hedy Lamarr. The sheer black one was an impulse purchase from a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. It has bright pink feathers at the collar and cuffs. I’ve never worn it. But you never know…

The red robe is short, made of cotton and features a very large dragon embroidered down the back. It’s one of my favorites. Depending on my mood while wearing it, I either feel like a prize fighter or a naughty Geisha.

The black one is heavy and hooded and used to belong to a man. It’s a Bill Blass. 1998 was a very good year.

The one I wear is flannel and plaid, tartan plaid, in blues and greens. I remember tearing open the Christmas wrap covering the box it came in, and looking around to see what my sisters’ robes looked like. For several years, since we all had married, my mother bought four of the same thing in different colors. One year it was sweaters. Mine was beige. Have you seen me? Well you can’t if I wear beige.

Blue and green are not my colors either. I’m more a red and black or, better yet, a turquoise and silver kind of girl. And plaid? Honey, please…

And yet, that’s the robe I wear. I take care to make sure it hangs on the outside of the hook so that in the morning, as I stumble out of my bedroom and into the bathroom, I can grab it without thinking.

This morning I noticed a hole…a slice really…in the back. The fabric around the slice was thin, very thin; thin enough to make me wonder if the slice wasn’t really a tear; a surrender to time. The discovery inspired me to inspect further. As it turns out, there are lots of holes, some of them bigger than others.

But, you would expect that in a 30 year old robe.

This morning, as I drew the robe around me, I felt her.

I imagined her hands on the robe, as she chose it, as she wrapped it, and the image comforted me.

“It’s going to be alright.”, Mom whispered. “You’ll be fine. He’s here with me, you know. Your boy is here with me.”

Learner’s License

My 15-year old is learning to drive. Even as we walked into the DMV to get his learner’s license, I couldn’t imagine sitting in the passenger seat while he piloted my vehicle; my new vehicle, my favorite-car-in-the-whole-wide-world that, even after nine months, boasts bonafide “new car smell”. Just the thought of it made me all jumpy inside. So, I didn’t think of it.

I supplied Shane with a Georgia Driver’s Manual a couple of months before his 15^th birthday. He rifled the pages with his thumb, barely concealing his humor at the thought that he might actually READ the book. However, after pulling an all-nighter with his best friend who had tested several months before and therefore “knew what he was talking about”, Shane scored a 95 on the exam; a fact of which he apprised me even before flashing his paper license.

Though I hadn’t paid attention as we drove in, driving out I realized this particular branch of the DMV was situated at one end of an otherwise abandoned strip mall, meaning the only cars parked were the ones directly in front of the office. In the kind of fit of spontaneity I’m known for, I parked the car and motioned for Shane to change places with me. To his credit, and possibly because it’s not the first time his mother has had some kind of hare-brained notion that required his participation, he jumped out, ran around and slid underneath the wheel as though it were home.

I took the liberty of installing a few virtual stop signs along our route, just to give him practice, as we took several turns around the parking lot. Twice, a car piloted by a “real” driver took advantage of the landlord’s misfortune, by cutting across the painted lines on its way in or out. We both froze. Fortunately, Shane froze on the brake. I took this as a good sign.

We’ve been out several times since then. He’s still a little heavy on the gas when first starting out and corners are a bit tricky, but we did manage to traverse a rather scary intersection without incident on the way to the grocery and back. We took a drive with purpose. I think that’s a big step.

The guilt didn’t start until Monday.

It was a nagging thing. It kind of pulled at me, demanding attention. At stray times, throughout the day, Trey’s face swam into view along with an incident; a time when I felt inadequate, a situation I felt I’d mishandled. I managed to quash them usually. I ran the tape inside my head; the one that says “This is normal. Everyone does this. Don’t let it get you down.”. If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard THAT song…

But he kept coming. I remembered the time his father called him a “sissy”, the way he clutched at my leg through my skirt, and the feeling of desperation in knowing what a pitiful shield I made using only my hands. There were rides to school…rides necessitated by Trey’s bad behavior at the bus stop…that seemingly provided fertilizer for arguments he saved for just this opportunity. Eventually, I remembered he couldn’t argue if I didn’t participate. Sometimes, then, we talked.

There were visits with counselors, arguments with his step-dad, and a notebook filled with completed homework he’d never turned in.

These reels played alternately, randomly, for two days before I recognized the catalyst.

I didn’t teach Trey to drive.

The realization startled me at first. How could that be? Who could have taught him? How does such an important phase in a child’s life go unnoticed, unaccompanied by a parent…especially when there’s only one?

That afternoon, I received an email from a friend who always seems to know “when”. She reminded me she’d always listen, and I began writing. About halfway through, the missing pieces fell into place until the whole messy picture became clear and a new mantra began to play inside my head. “You were not a bad Mom. You were not a bad Mom. You were not a bad Mom.”

