Without Absolution. Amy Sterling Casil
is as blind as the one in the middle of his forehead, is cast off, fixed somewhere on the wall. The eye from which he sees gazes darkly, fiercely, at me. I turn away.
“Sometimes people have things happen,” I say, my voice sounding as feeble as I feel. “My own father never came to see me at Christmas. I waited for him, time after time, but he never came. I wish someone had been able to tell me not to wait, then, the way I’m telling you now.”
“You always lie,” Jonny says. “You told me gramma was coming last year, and she didn’t come. Now you say she can’t come.”
His face is full of childish anger and pain. I try to kiss him atop his head, which is lolling forward at an alarming angle, and he pushes me away. My sore hand throbs. He hits me in the ribs and that hurts, too.
“I hate you,” he says in a toneless voice. Then he starts down the hall. His wheelchair creaks softly.
I murmur soothing things as I follow him to his dorm. He doesn’t respond. His left arm dangles as he manipulates the chair with the other arm. He enters the dorm and slowly, painfully, transfers from the chair to his bed. I watch through the security window. He doesn’t cry. Finally, I turn away. I’ll remind the aides to give him something special for Christmas, perhaps a drawing set. He enjoys artwork. I’m told his pieces are very colorful, though they all look gray to me.
* * * *
Monique has done the Christmas tree in silver and white. She’s obsessed with the new. I remember my childhood trees. The same little toys, the same fading tinsel, the hundred beloved objects, some paper, others glass or plastic, which my mother and I hung with care. Monique adores glamorous trees, the ones with each brand-new ornament carefully matched. Last year, she informed me that the tree was pink and burgundy. At least, I think, as I sip my egg nog and watch our fake gas log fire, I can tell that this year’s tree is silver and white, all the varying shades of the paler portion of the gray scale.
Karen is off at some church program. They’re making stockings for poor children. It bothers me that she’s gone, and I’m alone again with Monique. How old was Karen, when Monique began decorating the tree? Five, six? Jonny’s age. Was that the age when children began to lose their sense of magic, their trust in the love in the world? I swirl the nutmeg atop my egg nog, then swallow the whole sweet mess in one gulp.
I pour myself another egg nog and add a stiff slug of bourbon. The phone rings. I stay in my chair by the tree, staring at the fire. Monique is in the kitchen. She can get it.
I hear her voice. She sounds frightened, or angry. Her face is white as she brings me the phone. “Here,” she says, thrusting it at me. The antenna stabs my chest. I adjust it and lift it to my ear.
It’s the charge nurse at Sherman. Something terrible has happened. They’ve called an ambulance.
“I’ll come,” I say. “I can be there in ten minutes.”
“It’s Jonny,” the nurse says. My heart skips a beat. My foot slips a little on the thick rug as I stand. Monique glares.
“You’re not going down, are you?” It’s not a question.
“I have to. It’s an emergency,” I say.
“You’re drunk. You can’t drive. I’ll drive you,” she says.
Suddenly, I don’t want her with me, her accusing eyes, her porcelain face. I push her aside, grab my keys and I’m out the door. I speed through our quiet neighborhood, and I’m at Sherman within ten minutes. I park crookedly in my spot and run into the building.
The charge nurse greets me. She leads me toward Dorm A. “I’m sorry, Dr. Arlan,” she says. Her voice is breathless, rushed. “We had a new aide on duty. Christmas Eve, you know. All our experienced people have the night off. He came from a place for autistic children.”
We’re drawing closer to the dorm. Children are crying. Some of them are screaming. Nurses and aides crowd outside the dorm, peering through the security window. The charge nurse calls out a warning, and the crowd parts. We enter the dorm.
“I can’t understand why the ambulance isn’t here,” she says.
Jonny is in his bunk. His leg twitches feebly. I see a huge, dark splash on the wall, his bedding and hair stained the same color. The stain is a rich, deep gray, nearly black, the color of blood.
“What has happened to him? Has someone…”
“He was beating his head against the wall. All night long. The attendant let it go on, because he was used to autistic children. He didn’t realize what could happen.”
“He didn’t realize how delicate Jonny was,” I whisper. The coppery, sickening smell of blood is everywhere. I push the physician’s assistant away from his feeble searches with a stethoscope, and touch Jonny’s shoulder. It feels cold. He’s bled a tremendous amount, and there is a gaping hole in the side of his head where he must have been hitting the wall. I can see the delicate membrane inside, see where it has torn and the blood and tissue has rushed out. His third eye and the other blind eye stare at me. His one sighted eye faces the bloody bedding.
I want to run, but I keep my hand on his shoulder. “Jonny,” I whisper. “Jonny, I’m sorry.” Then, someone’s strong hand grasps my shoulder. A paramedic. The ambulance has finally arrived.
“Move aside,” the paramedic says, then he gets a good look at Jonny and swears under his breath. “Who the hell bashed this kid’s head open?” Then, he saw the third eye and looked toward me, questioning.
“Webern syndrome,” I tell him. The paramedic’s partner brushes by and moves a gurney toward Jonny’s bunk. The noise of their radios, their equipment, and their chatter is disorienting.
Someone pushes me in the small of my back. Yet another paramedic. “You need to step aside,” he says. I do, and the charge nurse follows. They lift Jonny’s tiny body from the bed to the gurney. One of the paramedics grimaces and looks away for a brief moment. Even they’re not hardened to boys like Jonny.
“He’s not going to make it,” I say, to no one in particular. Then, they’re wheeling him through the crying children. The blood spreads across Jonny’s bunk like the wing of a huge black crow.
“We need to call the counselors in, for the children. Look at them,” I tell the charge nurse. The ones still in bed are agitated, flapping their fins back and forth, kicking their stubby flippered legs. The children who can walk are gathered here and there. I hear some trying to comfort the others. One piping voice says, over and over, that Jonny’s going to be okay. Even so, I can’t get the memory of his head, split like an overripe pumpkin, from my mind.
* * * *
At seven-thirty, the shifts changed. I’m returning to my office when someone hands me a portable phone. Monique is on the line.
“We’re not waiting for dinner any longer,” she says. “Karen’s very upset.”
I hear sobbing in the background. “I can’t come now,” I tell her. There is a long silence.
Monique sighs. “I’m giving you two hours. If you’re not home by then, I’m talking Karen to my sister’s, then I’m leaving for Cabo. I may not…”
“Jonny’s been taken to the hospital,” I say, the words rushing out. “He might die. There’s massive trauma.”
“There’s trauma at home,” Monique says. “What can you do for him? There’s no point in staying.” Her voice is icy.
“You don’t understand.”
“I do understand,” she says, very slowly. “You’re killing yourself, Hed.” Someone touches my sleeve. One of the nurses. I hold the phone away. She wants me to go to another counseling session, then check in with the children in the dorm. I put the phone back to my ear, but the line is dead.
There were more counseling sessions. I oriented the