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She arrived with a tomato casserole in hand, this neighbor I barely knew. Gazing at my newborn child, her dark brow furrowed momentarily. “She’s like my eldest,” she said softly, and brought a venison stew the next day.
Inexplicably she hovered like a kind aunt, which suited me fine as we had no family in the area. I’d left my job at the bank, but my husband and friends were working. Her company entertained and comforted me in those days. My neighbor was equally kooky and concerned. She suggested giving Meghan dog biscuits for teething, which made me laugh, and she responded with a broad smile and an arm around my shoulder when I was depleted and offered to take Meghan for a stroll so that I could rest.
As a young child Meghan’s favorite spot was between my neighbor and me on a bench where we spent long mornings in the park. Meghan sat silently tracking the children, as though she were a shepherd watching her flock. When I couldn’t push, prod, or cajole her into playing, my neighbor reassured me, “Give her a little time. She’ll figure it out.”
Although it took a few years during which I fretted to my husband that there must be something wrong with her, Meghan eventually played with the other children, and when she did, she was a natural leader. She organized children in games of chase. My neighbor and the other mothers and I marveled at Meghan’s prowess as she ran alongside the children in the grassy field, freeing us to chat at picnic tables in the shade. All of us acted unaware of the culprit when now and then a child yowled after being pinched or bit.
As Meghan grew, I was almost embarrassed by her beauty.
I imagined her as an astronomer when I passed her bedroom each night and saw her gazing out the window, her lustrous brown hair gleaming in the moonlight. She sat transfixed for hours until all were sleep, save for the wolves howling in the distance. ”A veterinarian?” I asked myself when she voraciously read the animal encyclopedia. Yet when a bird hit the windowpane, she bolted outside, and what I saw next shocked me.
Trouble began for Meghan in high school. She was impulsive like many teens, but her controlling nature and strength made her dangerous. I saw animalistic passion, individuality, beauty, yet I found myself suppressing a growing alarm. More than once her trigger reflex sent her lunging at another student.
It didn’t help her popularity with the administration when I took her side. My husband and the principal were perplexed by Meghan’s rage fueled reaction upon witnessing a boy pinch a girl’s nipple as he passed her, or when another boy grabbed Meghan’s ass.
The difference was that most girls turn their anger inward, I tried to explain, whereas Meghan was healthy enough to know that neither she nor her classmate deserved to be treated like that. They looked at me dumbfounded that I would defend her behavior. I sensed that I wasn’t making an ally of the principal.
He told me that during class time, Meghan repeatedly interrupted her teachers to correct them, and once lay down at the back of a classroom to take a nap on the carpet. “How serious are these offenses?” I asked the principal, raising my eyebrows to imply, “Not very.” “She’s not going to manage well here if this continues,” he responded, but he sounded more defensive than threatening.
School counselors labeled her “autistic” and “oppositionaly defiant.” The idea that it was genetic eased my shame if not my panic.
Although otherwise she was a fish out of water in high school, Meghan was at home on the track where she proved to be a fierce athlete. Meghan ran as though tracking prey, passing opponents until she led the pack. But her body began to betray her in other ways.
My neighbor brought products that had helped tame her son’s hair, and suggested extra sturdy clippers for nails that grew like claws.
At her annual IEP meeting in high school, when the school counselor referred to the hair on Meghan’s hands as fur, Meghan lowered her head and licked with long strokes of her tongue. Although unspoken, we all knew Meghan would be at the alternative school if it weren’t for her running prowess.
“Don’t let the stress divide you two,” my neighbor counseled. “She’ll be gone soon enough.” But there was nothing to allay my husband’s grief when the daughter to whom he had cooed, and whom he’d imagined walking down the aisle, sniffed his armpits when he entered the house. “Sensory Integration Dysfunction,” the counselor tried to assure him.
Meghan grew anxious as the college acceptance letters arrived. “We would be honored to welcome a top athlete like you to our school,” the letters stated confidently. But after the tumult of the last several years, the three of us were doubtful.
