One of the appealing features of the neighborhood where my first husband and I bought our home was the sidewalk encircling the whole block. It was a common gathering place for residents, and an ideal circuit for walkers, runners or strollers.
As a young mother I made dozens of laps along the half-mile oval from my front door and back, pushing a stroller, pulling a wagon, or walking hand in hand with my children. The sidewalk served as a natural boundary for the kids, too; Natalie, at least, learned to stay on the right side of the walk, clear of the street beyond.
When she was about six years old, I sat on my front steps as Natalie ran down that sidewalk, eager to reach her best friends, sisters who’d just come from their house across the street. I watched as my happy daughter suddenly tripped on a crack and sprawled face first on the concrete, landing, fortuitously, at the feet of our dentist, the neighbor girls’ father, Lenny.
It looked worse than it was. No broken teeth, no split lip, not even a bitten tongue. Just a scrape and a scare, tears quickly soothed in my genial, even-tempered daughter. An unexpected mishap, soon forgotten, one of countless more to come over the course of her childhood.
For years after my son’s diagnosis I desperately craved a road map, some clue to what was coming next. I don’t know if I feel that way any more. Would I have had the courage to continue, to face all that lay ahead, if I knew how often, how painfully I would fall?
Years ago my daughter and I attended a “psychic” party hosted by Natalie’s stepmother, Mary. With no strong views on clairvoyance going in, I came out a believer: with a glimpse of my palm, Deb discerned facets of my life she couldn’t possibly have known, but did: I was an insomniac, a fledgling writer; I had another child, who did not speak, and had recently lost my father. It was uncanny.
We visited Deb several times in the ensuing years. She was so frequently on target that I trusted her gift, although, perhaps heedlessly, never actually based life decisions on her insights. It was all just in fun.
Two months ago Natalie and a few girlfriends scheduled readings with Deb, and drove from Lincoln Park to Downer’s Grove on a Wednesday evening during a heavy snowstorm. Although she’d just turned 25, I couldn’t help worrying, and sent Natalie a text about eight p.m. to make sure they weren’t stranded in a snowbank.
Undoubtedly it would have been better for both of us had I not done so. Our texting went pretty much like this:
“Andy says driving is awful so let me know when you guys get home, OK? xo”
“I will. Anita is finishing her reading and then Ari still has hers so it’ll be a while before we leave”
“Have you had yours?”
“Yes”
“Well??”
“All positive… She sees a big move for me though in 6 months so start preparing yourself”
“Wtf?!?”
“Hahahahahahaha”
“A geographic move???” …. “Andy says ‘Maybe she’s moving back home’”
“Hahahahahahaha. Yes a geographic move.”
“Noooooooooooo! (wailing emoji face) You can’t leave me! (wailing emoji) Omg my life is over”
“She said you would react that way…”
“Screw that shit!”
“Oh calm down.”
“What about your work?? Your licensing??? Omg”
“Ok, you’re ruining the fun, please stop”
“Where are you going?? I’m coming with you”
“I shouldn’t have said anything to you”
(Forty-five minute break while I attempted to compose myself)
“Well still let me know when you get home please”
“I will, we’re finally heading back now”
(One hour later): “Made it safely home alive”
“Good! Thanks for letting me know. xo”
“xoxoxoxoxoxo”
Yeah, I know.
Overreactive. Needy. Profane, to boot.
In the weeks since that exchange, I’ve struggled to understand my response, my utter panic at the thought of Natalie leaving the Chicago area, the seismic shift in our relationship I’ve allowed myself to imagine such a move would provoke. My husband suggests that the changing relationship with my son makes me more sensitive to any threat to my role in Natalie’s life.
But it’s more than that. Daniel’s disability has influenced our lives and our relationship immeasurably, but my bond with Natalie is unique. My relationship with my daughter is one of the foundations of my life. Losing her would be unbearable.
My mind leaps to such extremes, to all or nothing scenarios. I imagine her taking a job on another coast, building a separate life, starting a family I’ll scarcely know. I’ll be a part-time character in the cast of her world, cramming into rushed visits the intimacies we now routinely share. She’ll become a whole new person as I watch, wistfully, from the sidelines. Just as millions of moms do every day.
I don’t want to be one of those moms.
I want my daughter, near at hand, coming here on her day off to do laundry, stock up on paper towels, and store sweaters in my attic when the weather turns warm. I want to go to Macy’s together and buy her a lipstick, to witness her reaction as she sorts through her Easter basket and finds the “Instant Weirdo Glasses” I’ve tucked inside. I want to be a quick drive away if she gets ill, to be the one she calls when her apartment loses power for the first time. I want to join her and Andy at the dining room table as she completes her first grown-up tax return, to trade scornful commentary while watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I want to share salads at Panera, face to face, as she describes the young man she’s dating now, her friendships, the challenges and rewards of her new career.
For years I longed to know what lies ahead. But if what’s ahead is the loss of one ounce of what I have with my daughter, I don’t want to know.
Of course I’m not alone in these fears, the gnawing uncertainty of what life has in store. Doubt is normal, trust in a benevolent future hard to maintain in a world so often unkind. I miss the unguarded trust I once held, though, during the happiest days of my life: drifting along that tree-lined sidewalk with my perfect baby daughter, rich with the fullness of my world, the profound good fortune I knew, even then, I’d done nothing to earn. When autism threw a wrench in that trust, I never fully recovered.
The future is ripe with possibility now, especially in relation to my daughter. She is thriving and maturing and finding her own way, the very circumstances for which I’ve been hoping to lay the groundwork for years. Since the day she was born I’ve believed that my most essential role is to help her find her own path, yet I’m afraid to succeed if it means losing a part of her. I want her to stay with me, right here, on my side of the sidewalk.
I remember another moment on that sidewalk, when three-year-old Natalie ran toward me, laughing with joy. Her dress billowed behind her as her bare feet slapped the pavement with quick, confident steps, her smile clear and open and sure as she came to me, and I understood then: You will never forget this moment, Kristen. You’ll always have this moment in time.
I’m glad you aren’t afraid to run, beautiful girl. The cracks in the sidewalk are no match for you.
And they’re no match for my love for you, the bond sealing your heart to mine.
That bond is strong enough to stretch around the world and back.
xo