This afternoon, I received a note from Trey’s boss’s wife, Amy. Over the years, she’d grown very fond of him.

“The guys are here today working on Bo’s in ground trampoline. While they were eating lunch, Bo walked up to Mike and so sweetly asked, “Where’s Trey?” Out of the mouths of babes… YOU are NOT forgotten, our precious friend!!”

And, I’m reminded it’s not just me. This isn’t the first time that I’ve discovered, when I’m missing Trey more than usual, I’m not the only one. That knowledge doesn’t make me miss him any less. As a matter of fact, reading Amy’s note took me to a place I haven’t been in weeks. What it does do, though, is remind me he is loved, as am I.

Today, I am thankful for blessings who give you room to grow.

Firsts

On Sunday, we’ll spend Easter together… without him. Exactly twenty days later, we’ll celebrate his twenty-sixth birthday…but he won’t be there. Mother’s Day will be different this year.

And so it begins…our year of “firsts”. Life moves on, marked by all the times we stop to celebrate. And we will celebrate. We might even celebrate exactly the way we have always celebrated. And it will still be different.

This Easter we’ll have ham. I don’t usually, but a church group gave me a gift certificate I never got around to using at the time. Jennifer has requested green bean casserole. Joshua looks forward to deviled eggs, and Shane loves strawberry salad. I always made macaroni and cheese for Trey. I cooked the onions right into the cheese sauce so that he never knew they were there. Trey had a thing about onions. This year I’m making bacon/maple scalloped potatoes. I’m sure I’ll make macaroni and cheese again…one day.

Now that it’s almost here, I wish I’d planned something different. I wish I’d invited more people who might have made more noise and filled more space. It’s going to be quieter. Trey loved to laugh…loudly…and it was contagious. Trey was big. He took up lots of space. Come to think of it, Trey took up more space than any number of guests could fill. The space he left cannot be filled and it can’t be covered up by a pretty throw or an extra piece of furniture. It’s a space we’ll have to get used to. We’ll have to move around it…always aware of it…never quite sure what to do with it.

Several times this week, I’ve thought about how much more fun Easter is when spent with children. That’s what we need! We need more children! The wonder and joy of children could fill that space! I’ll share this with my kids. If they start now, we could have one heck of an Easter egg hunt in just a couple of years!

And then the pain flows back in…unexpectedly…on a wish that goes against everything I ever taught my children about safe sex. Trey’s face…his baby face…fills my mind as my heart fills with regret that he left nothing behind.

What I wouldn’t give to see that face again.

2011 – A Retrospective

As years go, there have been better and there have been worse.

1999, for example, was a wonderful year. 1999 was the year I remembered my worth and reclaimed my strength. After years of living a “less than” life, I gave the rudder a mighty jerk and set sail in a completely different direction. And I never looked back.

Given what I now know, I might have chosen to skip 2003, altogether. I had emergency surgery in March. Four weeks into my six-week recovery period my mother died. And while she’d been ill for most of the previous four years, her death came suddenly as the result of a blood clot. I learned she had died while shopping at Target in what was my first foray into the outside world since my surgery. My daughter and grandson had left me in the house wares department. He needed t-shirts.

I remember a voice inside my head shouting at me to breathe and finding it difficult to follow directions. That same voice reminded me my family was counting on me, if for nothing other than a ride home. And then there was the question of when to tell them. Did everyone need to carry that knowledge around Target? Or would waiting be more appropriate?

The words flowed from me as soon as I saw my daughter’s face and everything after merged into a days-long blur, with a few exceptions. I remember sitting, powerless, around a polished, wooden table meant for a high-powered board room, wondering why my sister hadn’t removed her sunglasses. I remember my dress. It was vintage, late 60’s I think, and gray. Embroidered flowers trailed down the right side of the skirt. And, I remember standing under a large, green tent, alongside my sisters, next to the casket holding my mother. The four of us sang “Amazing Grace”. It was her favorite.

2011 was significant in its own way. This year, for the first time ever, I drove several hundred miles across several states alone. And, before I did that, I drove several hundred miles across several states in the company of a friend who, up to that point, I’d only known online. The two of us were on our way to meet many more friends with whom we’d had years-long online friendships. The experience was wonderful and proved what I’d always felt; online relationships are real and can be every bit as meaningful as those we experience 3D.

