The Pastor's Wife Wears Biker Boots (13 page)

“He’s going with me on my motorcycle trip.” I
turned back to my packing.

“Whoa, Mom, you’re kidding
.”

“Nope. Reba suggested we let him go. She’s going to let him ride on the back of Trace’s Goldwing.”

“Sweeeet!
”

“What a nice attitude, Daniel. I’m proud of you for being happy for Timmy.
”

Daniel grinned at me. “I’m not happy for Timmy. I’m happy for me. I get Dad to myself. Well, except for Patrick, but he’s never home, anyway. This totally rocks.” He ran down the hall and slammed his bedroom door.

Aaron and Timmy came into the bedroom giggling and poking at one another.

“Timmy’s going?”

“Yes. Reba said he could.
”

“Are you sure? I mean, it won’t be much of a break
.” Aaron took Timmy’s hands in his to keep him from poking. Timmy wiggled free and sat down with his suitcase. I looked at him and shook my head.

“No, I’m not sure, but I
am
sure he’ll love it.” I smiled halfheartedly, and Aaron sat on the edge of the bed.

“This will be the first time Timmy and I haven’t been home together.
” Aaron sounded sad.

That hadn’t occurred to me. Every time Aaron was home, Timmy was home.
I frowned.

“Hmmm. You’ll have to let me know how that feels.
”

Aaron convinced Timmy to pack his things in my bag.

I packed three outfits for each of us.

Aaron took the boys out to the trampoline. The bouncing organized Timmy’s brain in some way that calmed him. Afterwards, while Daniel helped me with dinner, Aaron and Timmy swam in the pool.

By the time we cleaned up dinner, it was time for bed. We needed our sleep if we wanted to get an early start in the morning.

“You need to take a shower, Timmy.” I repeated the same thing I said every night
at this time.

And he responded the exact same way. “Timmy not dirty. Timmy clean.
”

Timmy loved to swim, but he hated showers and baths. He hated anything touching his skin such as soap or lotion. The little bursts of water from a shower were especially painful for him. Still, it was easier and faster for him to wash his hair in a shower, so showering is usually what we did.

I got Timmy showered and dried off and realized he was out of clean underwear. I grabbed the day’s laundry and headed downstairs to the laundry room.

Aaron was sitting on the couch.

Goliath lay sprawled out on top of his feet chewing on an old shoe.

“Have you seen Daniel?” I paused behind him.

Aaron flipped through a dozen channels faster than I could process what was on the screen. “He’s listening to a movie soundtrack in his room.”

“Is Patrick home yet?
”

“I haven’t seen him.”
Flip. Flip.

I sighed and went upstairs into the bathroom where I found Timmy squirting shaving cream all over the shower door.
He’d managed to cover his naked self from head to toe with shaving cream and stood grinning at me ear to ear. I was too tired to laugh.

“Timmy, please don’t. Mommy just cleaned that.” Why did shower time have to happen when I was beyond exhausted?

I managed to get Timmy showered—again—his ears cleaned out, and into fresh pajamas. By the time he got into bed, I wanted to crawl in with him.

“Daniel. The shower’s free,
” I called.

“OK, Mom.” What a dear, obedient boy.

I went downstairs with my clothes soaked, as usual, and threw myself on the couch with a long, heavy sigh. Aaron sat fixated on a History Channel.

“Did Patrick come home?” The clock said eleven ten. Past his weeknight curfew.

Aaron didn’t look away from the TV. “Uh, I haven’t seen him. Isn’t he upstairs?
”

“No.”

I reached for the phone and dialed Adam’s phone number. His mother answered.
I couldn’t remember her first name.

“Hello, Mrs. Schmidt?”

“Yes, this is she.” She sounded as if she was roused from a deep sleep.

“This is Kirstie Donovan, Patrick’s mom? I’m sorry for calling this late.”

“No problem. I had just dozed off reading a book.”

“Is Patrick still there? If he is would you please send him home? I’m sorry if he’s still hanging around.”

“Patrick? Patrick’s not here.” She sounded surprised.

I leaned forward and rubbed my brow. “Oh. He’s not? When did he leave?”

“Why, Kirstie, I haven’t seen Patrick all day.”

“Oh.” I was stunned. “I must have misunderstood him. I’m sorry I bothered you this late. I hope you get some rest.”

