“Closet okay? Closet? Mom?
I said closet okay?”
“It’s okay, Joy,” Sarah
responded, exasperated.
Where was this coming
from, anyway, this closet okay obsession?
For years – since Joy could talk, really – she uttered “I’m sorry” at every
conceivable moment. When she rose, when she lay down to sleep, when family
members were conversing over a meal (or trying to converse), if you were on the
phone, or trying to peck out some words on your laptop or sitting on the toilet.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
The only words capable of
breaking the chain were “It’s okay, Joy, it’s okay.” If you attempted something
in the order of “Why are you sorry?” or “Stop it, Joy!” or even said “It’s okay”
loudly or sarcastically, you’d regret it. Crying, screaming or a physical
attack would ensue; best to just acquiesce. About five minutes later, though, the
mantra would begin all over again. It drove nearly everyone in the household mad
from time to time; usually family members played along to simply get by. Confused
visitors would often chime in with the wrong responses, but eventually learned to
play the I’m sorry game, too.
Sarah often wondered what
she did in her daughter’s younger years to cause this particular phrase to
bubble up from Joy’s subconscious, a rote banter associated with autism as a
form of comfort and control. Sarah knew she was no mother of the year, often
losing patience over the decades of shattered glass, public tantrums and physical
abuse. She was especially ill-tempered during the nine years of diapers, with Joy’s
penchant for laughing hysterically while smearing feces on the wall.
With a wince she
remembered slapping Joy after she attacked her baby sister in the back seat of
the car, leaving the infant screaming with a bloody face as Sarah frantically
pulled off to the side of the road. That was the time a police officer walked
up to ensure Sarah wasn’t abusing her children. She pushed the memory away.
Her mind sometimes conjured
up the image of a man named Gary…a large, gentle, sweet soul who used to
exercise with his elderly father at a local gym Sarah frequented in her 30s. Joy
would have been around six or seven then. The man’s face and behaviors suggested
some sort of mental impairment, and before long you could piece together the
dynamic of a tired father who had given care for more years than he ever
anticipated. Sarah and the other gym patrons would look on – sometimes amused,
other times alarmed – while Gary would punctuate every bench press, sit-up and
arm-curl with expletives laced into what one could only assume was a parroting of
the things he had heard within the privacy of his home. When he was a child,
perhaps?
“Gary, you broke the pipe
and now it’s flooded! Goddammit! Goddamnit!” he’d roar while sucking in air
between curls. Sarah would steal a sideways glance at Gary’s father, who one
could only assume was the owner of those words. Each gym visit brought with it fresh,
colorful hysteria over ugly moments of days gone by. There were the times Gary screamed
bloody murder over crashed vases and others yet where he’d hurl f-bombs about paint
on a wall. Green, specifically. One time he broke loose over bed wetting. “Gary!
I can’t change those fucking sheets ONE. MORE. TIME. Piss in the toilet!” His
father -- weary, gray, the embodiment of patience -- would try to quiet him, attempt
to console him, but no consoling or volume control was to be had until Gary was
done with his physical activity and ready to leave.
“That will never be me,” Sarah
sniffed to herself, alternating between empathy, sympathy and finally,
judgement for the dad. “I will do it differently. Joy will never say those
words.”
No, Joy thankfully didn’t absorb
the vulgarity – although there was plenty of that – but she sure was sorry. So,
so sorry, all the time. Sorry around the clock. Sorry for more than two
decades. Sarah wished she could speak with that father now, approach him with a
hand to his shoulder, a gentle look, eyes locked in mutual understanding. She’d
tell him not to worry, he was among friends here, that no one could possibly understand
his personal journey. But it was too late now, and she
was, well, sorry.
Sarah returned to the present
day. Why the obsession with closets since the hurricane and those days at the
shelter? Where did the I’m sorrys go? She didn’t know.
“Mom?”
“Yes, Joy.”
“Closet okay?”
“Yes it is, sweetheart. It’s
okay.”