Here are a few other things I learned this year:

– I do not have to react. In fact, in many cases its better I don’t. Action, in almost every case, is preferable to reaction.
– I can be most childish with those I care most about. Not behaving in a childish manner is a decision that benefits everyone. And it’s easier to do than you might think.
– There is a place in my life for religion, and participation in a group of spiritually like-minded people feeds something in me, making me more whole.
– You can’t fully appreciate the angst of desire until you’ve wanted something for your child that you are powerless to provide.
– Acceptance, in all its forms, is a major component of happiness.
– I’ve spent a considerable amount of time looking for something I already had but wouldn’t see.
– Despite disagreements, disappointment, and geography some people will always have a place in my heart…because they live there.

30 Days of Gratitude – Day 2 – My Job

Mitchell Steiner wore his jet black hair combed straight back off his swarthy-skinned face. His coal-colored eyes either danced or snapped, depending on his mood. His nose was aquiline. His mouth never stopped moving. Mitch was a talker, as in smooth talker, as in car salesman, or motivational speaker, though he became neither. Mitch claimed his destiny early on. He was headed for a career in medicine. At the age of fifteen, a stint in the Explorer Scouts was, for him, a logical move in that direction. For me, it was a way to be closer to Mitch. I had no idea my destiny, too, was being set.

My father didn’t suggest I go into nursing, he insisted. He had a litany of reasons to support his position; a litany he cited, ad infinitum, whenever the topic was broached. I, on the other hand, had never even considered it. As soon as I could stand, I did so in front of a pint-sized chalk board that turned round and round in its aluminum stand; a feature I found most irritating, as a glimpse at the magnetized side of the board, with its cacophony of many-colored plastic letters, only served to remind me that it wasn’t a real chalk board in a real classroom, and I wasn’t a real teacher.

Sometime during my mid-twenties, possibly between baby number one and baby number two, it became evident to my father that my career in nursing would never come to full fruition.

“I can’t believe you’re just going to throw it all away! You’ve wasted so much time!”

“I don’t see it that way.”, I answered him. “I’ve gained knowledge I’ll always have, and use. It wasn’t a waste. I just never wanted to be a nurse.”

“What do you mean you didn’t want to be a nurse? What about all that time you spent in Explorer Scouts?”

I traded my scrubs for a “burp rag”, which is Southern for the cloth diaper worn over one shoulder from the time a baby is born, until she takes her meals with the rest of the family, preferably in a high chair that has been sat upon a large piece of plastic meant to catch the food that missed her intended mark, her brother’s faces.

Mothering was a fine career choice, and I was fortunate to be able to do just that while my kids were very young. When I did return to the workforce outside my plastic-lined domicile, I managed my hours in such a way as to avoid using childcare. I worked during the day. My husband worked at night. One of the two of us always cared for our children. I did it alone, but my husband, apparently, needed help. His girlfriend often visited on her lunch hour bearing pizza from the pizzeria she managed. I found her generosity maternal and oddly comforting. There’s still a very small, warm place in my heart for her.

Ricky and I signed divorce papers on New Year’s Eve.

Twenty years later, Ricky is deceased, three of my four children have homes of their own, and I work in a business my father helped to get off the ground . I started part-time during a soon aborted attempt at beefing up my nursing degree. I should have known better. It wasn’t my idea in the first place, remember?

I used to say, when asked about my job, that I was paid way too much money to do a job a chimpanzee could do. I don’t say that anymore. The job hasn’t changed. My duties are still well within the primate learning curve. What’s changed is my compensation. As the first rocks began to fall off our soon to crumble national economy, my employers explained their decision to switch me from a salaried to an hourly employee as a form of simplification. Benefits, too, proved complicated. I haven’t had a paid vacation, holiday, or sick day in several years. My 401K was frozen.

But I get a paycheck and, even though ten percent less, my earnings afford my son luxuries such as organized sports, music lessons, an IPOD, an Android, and a PS3. I have a place to go every day and a job to do, which is more than many people have today.

I’m not doing what I thought I would do, but maybe that’s because I didn’t set my sights high enough. One look at my son and I know I have more than enough, and there’s still time for chalkboards in my future.

Homecoming

“Honey, it’s at least a month away. It’s too early to ask her. A million things could happen between now and then.”

I felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and pull the words back in before my son heard them. It wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t…no, couldn’t understand.

“Yeah, but if I wait, someone else will ask her.”

And that’s when, for the first time in a very long time, I began worrying about Homecoming.

You might think “worry” an unusual choice of word. If so, you probably had a date. You probably went to all four Homecoming dances with a date or one of those groups of kids who exude wholesomeness via cohesiveness.

I did neither. Homecoming, for at least the first couple of years of high school, was something to get through. It marked a period of avoidance because it wasn’t just about a dance. It was all of the things leading up to the dance. It was decorating committees, and “Wear Your Favorite T-Shirt Day”, and hallways covered in poster-boards advertising candidates for Queen and King, and of course, “Who are you going with?” For two years I spent those two weeks with my head down, mostly inside my house.

