The gatekeepers notebook, p.9
The Gatekeeper’s Notebook, page 9
Bill had noticed, but then again, he had never been around many babies, and didn’t know what to expect; simply attributing Melvin’s lack of interest as being new to the world. “Maybe we bore him,” he offered lightly.
“That’s not funny. I’m seriously worried. Dorothy Crammer’s baby is about the same age as Melvin, and she’s always reaching out to be picked up or smiling when Dorothy comes into the room. Melvin barely acknowledges me, as if I don’t exist.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“I’m taking him tomorrow.”
* * *
Over the coming months, Felicia and Bill’s concerns multiplied as Melvin continued to exhibit many, if not all the early indicators of autism: lack of smiling, poor eye contact, not following objects, disinterest in cuddling, not trying to crawl or roll over, an aversion to loud sounds, and totally unresponsive to his name.
As he got older, Melvin demonstrated a talent for drawing and mathematics—near genius level. However, the dichotomy of being extraordinarily talented yet unable to verbally communicate utterly confused his parents, and naturally alarmed healthcare providers. It also left Melvin frustrated; flying off into a rage and pounding his ears with his fists, almost as if the ideas locked up in his brain and the words he sought to speak repelled one another.
With Bill long gone and her health failing, Felicia no longer had the emotional strength nor the willpower to protect Melvin—not only from strangers but also from himself. The many years of endless cruel taunts and ridicule had succeeded in ostracizing Melvin from the outside world, confining his feelings to his pictures. But even then, he only shared sparingly.
In a torrent, large raindrops fell from the sky, pounding the parched earth below. The air outside grew chilled and blustery, but Melvin, still sitting on the deck absorbed by his art, remained blissfully unaware as to the other looming storm threatening his existence and how soon everything in his microcosmic world would drastically change.
Felicia waited at the window. She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “Time to come inside,” she said, tapping the glass with her knuckle twice.
Melvin lowered his head, pressing the sketchpad close to his chest, sheltering his treasures with the stout curve of his arms, protecting the contents from getting damaged. Without so much as a whisper, the curtain slid closed in more ways than one.
The winds picked up, and the clouds refused to hold back any longer. Massive raindrops pelted the sliding door at almost precisely the moment Melvin pulled it closed behind him.
“Perfect timing, son,” said Felicia. “Put your things away while I get dinner on the table. Just has to warm up. Ruth prepared a nice meal for us today.”
“Hamza will get wet.”
“I know, dear, but his mother will pick him up in her car. He’ll be okay.”
Melvin tapped his foot, unhappy.
“Tomorrow’s another day, Melvin. You can see Hamza tomorrow. Now don’t forget to take your shoes off.”
Melvin removed his shoes and lined them up neatly on the shelf.
“We’re having spaghetti tonight. If you like, I can add the cheese you like to the meat sauce,” said Felicia hoping to get Melvin’s mind off Hamza, but Melvin had already grabbed his sketchpad and disappeared down the hall into his bedroom; making a faint clicking sound along the way.
Later in the evening after dinner, Melvin remained seated at the kitchen table, engrossed in his next drawing.
“Hey, Melvin.” Ruth Epstein, the nice social worker assigned to Felicia’s case entered the room. “I’m parched. Do you need anything?”
Melvin nodded. “Coldwater, please,” he said without looking up. “Coldwater, please.”
“Coming right up, buddy.”
Melvin’s tolerance for Ruth’s constant presence in the house had increased since she first had started to come by. In the beginning, he’d either intensely stare at her when she spoke to him or refuse to answer her at all. But Ruth, conscious of his non-verbal cues, never took it personally. She understood Melvin’s need to disengage emotionally and self-protect.
After about an hour, Melvin headed to bed. Felicia took his empty spot at the kitchen table. She had pushed her healthcare decisions to the back burner for far too long while concerns for Melvin’s safety were pushed to the forefront.
