Miracle Creek(102)

6:45–8:15

HBOT



9–9:45

Home, sauna, shower



Looking for a break in the schedule, it occurred to her for the first time how exhausting this must be for Henry, even more than for her. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually eaten at a table, not in the car on the way to or from one therapy or another. Everything from speech and OT to interactive metronome and neurofeedback: every waking hour packed with practicing speech fluency, handwriting, sustained eye contact—nonstop work on things that were hard for him. Henry never complained, though. Just did what he was told, making progress day by day. And she’d never seen how amazing that was for a kid because she’d been too busy seething with self-pity and resentment at him for not being the child she’d wanted: an easygoing kid who loved cuddling, with good grades and friends constantly calling for playdates. She’d blamed Henry for having autism, for the crying and researching and driving that came with it. And the hurting.

She looked up again and imagined tomorrow’s schedule with nothing but 9:30–3:30 Camp on it. A day with no rushing, no running late, no yelling at Henry to please, for the love of God, stop being spacey and move faster. A day when she could do nothing for an hour, maybe nap or watch TV, and more important, when Henry could play games or ride a bike. Wasn’t that what the protesters and Kitt were saying he needed? She wrote on her notepad NO MORE HBOT! and underlined it so hard the pen broke through the paper. Circling those words, she felt every organ in her body become buoyed, suspended in a glorious weightless state, and she knew: she needed to stop. Stop the therapies, the treatments, all the running around. Stop the hating, the blaming, the hurting.

The rest of the afternoon, she spent in giddiness. She called Henry’s speech therapist and canceled that day’s session (and a bonus: she’d called in time to avoid the two-hour-notice penalty fee). She picked up Henry at the regular camp dismissal time with the other kids for maybe the third time ever. They came straight home, and instead of coaching him through vision-therapy and social-skills homework, she let him plop down on the sofa with a bowl of organic coconut-milk ice cream and watch whatever show he wanted (within reason: Discovery and National Geographic channels only) while she looked up cancellation policies on the websites of all the therapists he went to—there were so many!—and sent e-mail after e-mail giving the required notice.

Miracle Submarine was the only problem. She’d gotten a discount for prepaying for forty dives upfront, and Pak’s “Regulations and Policies” document said nothing about refunds. What’s more, there was a full penalty for same-day cancellations. A hundred bucks, down the drain. She hated that (wasting money was her pet peeve). It wasn’t enough to change her mind, but it rankled her, deflated her bubble of excitement about her stop-everything decision, which was what led to Mistake #1, the first in the series of her decisions and actions that led to Henry’s death: calling Pak (instead of e-mailing) to try to work out a deal, maybe by finding someone to take over their contract for at least a partial refund. Strangely, though, when she called the barn phone, no one answered and the usual answering machine didn’t pick up. She hung up and was about to try Pak’s cell when her phone rang.

If she’d looked at caller ID, she wouldn’t have answered. But she didn’t (Mistake #2). She assumed it was Pak returning her missed call and answered, “Hey, Pak, I’m so glad I caught you. I’m—” at which point Kitt interrupted and said, “Elizabeth, it’s me. Listen—” at which point she said, “Kitt, I really can’t talk right now,” and went to hang up but Kitt said, “Wait, please. I know you’re mad, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t call CPS. I know you don’t believe me, so I spent all day online and calling people, and I found out. I know who it is.”

Elizabeth thought about pretending not to have heard and hanging up, but her curiosity got the better of her, so—Mistake #3—she stayed on the line and listened to Kitt go on and on about how she cross-referenced every autism chat board and managed to find a protester who disapproved of the group’s growing militancy and how she got her password to their message board and, voilà, there it was, a treasure trove of threads by ProudAutismMom complaining about Elizabeth’s dangerous “so-called treatments,” planning protests at Miracle Submarine and, finally, the smoking gun, bragging about her call to CPS last week.

Elizabeth listened to it all, didn’t say a word, and when Kitt finished, curtly thanked her, hung up, and went back to the special treat she’d been making for dinner, Henry’s favorite—“pizza” with fake “cheese” (grated cauliflower) on homemade coconut-flour crust. But putting a slice on the fancy china she’d laid out for their sit-down dinner, her hands shook with anger, with hatred. She knew that woman hated her. But an entire group talking about her behind her back and planning to bring her down—it burned her. Humiliated her. She pictured that silver-haired woman spewing venom, reporting her “abuse” to CPS, not caring how that might ruin her life or Henry’s, gloating that she’d stop Elizabeth no matter what. What would that woman think when Elizabeth didn’t show up tonight? Would she bring out the champagne? Pop the cork and toast to the group’s success in slaying an evil child abuser?

No. She couldn’t not show up tonight. She couldn’t let that hateful, smug, so-called ProudAutismMom think that she’d won. She couldn’t give that bully the satisfaction of thinking she’d been shamed into hiding. And it was more than that. Now that the call with Kitt had popped her bubble of impulsivity for good and she was no longer giddy, she could see: her canceling everything left and right on a moment’s whim, without consulting any of Henry’s teachers—it was rash, irresponsible, downright cocky. And canceling HBOT tonight, with no way of getting any money back—what sense did that make? It wasn’t as if HBOT was harmful. Since she’d already paid the hundred bucks, why not do one more dive? Finish out the day, endure the driving one more time, which, knowing it was her last, might heighten her anticipation and bring closure. She could even sit out the dive, ask the others to supervise—Kitt had done that once when she was sick—and go to the creek to really mull things over in total peace and make sure she was making the right decision. And best of all, she’d pass by that silver-haired woman. She’d tell her she knew all about her plans, the CPS call, and if she didn’t stop, she’d file a complaint against her for harassment.