My son likes to talk to me while I’m online. Rolling around the room on a big, blue exercise ball, he is like an over-sized gerbil that chatters.

“Here’s what happened.”, he starts as though the previous conversation just ended. “I asked Molly and she said “No”. You know she really likes me and everything but she probably won’t go and if she does go she’s just gonna go with some friends, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So then John asked me if he could ask her and I told him, “Go ahead, but she’s not gonna go and if she does go she’s just gonna go with some friends.”, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And so then he asks her and Molly says “Yes” because John has a six-pack.”

“Huh?”

“A six-pack. Girls like guys with six-packs. John has a six pack.”

I started to ask how Molly, or anyone else for that matter, knew John had a six-pack but decided the answer would probably take our conversation in a whole different direction…a topic for another day, perhaps.

“Well, that wasn’t very nice, was it?”, was all I could think to say.

“No…well, I don’t care.”, he answered, rolling towards the closet.

“You could go with a group.”, I suggested as a picture of my sister’s “group” flashed into my head. My sister went everywhere with the “group”. Even as a memory they exuded cleanliness. “Or you could go alone. Lots of people will go alone, you’ll see.”

He rolled out of sight. “I’ll think about it.”, he said from somewhere behind me.

When Homecoming week arrived, I took heart in my son’s participation in “Wear Your Favorite T-shirt Day”. It didn’t matter that he might have worn it anyway. At least he was engaged. But when Tuesday came and went without any declaration regarding attending the dance, I couldn’t help myself.

“So? Are you going?” I was a talking bundle of laundry, floating down the hall on its way towards the laundry room.

“Nah…I’m not going.” His bedroom door, closing behind him, provided punctuation.

An argument ensued as I continued my trek towards the washer.

“He should go.”, I thought. “He’ll be sorry he missed out. I hope he’s not isolating himself.”

“You can’t say anything.”, I thought. “Talking about it makes it a big deal. It’s his decision.”

I said nothing, and the day of the dance became just another Saturday.

I didn’t see the women until one of them spoke, waking me from the sleep walk that had propelled me from my car to the inside of the market. They were “Football Moms”, like me. Our sons had been teammates for years, and now they were freshmen in high school.

And it was Homecoming Saturday.

“Can you believe I still haven’t found him a suit?” The mother of “John Of The Legendary Six-Pack” spoke.

“Aren’t these things a little less formal now? “, I asked, lightly. “He could wear a shirt and tie.”

“What about Shane? Is Shane wearing a suit?”

Did I imagine her eyes widening just a bit, as though anxious for an answer?

“Shane’s not going.”, I kept it light. “You know, he asked Molly before John did.”

Was that a flush of color on her freckled cheeks?

“Yeah…”

She congratulated her son with a smile he wouldn’t see.

The exchange sparked anxiety that would stay with me for most of the day. Several times over the course of the afternoon I had to force myself not to find Shane and ask him one more time, “Are you sure you don’t want to go?” There had been talk of an after-party. All his friends would be there. I knew because, earlier in the day, I’d surveyed him about their plans.

But I didn’t. I didn’t ask him.

On Sunday, the day after Homecoming, we went for a haircut. As I drove, it occurred to me we wouldn’t have to wait long since all the other boys would have had haircuts the previous weekend, in preparation for the dance.

“I’m really glad I didn’t go to that party, Mom.” Shane spoke into the passenger side window.

“Really? Why?”

It seemed things had gotten ugly between several of the boys. One of them left early.

“What about his date?”, I asked.

“He went with Vicky.”, he groaned. An image of a diminutive fifth-grader with manicured nails and perfectly placed highlights came to mind. “Vicky’s a slut. Everyone knows that.”

Despite his confirmation of my earlier gut reaction, I suggested he find another way to describe the girl.

“That’s why I didn’t want to go, Mom!” He turned to face me, pummeling me with the full force of words that left him in a kind of angry whine. “They all wanted me to go with Amy, Vicky’s friend. And she’s just like her. I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to put myself in a situation I don’t know how to handle.”

Overwhelmed, I remained silent.

“Maybe I’m weird…but I don’t want it to be like that. When I have sex, I want it to be with someone I at least like, you know?”

I wanted to stop the car. I wanted to stop the car and scoop him up in my arms the way I always did when he faced uncertainty.

But I didn’t.

“You’re not weird.”, I said in measured tones. “You’re not weird, you’re smart. You made a good decision.”

I pulled into a parking space next to a motorcycle that had the Batman insignia on the engine cover.

“Good! Kevin’s here!” Shane bounced out of the car and placed his hand on his favorite stylist’s bike.

He stood straight. There was a quickness in his eyes. He smiled.

Homecoming, indeed.