“No problem, Kirstie. I hope you find him.”

“Sure. Goodnight.”

Patrick was toast when I found him.

“Good-bye.”

I hung up, speechless.

“He wasn’t there?” Aaron clicked off the TV and tossed the remote on the end table.

“No. He never was. They haven’t seen him all day.”

18

“I’ll go look for him.” Aaron grabbed his keys off the credenza. “You call all his friends.
”

“OK.” My heart hammered a terrifying song.

We hadn’t yet experienced the teen rebellion stage with our kids. Timmy wasn’t at an emotional age to exhibit any adolescent behavior.

I dialed everyone I knew and called people I trusted to pray. My prayer partner list was short. Whom could I possibly trust to ask for prayer? Only the Lady Eels. And Reba wasn’t even a praying woman.

“Has he ever done anything like this before?
” Reba actually sounded a little frantic.

“He’s been pushing the envelope lately. He resents Timmy. I don’t know why. I try to spend equal time with all the kids. I don’t think it’s that.”

Reba yawned into the phone. “Hmm. I wonder if he’s embarrassed by him.”

I sighed in frustration. “Embarrassed? If he is, it’s just wrong.”

“Of course it is, but he’s a teenager. And teenagers aren’t logical. Those critters go by their feelings. And besides, the kid probably doesn’t
know
what he’s feeling. He only knows he’s miserable.”

I picked at the dark purple nail polish chipping off my fingers. “That’s true. Sometimes I’m not sure I recognize or can rationalize my own thoughts and feelings. Especially when Aaron and Patrick are at loggerheads. It seems like the two of them fight constantly. It’s enough to make
me
want to run away
. I sure hope he didn’t.”

I sobbed angry, frustrated tears, recognizing the stress. The painful realities of my life were crystal clear, like looking through a magnifying glass and seeing all the ugly little cells of unrest and pain.

Reba tried to soothe me. “I know. I know. I’ve been there. We went through a lot more with our daughter, Becky, but this too shall pass. One of these days, you’ll give anything to have your babies in the house giving you trouble and heartache.
”

“At the rate they’re aging me, I doubt it.” I tried to joke but only felt panic.

“It’ll be OK. Try to remain calm. Listen, let me get on my bike and go looking for him.
”

I dried my eyes. “Thanks, Reba, I really appreciate it
.”

The hours passed slowly with no sign of Aaron, Patrick, or Reba. What could possibly be wrong? Was no news good news? Or did the silence mean something worse?

I wandered over to the bookcase and pulled out Patrick’s baby book. The scrapbook wasn’t nearly as full as Timmy’s. Shortly after Patrick was born we learned Timmy’s diagnosis, and our days were full of confusion, second opinions, and grief.

At first, we wandered through our daily routines in a daze. What was autism anyway? I got on the Internet and bought every book I could find on the subject and spent hours poring over them. The prognosis was grim for some children but better for others. The frustrating thing about this ugly spectrum disorder was its lack of clear boundaries or consistent symptoms. Autism Spectrum Disorder, or ASD, was as different for everyone as the person with the disease.

In the beginning, I refused to believe my beautiful little boy, with eyes as blue as a cloudless Indiana sky, was slipping away from me into a world of his own. The doctors were wrong. And I would prove it. If I willed for a cure enough, the autism would go away. If I prayed harder. If I had more faith. If I fasted. It would be gone.

But autism stayed.

I hated the word
autism
and all the diagnosis implied. My son would not be another statistic. I would fight this monster and destroy it in the same way David conquered Goliath. If victory was to be, it was up to me. And while Aaron seemed to accept the diagnosis eventually, I just couldn’t. My rage fed my drive to find a cure.

I bargained with God. I would pray longer, have even more faith, and would fast even longer. I would give more time to the church. Whatever it took for my son to be cured, I would do it. God surely would heal him. He must.

But He didn’t, and nothing changed. Timmy continued to drift away.

Moms are supposed to be able to fix the boo-boos. And I couldn’t heal Timmy of his autism. What kind of mother did that make me?

