Part 21 (1/2)

VICTORIA.

Am I a good mother?

In the months prior to our marriage unraveling, Michael claimed that my personal failings were holding Evan back. I refused to view my son and his issues objectively. I refused to consider that someone else-or perhaps, more specifically, somewhere else-would be in my son's best interest.

By believing I was the only person who could help Evan, I was, in fact, guilty of the worst sort of hubris. I was arrogant, self-centered, and putting my needs as a mother above the needs of my son. I was also ignoring my husband and my daughter, fracturing the family I was supposed to nurture and protect.

To hear Michael describe it, Evan's temper tantrums, violent acts, and chronic insomnia were all my fault. If I could just be a better mom, Evan would be a better child. Preferably one who was locked up somewhere, where parents could visit at their convenience and a younger sibling could forget he ever existed.

Stop being such a martyr, Michael kept saying. This isn't about you. It's about what's best for him. Dammit, we have resources, he'd add, as if Evan were some sort of remodeling project that if we just threw enough money at would be done to our satisfaction.

For the record, it's not easy to inst.i.tutionalize a child. There are very few long-term-care facilities. The good ones have waiting lists. The bad ones are a rung below the maximum security prison where many of the kids like Evan will eventually wind up. Evan's third doctor, after the crowbar episode, said he could work some magic on our behalf. That's pretty much what it takes for immediate placement. It's like a letter of recommendation from a wealthy alumnus to get your kid into the right prep school. Except it's a request from a prominent child psychiatrist to inst.i.tutionalize your child.

The place he recommended had once served as a monastery. It was known for its stripped-down simplicity and structured approach to life. Unbeknownst to Michael, I toured it one afternoon. The rooms were small and guaranteed not to overstimulate. The walls were carved out of stone so thick, no amount of lighting would ever diminish the gloom.

The facility promoted self-discipline, hard work, and independence. I thought it smelled like an old folks' home, someplace you went to die. I couldn't picture a seven-year-old boy here. I couldn't imagine Evan, with his brilliant smile and infectious giggle, ever wandering these dreary halls.

So I kept him home with me. And my husband and daughter left instead.

I don't know if I am a good mom. Evan isn't the child I planned on having. This isn't the life I dreamed of living. I get up each morning and do the best I can. Some days, I give too much. Some days, I don't give nearly enough.

But I'm not a martyr.

I know, because at 2 p.m. I'm going to do something that's absolutely, positively not in Evan's best interest.

And I don't give a d.a.m.n.

I start my preparations at noon. First, I make Evan a peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly sandwich with a crushed Valium tablet sprinkled in the middle. Don't ask me how I learned to do this. Don't ask me what kind of pressure drives a mother to spend her afternoons crus.h.i.+ng up various medications and mixing them into various lunch options. For the record, you need something sweet, like jelly or honey, to hide the bitterness. Grilled cheese ... it took hours to effectively clean the grease spot off my gla.s.s sliders.

I serve the sandwich with apple slices and a cup of milk on the coffee table. Evan perks up. Lunch in the family room means he gets to eat while watching TV. This is a rare treat, and he's already shaking off the residues of our morning playground drama.

Next, I turn on Evan's favorite channel-the History Channel. Evan can watch tales of historical events for hours, from stories of Pompeii, to the life-sized clay soldiers recovered from the Chinese emperor's tomb, to images of the t.i.tanic. His favorite books are the Magic Tree House series, where Jack and Annie travel to various places in time. He loves nonfiction, as well. Biographies, coffee-table books, old lithographs-all of it fascinates him.

He gets this from his father, yet one more thing Michael will never know.

Currently, the History Channel is airing a show on digging the tunnel between Britain and France. There are images of heavy machinery and men in hard hats covered in mud. Evan picks up the first half of his sandwich and is transfixed.

I walk to the entryway, where I check the front door. Evan learned to work the bolt lock by age three, escaping at whim. He also mastered chain locks and the heavy gla.s.s sliders. As a result, my front door now features a key-in, key-out bolt lock. I also converted the gla.s.s sliders, meaning that every entry/exit in the house can only be accessed using the key I wear on a chain around my neck. If there's ever a fire, and I lose said key, Evan and I will burn alive.

But at least he can't escape while I'm showering.

Upstairs I strip in the master bath. I take a moment to look at my reflection in the mirror, though I know I shouldn't. I was a beautiful girl once. The kind of lithe, silvery-blonde beauty that turns heads. I understood my power early on, and used it wisely. I lived in a mobile home with newspaper stuffed in the cracks for insulation. I wanted out, and my looks were just the ticket.

I started on the pageant circle, winning modest amounts of money, which my jealous mother stole from my bank account. I kept going, eventually securing a scholars.h.i.+p to college. That's where I met Michael. I recognized him immediately as someone just like me. Attractive, driven, desperate. We'd been stomped on enough in life and we weren't going to take it anymore.

I lost my virginity to him when I was twenty years old, though my mother had been calling me a s.l.u.t for at least the past six years.

I cried that night. Michael held me, and I felt genuinely special. The pageants were just t.i.tles. It was Michael who made me feel like a princess.

I don't look like a beauty queen anymore. My face is gaunt, my skin nearly translucent, stretched too thin across my bony ribs and jutting pelvis. There's a giant green-and-yellow stain on my left side-I think Evan had pushed me down the stairs. Fresher purple bruises run up my right leg. Red welts mark my forearm. I look old and beaten, and for a moment, I want to cry.

For the beauty that faded too fast. For the youth that disappeared too quickly. For the dreams I thought I would fulfill.

There are pieces of yourself that once you give away ...

But I want them back. Dear G.o.d, there are moments when I just want them back.

Two o'clock. Everything will be better at two o'clock. I turn on the shower, step in the spray, and begin to shave my legs.

I return downstairs nearly an hour later, an eternity in my world. I've taken the time to smooth my favorite rose-scented lotion into my skin. I've buffed my nails, loofahed my feet, used a special conditioner on my hair. If not prettier, at least I'm s.h.i.+nier than I used to be. It's the best I can do.

Evan's slouched into the sofa. The History Channel is blaring, the station having segued from the English tunnel to Boston's Big Dig. The sandwich's gone. Evan appears gla.s.sy-eyed. First the morning's dose of Ativan, now this.

I sit next to Evan, feather back his blonde hair. He stirs enough to look at me.

”Pretty,” he says thickly, and it amazes me how I can smile and feel my heart break at the same time.

”I love you.”

”Tired,” he says.

”Would you like to rest?”

”TV!” he yells, not totally under the influence yet.

”After TV, then.”

He s.h.i.+fts away, his gaze riveted once more to the magic box. We sit side by side, my son sinking deeper into drugged oblivion, me fidgeting with my push-up bra.

The show breaks for a commercial. I glance at my watch. Ten minutes to go. Now or never. I pick up the remote, turn off the TV. I wait for Evan's squawk, but it never comes. He's slack-jawed, already two beats from unconsciousness.

He doesn't protest as I slip an arm around his shoulders, guide him off the sofa and up the stairs. For an eight-year-old boy, he feels nearly weightless against me. The ADHD, we're told, his constant agitation. He could follow Michael Phelps's diet, and still lose weight.

In his room, I tuck him in bed fully clothed. It's his second nap of the day and I will pay for it later. A long, sleepless night where my son will work off the edgy aftereffects by tras.h.i.+ng the house.

But it will be worth it, I think. As long as I can have two o'clock.

I glance at my watch. Three minutes and counting.

”Mommy,” my son mumbles.

”Yes, Evan?”

”Love you.”

”I love you, too, honey.”