Felicia spread the brochures and lists that Ruth brought to her months ago across the kitchen table. Caretakers, trust fund, an index of facilities to call. So much to decide and plan for. At least she still had a time left before—she’d have to use what little time she had left wisely, including preparing Melvin for her transition to hospice care.
Ruth sat across from Felicia at the table, pen and pad ready to take notes. “You need to be as clear and as precise as possible when explaining anything to a person with ASD,” said Ruth, assigned to Felicia’s case through the insurance’s patient care program. Over the last year, the two women had developed a close relationship, more akin to a friendship. “Sending mixed messages will only confuse Melvin and cause him to become anxious. But whatever you do, hon, don’t equate your death to sleep.”
“Funny you should say that because that’s what happened with Melvin when Bill died. In the beginning, I thought, okay. Fine. Let him think it, but then it turned into a mess.”
“I bet.”
“Poor thing became confused as heck, and it was mostly my fault.”
Ruth got up from her seat. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s not an easy conversation to have.”
“It sure wasn’t.”
“Do you think Melvin understands the situation now? About Bill I mean?”
“It’s hard to say. Melvin tends to have difficulty tolerating sudden change so who’s to know?” Felicia winced. “I’m not sure how he’s going to take this news.”
Ruth lowered her voice. “Need another pillow?”
“No. I’m fine, thanks, but I wouldn’t turn down a cup of water. This pain medication dries my mouth out.”
Ruth fetched a cup. “I have the rest of the paperwork in my briefcase, but I will need you to sign-off on some of it.”
“More?”
“I know, and there’s still a few other issues we need to go over.”
Felicia returned to reading the brochures. “So much to decide.”
Ruth handed Felicia a cup. “Are you still concerned about the way Melvin might react when he visits you at the hospice?”
“Hospice—the funeral, and the memorial service, which is why I think Melvin should visit the hospice—” Felicia coughed hard, then cleared her throat, “before I go.”
“Well, if you should decide to have him stay home, we’ll need to include that in your directive and set up care. I hoped to have Melvin situated by then, wherever you decide.”
Felicia sipped her water, already overwhelmed by the running list of decisions still needing to be addressed.
“Felicia, I can stay with Melvin to make his transition easier if you want.”
“I know Ruth, thank you. I appreciate that.” Felicia glanced down the hall at Melvin’s room.
“I know this is hard, but he’s going to be okay.”
Felicia shivered and tugged her sweater tighter.
If only I knew that to be true…
Chapter Eight
All My Children
“DO IT!” SNAPPED KALILA, sick and tired of having to repeat herself and way past hiding her annoyance. “Now!” She jumped to her feet, bracing for his next patronizing retort.
Hamza all but rolled his eyes. Swiping his jacket off the back of the chair—he made it his business to stomp up each individual step. “Dad wouldn’t,” he mumbled. “I don’t have to…it’s all your fault.”
“What did you just say?” Kalila roared, chucking her plastic cup in the porcelain sink and taking off; hauling ass after the boy. “Answer me,” she yelled, in an almost half run.
With lightning speed, Hamza’s young body leaped up the last few stairs effortlessly, tearing down the long hall to his bedroom with ample time to slam the door and lock it behind him.
“Don’t you run and hide on me, young man,” yelled Kalila, banging the door with her fist. “You’ve got something to say, then say it to my face.”
This whole giving him time to work things out had worn her last nerve.
Behind his door, Kalila heard the wood floors creaking slightly as Hamza climbed into bed. She had an overpowering urge to kick the door in, but instead, forced herself to leave. Disgusted that she had once again let him push her into losing her temper.
Since Bashir’s death, Hamza’s adoration for his father had turned into an unhealthy state of canonization. Somehow, all of Bashir’s shortcomings had been granted an absolute and indisputable exoneration. Miraculously, all his faults disappeared, cast off into a world of obscurity. Neatly swept under the carpet, forever out of sight or reproach. But in contrast to Hamza’s kid glove handling of his dad’s memory, her failings were never spared his constant ridicule. In fact, her mistakes were fair game; paraded around on display and exposed for continuous rebuke.