Looking at Patrick’s baby book pictures now, I realized he practically lived in his car seat the first year of his life. When I accepted the cure wouldn’t come, when I finally knew Timmy had a permanent disability, our life became one appointment after another in a desperate flurry of second opinions, speech therapy, and occupational therapy. We drove an hour one way once a week so he could receive hippo therapy, where he learned to balance and communicate while riding a horse. We drove another hour away for water therapy and swimming with dolphins. I went to healing services where Christians laid hands on him for healing. I was desperate in those days. I couldn’t see the gift Timmy was by simply being himself.

No wonder Patrick resented his big brother.

But I tried hard to give equal time to all the boys. I stayed home with them every day. I encouraged them, nurtured them, taught them. What more should I have done? What would it take to reach this son? Now it wasn’t Timmy drifting away. It was Patrick. Had I spent so much time trying to reach Timmy that I had neglected to reach Patrick?

Four hours later Reba called.

Aaron was on his way home with Patrick and would explain when my guys got here. It was three in the morning, and I was beyond exhausted with worry.

When the two of them walked in the front door, I didn’t know whether to clobber Patrick or take him in my arms and kiss him out of thankfulness for him being alive.

“Aaron, Patrick, thank God you’re home.”

Patrick didn’t look at me.
When I hugged him, he stood there with his arms to his sides, stiff as a board. What happened to the little boy who used to snuggle on my lap while I read to him from his favorite Thomas the Tank books?

“What is it?” I looked at Aaron. “What’s wrong?
”

“Tell your mother where I found you.” The deep disappointment in Aaron’s voice
pricked at my heart.

I took my son’s chin in my hand and made him look at me. “What? Patrick? What happened?
”

He jerked his face away from me and took a step back.

Aaron walked toward the closet, looking as if he’d aged ten years since leaving home, and removed his jacket. “He was at the police station.” His voice trembled.

I gasped and my hands flew to my mouth. “Oh, no.”

The police station? Wasn’t jail where kids whose parents were neglectful went? Not my child. Not the pastor’s child. Not the child who was loved, and nurtured, and
homeschooled
.

“What happened? Tell me. Patrick, what happened?” My voice grew louder with panic.

Aaron stood beside me with his hands in his pockets looking at Patrick. “They caught him in the park drinking beer. Show your mother your arm.
”

Patrick stood stiff as a fence post, looking at the floor. He held up his arm and pulled back his sleeve.

My world changed forever. My precious, pure, baby-skinned boy had a red, swollen tattoo on his forearm that read: “Ad astra
” with a tiny star.

“Ad astra? To the stars?” I groaned and my knees felt weak.

Aaron caught me and led me to a chair.

“Do you know what you’re putting your mother through?”

Of course he didn’t. No child knows what his parents endure. It’s the irony of the entire relationship.

I sat in my chair and sobbed. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to act strong, but I just didn’t have it in me.
I cried for a while, and the guys stood there silently not knowing what to do. Finally, I pulled myself together enough to sputter measured, livid words. “Go to bed, Patrick. I’m too angry to talk to you about this tonight. Go to bed, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Stay in your room until your father and I come get you.
”

Patrick stumbled up the stairs. The aroma of beer mixed with the stink of a sweaty, teenage boy lingered behind, taunting us.

Aaron groaned and leaned back on the couch, staring at a blank TV screen. “What will the church people say when they find out?”

“Who cares? I don’t give a flip about what the congregation thinks, Aaron. Our son is hurting.
”

“Hurting?” Aaron stood up. “Hurting? You’re always making excuses for him. There’s no excuse for this kind of behavior when he’s been taught better all his life. He knows right from wrong, Kirstie. It’s not as if he’s a street urchin who hasn’t had all the love and support two parents could possibly give him. He’s ungrateful and selfish.”
Aaron paced in front of the television.
“I felt humiliated going into the police station and enduring the…
”

“You felt humiliated? What about Patrick?”

“He earned it. I didn’t.” Aaron stomped up the stairs. “I’m going to bed.
”

I hid my face in my hands and cried harder than I had in years. I hate crying. But I was angry. I was angry with Aaron for not getting it. I was angry with Patrick for his tattoo and for drinking. And I was angry with Timmy’s autism
.

I was angry with God.

19

I didn’t bother lifting my head off the pillow when the phone rang me out of a fitful sleep. I blindly lifted the receiver from the nightstand and parked it on my ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey, girl, it’s Reba. You awake?”