Catch Me When I Fall (9 page)

•  •  •

On Sunday after the service, he saw Harvey VanEng and old Reverend Post, the retired minister, lighting their cigarettes in the parking lot. Klaas strolled over. “What do you think of tough love?” he asked Reverend Post.

“Yah,” said Reverend Post in his heavy Dutch accent. “I tink it is tough to luff.” He leaned forward and laid his hand on Klaas's forehead. “A blessing for you,” he said. He ambled off with his cigarette.

Harvey VanEng tossed his butt onto the pavement. “Think he's losing it?”

“Maybe,” Klaas answered, feeling oddly lighter. “Or maybe he's never heard of tough love.”

•  •  •

Klaas walked to the car with his second-youngest granddaughter, Lexi, holding his hand tightly. She was singing a Sunday-school song. “‘Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world.'” She stopped suddenly. “Do some children come in red and yellow?”

“What?”

“You know.” She sang, “‘Red and yellow, black and white, they're all precious in his sight.'” She gazed at him, waiting.

“Not really,” he said. “Those are shades, not colours. You know, like a reddish shade of beige, or a yellowish shade.”

“Oh. And Jesus loves all the shades. Jesus likes colours. That's why flowers come in colours. Can we look at the kittens when we get to your house?”

“Yes, but remember they're not tame,” he said. “They're just barn cats.”

“What colours are they?”

“Oh, I don't know. Different colours.”

“Are you going to drown them?”

“No.” He looked at her, confused. He'd never drowned barn cats. Even when the population was embarrassingly large, he couldn't do it. He was too soft. He hid the weakness by telling his hired men he liked fresh batches of kittens for the grandkids.

“My dad says you should drown some of the cats.”

His mouth twitched. “What did you say?”

“I couldn't say anything because I was supposed to be in bed, not listening in the hallway.”

He smiled down at her. “I don't mind the cats,” he said. “I don't think I could drown any.”

Alida strolled over in her flowered Sunday dress and white sandals, and they climbed into the car. As they drove homeward, Lexi sang in the back seat: “Grandpa loves the little kittens, all the kittens in the world . . .” Amusement spread through him and turned, unexpectedly, to joy. It began in his chest, uncoiled the rusty conviction he'd been holding there, and radiated outwards. What if he had things skewed? What if what he saw as weakness was actually strength?

•  •  •

In bed that night, he turned to Alida. He was nervous—would she feel the same? “You know that money we talked about sending each month?” She shifted her foot from off his leg where she had laid it companionably a moment before, and he sensed her body stiffen. “Have you had second thoughts?” he asked.

“No. Have you?” She seemed to be holding her breath.

“No. In fact—” He stopped. He hadn't felt this apprehensive since the day he'd asked Alida to marry him. Or when he'd held his first child, bloodied, crying, tiny in his hands. And yet he was sure he had felt divine grace in those moments. Felt God's hand nudging him forward.

“I wonder,” he said, pausing to clear his throat, “if we should just bring it each month rather than sending it.” In the dim light from the moonlit window he watched her and waited.

She moved her foot back over his. “I think that would be good,” she breathed. “Bring a meal or two. See how they're coping.”

“Exactly.” He reached for her hand. “Maybe next week?”

“That sounds fine.”

They lay in silence. It was a gift of God to have a spouse, he thought. Someone to share your life. Who understood you, often without words. He squeezed her hand, a hand he knew as well as his own and loved more. “Sleep well, dear.”

“You too.”

“HOW WOULD YOU
describe yourself as a mother?” Dr. Maas asked. She sat with her legs crossed, one foot jiggling.

“Pretty normal, I guess,” Valerie said. A failure. But maybe that was normal.

Dr. Maas waited, her eyes fixed on Valerie, a twitchy cat at a mouse hole. Valerie sat rigid. How could someone so fidgety help Danny? After a moment, Dr. Maas cleared her throat. She closed her yellow steno pad and tapped it with her pen. “He's maintaining his weight so far, and the meds will keep his anxiety down. But he needs to learn to monitor his stress level. It will be easier for him if you and your husband support him.”

“Of course. What should we do?”

Dr. Maas stood and rummaged through papers on her desk, its oak surface almost entirely hidden by files. After a long search she handed a piece of paper to Valerie. “Here's a chart of ‘feeling' words. Put it up where Danny can see it—on the fridge, maybe.” Dr. Maas peered down at Valerie and tapped the desktop with her fingers. “Your son is very intellectual. He talks around the questions I ask about his emotions.”

Valerie kept her face neutral, wondering how many twelve-year-old boys shared their feelings with strangers. “Does he talk about his feelings at home?” the doctor asked.

“Not really.” The large wall clock showed 4:01. Valerie lifted her purse from the floor. Dr. Maas watched her, fingers still drumming. Valerie rose, holding the purse tightly, and offered a limp hand to the doctor, who gripped it and shook it with vigour. Mumbling a thank you, Valerie headed toward the waiting room. I should tell her, she thought. I should tell her.

•  •  •

Probably, Valerie thought as she drove out of Red Deer on snow-covered Highway 2, it was her fault. If she had just loved Danny more in the early months of his life. Sang proper lullabies to him as she rocked his colicky body instead of the versions she invented to keep herself sane.
Hush little baby; don't say a word. Mama's gonna sell you, you ugly turd.
She glanced over at him in the back seat behind her. He was picking his nose. “Danny Bouwen, use a tissue!” She handed him one from the glove compartment.

•  •  •

“What's this?” Brad asked when he came in from the barn after milking. He moved the Calgary Tower magnet to the side of the fridge door to read the list aloud. “Aggravated. Amused. Annoyed. Appalled.” He grunted derisively. “Bitter. Blissful. Charmed. Cranky.”