In all fairness, Kalila had expected some of the son-father glorifying, but when Hamza shunned her support, she felt frustrated and confused. Ill-equipped to make him stop. With shock and grief obliterating her senses, Kalila had gone to seek advice.
“I didn’t even know Hamza blamed himself,” Kalila said, framing this half-truth in such a way as to dull the rawness ripping and stabbing at her gut. And although competent enough publicly, here, the weight of this world had once again come crashing straight into Kalila’s already unhinged existence. The grieving that hid behind the demands of life but never dissipated came rushing to the surface. Fists clenched, she wanted desperately to lash out; to pound the wall or the door—kick the desk—anything to release the pain, but instead, she shut her eyes, vulnerable and alone.
The counselor, a sharp observer of human frailties, leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands on her lap. “Look—let’s not get ahead of ourselves. All I am saying is that for right now, Hamza appears ill-equipped to channel these feelings. He’s scared, anxious, and for whatever reason, unnecessarily guilty. He’s also terribly confused. But as much as it hurts or how difficult it may be for you, he still needs to know you’re on his side. That he can count on you to take care of him—that you will be there for him. But most of all, that you aren’t going to go away as well.”
Kalila rubbed her eyes with both hands. “I thought I was already doing all that,” she murmured.
“You are, to some extent, but again, this takes time.”
Time. Always time.
As days had turned into weeks and weeks had turned into months, the sizable rift and hostility between mother and son only seemed to magnify.
Kalila rose from her chair, ready to take her leave, but the counselor waved her to stay seated.
“Some children, like your son, sometimes find it difficult after a loss of a parent to put into words everything they’re feeling, particularly when they think they haven’t been told the entire truth.”
Kalila’s head snapped to attention. “What the hell are you implying?”
“You tell me, Mrs. Rahim. You tell me.”
Upstairs, dresser drawers banged and slammed, but Kalila had no energy to prolong the fight. For tonight, Hamza had won.
As Kalila cleared the table, she couldn’t help but reminisce. It was times like these that she missed Bashir the most, but not in the ways most people would have naturally assumed. She never really minded the random dirty dish left on the counter or his shoes that never entirely made it back on the shelf…or the keys strewn haphazardly on the counter instead of on the hook…or the discarded jacket left on the back of his chair...
The chair.
Bashir’s chair.
Oh God, how could I have been so stupid?
The all-too-familiar sting of remorse rose hot in her chest.
The same chair Hamza keeps leaving his jacket on.
How could I have forgotten?
How could I have been so dense?
Kalila still kept stacked Bashir’s books from his To Be Read pile on the side of her bed. His extra-long plush bathrobe—the one he swore he never wanted, continued to hang on the bathroom hook. His wallet remained on the dresser. In many ways, like Hamza, Kalila also craved keeping a piece of his memory alive and unmoved.
Kalila gazed at the framed photo on the refrigerator showing the two of them cheesing it up for the camera the day Bashir, in his infinite wisdom, encouraged Kalila to try something new, “To let go for once and throw caution to the wind.”
“Come on,” Bashir said encouragingly. “It’s easy, I swear.” He held Kalila’s elbow firmly. “Don’t be scared.”
On a whim, the two had decided to pack a picnic basket and drive to the county fair. And for some ungodly reason that Kalila to this day couldn’t recall, they found themselves standing 300 feet above a river on a bridge, ready to take the plunge.
“I can’t do this,” Kalila whined, apparently unimpressed with the idea of leaping off a bridge with nothing more than some elastic rope between her and certain death. “I’m going to die,” she said, despite wearing a full body harness.
Bashir laughed. “No, you’re not.”
Kalila ran her fingers over the braided shock cord, unconvinced.
“Come on Kalila—you just saw me do it and I’m still alive.” Bashir kissed her neck.
“Stop, I’m serious!” She wasn’t in the slightest mood for his antics. “What if the rope unhooks?”
“That’s what the body harness is for,” answered the overly tanned bungee jump operator. “We use that so jumpers won’t get detached by the ankle.”
“See?” said Bashir. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Great. You guys think of everything,” Kalila curtly mumbled back under her breath.
“I’ll be right here, love,” whispered Bashir.
“I can’t.” Kalila tried to shimmy away from the ledge, but there was nowhere to move but forward.
“Sure, you can,” said Bashir. “I have faith you.”
“Oh really.”
“Come on. Say Bismillah and jump.”
Bashir made it sound so easy.
“On the count of three. One—”
“Wait!” Fear gripped Kalila’s insides like a vice.
“Two—”
“Bashir! I can’t—”
“Say it!”
Kalila closed her eyes, and Bashir pushed. Her Bismillah came out more like a trilled scream, but once airborne, the indescribable sensation of flying overtook her and Kalila began squealing with laughter. People awaiting their turn on the bridge clapped and yelled their support, hooting and hollering, and waving their hands. But out of all the clamor and excitement coming from high above, the single voice that resonated the loudest belonged to Bashir.
“That’s my girl!” he yelled. “Did you see that?” shouted Bashir at the operator, already busy securing Kalila’s retrieval. “I knew you could do it, baby!” he yelled over the railing. “Alhamdulillah, did you see that? My baby did it!”
My girl…
My baby…
Somehow, through his colossal belief in her, Bashir had uncovered a part of herself she never thought existed. At the time, she believed him when he had said she could do anything. Face anything. Be anything she wanted.
And she believed him.
Until his underhanded secret came out. After that, all her trust vanished. He had humiliated her, and he didn’t care. Now all they did was argue.
“Where were you today?” Kalila had accused him, already assuming the answer.
“Why?” Bashir had countered back, his defensive tactic in full swing.
“What do you mean, why? I tried phoning you, but it kept going straight to voicemail.” Kalila could see Bashir’s mind working in overdrive, plotting his next two-faced answer.
“I turned off my mobile. I was in meetings all day.”
“All day…”
“I texted you back.”
“Three hours later?”
“I’m here now,” he snapped. “What was so important?” Bashir’s flippant retort stung.
“Why can’t I even ask you where you’ve been or is that another covert mystery?”
“Either tell me your problem or stop hounding me.” Bashir’s hostility flared anytime she dared question his whereabouts. His elusive responses made her reluctant to probe, convinced that one day, she might not like what he had to say.
“You’re the one losing his temper,” she said.
“And you’re creating problems that don’t exist,” he countered back. Defiant, mean.
Following her instincts, Kalila started to spy on him. One morning, she caught him on the phone, pacing the length of the driveway. As he spoke, she watched his demeanor change. Smiling and fully engaged with the caller. Kalila, nobody’s fool, assumed it was a woman holding his attention on the other end. When he ended the call, she rushed downstairs when he came inside to grab his car keys, all ready to confront him.
“You’re all dressed up,” she said suspiciously. “Where are you going now?”
“I have a meeting.”
“On a Sunday?”
“A brother from the masjid needs my assistance.”
“Which brother?”
“You don’t know him.”
“That makes two of us.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re lying,” accused Kalila.
“Then don’t believe me,” Bashir replied flippantly, barely registering her irritation.
“Who are you really meeting with?”
Bashir tried to leave.
“Answer me.” Kalila’s words trickled out in shallow pants, her desperation exposed.
Bashir sneered. “I’ll answer when you have a question worth answering.”
The more Kalila pushed, the more irritable and fidgety he became. Kalila wanted to scream. Fight it out, once and for all, but he didn’t. Grabbing his keys off the counter, Bashir stormed past her, out of the house.