“Dr. Maas says it will help Danny.”

“How was the nervous shrink today?” Brad said. He put a pail of fresh milk into the fridge and then reached out to pat her rear end. She twisted away.

“Don't call her that. What if Danny hears you? Besides, you're not the one who has to supervise his—his recovery.”

“You won't let me. Trust me, I could make him eat.” Valerie considered him. Since he'd dropped out of his engineering program to farm the land after his father died, it was as if all the muscle in his brain had flowed down into his shoulders and arms and settled there, a sulky weight, bulky and disproportionate to the rest of his build. She glowered but said nothing.

•  •  •

“How was school today?” Brad asked Danny over supper.

“Fine.” Danny moved the peas to the edge of his plate while Valerie watched. Each meal a stakeout. Her stomach clenched as several peas rolled back toward the middle of his plate. If his vegetables touched his meat or potatoes, he would refuse to eat them. Maybe she should have served the peas in side bowls.

“What did you learn?” Brad's voice was too loud for the tiny dining nook.

“Nothing.”

“How can you sit all day and learn nothing?”

Danny shrugged a bony shoulder. He leaned back in his chair and put his fork down. Since the hospital stay, there was a nonchalant belligerence in his communication with them, as unattractive as the skinny arms attached to his lengthening, emaciated frame. Was the pediatrician accounting for Danny's increase in height when she approved his weight at the weekly weigh-ins? “Easy,” Danny said. “I have a lousy teacher. She's a control freak. I think she gets her geography notes from Wikipedia. Today she told us Surinam is in Asia.” Danny's chuckle was scornful. He looked at Valerie and picked up his fork again. “Matt Bos got the new Kenneth Oppel book, though. He says he might lend it to me if I do his math for a week.”

“You shouldn't do other kids' homework,” Valerie said. “It's dishonest.”

“What did you do at recess?” Brad asked. “Are you playing with the other kids like we told you to?”

“They don't want me.”

“Of course they do,” said Valerie.

“But it would help if you tried to act more like them,” said Brad. He put down his fork and folded his muscular arms across his chest. “You're asking for trouble when you sit by yourself in the snow and read your book.”

“Brad!” said Valerie. “Not now.” She turned to Danny. “You've only eaten four peas. Eat up.”

•  •  •

“You must be proud to have such a gifted child!” Dr. Maas said the next week. Valerie gazed at her. If it would fix him, she would part with a lot of Danny's
IQ
points.

“Did you put the feeling words up on the fridge?” Dr. Maas was tapping the desk with her pen, peering at her with those cat eyes.

“Yes.”

“And how's it going?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“How do you feel about having them up on the fridge?”

Valerie's throat constricted. “Fine, I guess.” The doctor waited, still tapping in that irritating way. “Although I don't see how it's going to help.” Valerie's voice was tight. “It's just talking.”

“Why do you think talking won't help?”

Valerie played with a loose thread on her sweater, then stopped herself. Pull one little thread and you never know how much might unravel. She picked instead at a piece of loose skin alongside her thumbnail. She was thinking about that day, a long time ago, when her sister Joanna told her about the knives. She was ten and Joanna was twelve—just a few months older than Danny was now. “You have to tell Mom,” Valerie had said. Together they had sought out their mother in their farmhouse kitchen. “Tell her,” said Valerie. Joanna said, “Mom, I keep thinking about hurting myself. With knives. I can't stop thinking about knives.” Frowning, their mother had dried her hands on a dishtowel. A blue one with windmills on it. “Don't talk nonsense,” was all she'd said. She gave Joanna a peppermint from the old Delft tin on the windowsill. “Hush now.”

The doctor was waiting, quietly now, no longer tapping, Valerie inhaled sharply and spoke in a gush. “Well, it's already affected his health. The pediatrician said he might have done permanent damage to his organs. And he still doesn't eat right. There're about a thousand foods he won't eat. Meat, for one thing. You should hear my husband on that topic! And he won't eat candy. It's not normal!” Valerie clamped her lips together, her face flushing. Had she sounded emotional? She folded her hands together into her lap. “But if you think the list will help . . .”

•  •  •

Valerie drove past her mother-in-law's farmhouse to their trailer on the edge of the lot. The phone was ringing when she and Danny walked inside. Valerie snatched it up. “Hello?”

“Hey, there! It's me. Joanna.”

“Joanna! Where are you?”

“Still here in Blantyre. But I'm flying home for a visit. In two weeks. Do you have room for me?”

“Yes! Well, not in the trailer, but you can stay with Brad's mom if you can stand a little craziness—her Alzheimer's has gotten worse since you left.”

“I'm used to craziness. You have no idea.”

Valerie hung up the phone, her hand lingering on it for a moment. The late-afternoon sun poured light into the kitchen. “Auntie Joanna is coming for a visit,” she told Danny, who slouched against the counter drinking a large glass of water.

“Yeah, I caught that,” he said, the tone sarcastic but his expression pleased.

•  •  •

In the car on the way back from the Edmonton airport, Valerie talked more than she had in months. “I thought things would change after the hospitalization. That it would fix him.”

“Has he gained weight?” Joanna asked. Valerie glanced over at her. Joanna was looking good, she thought. What had seemed plain, even severe, in a teenager—the sharp chin, the serious eyes—had given the thirty-nine-year-old Joanna poise and elegance.

“Some. But he's, well, weird. About food and other things. No real friends. Doesn't go to birthday parties. Never gets invited to play hockey on the weekend, not even by Vicky's kids anymore.”

“He's never had much in common with his peers. You and I know what that's like.”

“He's hard to get along with. Argues a lot.”

“He's smarter than most people. That must be tough.”