Once when I passed her room at night she motioned to me to join her. “Listen,” she said when I was next to her at the window. Amongst the yaps and howls of wolves one voice was audible above the others. “The leader of the pack is calling,” she said looking into my face. I beamed back at her. In the moonlight she was beautiful, and the wonder on her face transported me to the days when we sat with my neighbor on the park bench as she tracked the children, curiously watching, and trying to figure things out.
We began hearing her footsteps pass our window at night. She walked lightly, hoping we wouldn’t hear her. “Let her go,” my husband, said, “She needs to be a teenager.” But I worried nonetheless. A teen party seemed too much to hope for. I expected an explanation when I found mud on the carpet one morning, but instead Meghan squatted as though she was going to urinate on it. “What the hell?” I blurted, and she looked up surprised.
The counselor had a name for Meghan’s predilection for spiders. “Pica,” she called it looking at me over her glasses, and I wondered how much more of this either of us could stand. My need for answers and my pain were equally excruciating.
One afternoon when my neighbor came for tea she was uncharacteristically quiet. Finally, glancing down at the flowered table cloth between us she confided, “Randy was only seventeen when he left suddenly in the night. We told everyone that we’d enrolled him in military school, but I don’t really know the truth.” Her eyes briefly met mine and then she glanced down again. “I thought you should know,” she said hoarsely.
As if on cue, the next night Meghan was gone.
Some nights sitting by Meghan’s window I think I hear her calling me. But it’s only the pack leader’s companion harmonizing with his howl in the moonlight. He’s found a mate.
I wonder if the school or neighbors will send the police since I haven’t called for help and can’t provide an acceptable explanation. Or perhaps they’re just relieved that she’s gone.
My neighbor doesn’t stop by anymore, but we sometimes see each other at the supermarket. The look that passes between us conveys the depths of sadness only a parent is capable of, and an unsettling peace. Our suspicion -– that for which anyone else would think us crazy -- reassures us, yet we can’t bring ourselves to speak it aloud.
My husband says, “She’ll be fine,” but his tone is heavy, and his eyes won’t meet mine.
I listen to the wolves at night. My longing, resignation, and sorrow, voiced in their song. I’m glad they’ve found each other.
I imagine my neighbor joining me here, the two of us listening to the wolves, and how comforting her presence would be. Instead I crawl into bed, and hold my husband’s hand in the darkness.
In the spring, will the wolf pair have pups biting the tips of their ears and nipping at their heels? Will we be fortunate enough to hear their yips, immature and out of tune with their parents while I hold my husband’s hand under the patchwork quilt? Would we be safe if we walked into the trees to find them there?
Inexplicably she hovered like a kind aunt, which suited me fine as we had no family in the area. I’d left my job at the bank, but my husband and friends were working. Her company entertained and comforted me in those days. My neighbor was equally kooky and concerned. She suggested giving Meghan dog biscuits for teething, which made me laugh, and she responded with a broad smile and an arm around my shoulder when I was depleted and offered to take Meghan for a stroll so that I could rest.
As a young child Meghan’s favorite spot was between my neighbor and me on a bench where we spent long mornings in the park. Meghan sat silently tracking the children, as though she were a shepherd watching her flock. When I couldn’t push, prod, or cajole her into playing, my neighbor reassured me, “Give her a little time. She’ll figure it out.”
Although it took a few years during which I fretted to my husband that there must be something wrong with her, Meghan eventually played with the other children, and when she did, she was a natural leader. She organized children in games of chase. My neighbor and the other mothers and I marveled at Meghan’s prowess as she ran alongside the children in the grassy field, freeing us to chat at picnic tables in the shade. All of us acted unaware of the culprit when now and then a child yowled after being pinched or bit.
As Meghan grew, I was almost embarrassed by her beauty.
I imagined her as an astronomer when I passed her bedroom each night and saw her gazing out the window, her lustrous brown hair gleaming in the moonlight. She sat transfixed for hours until all were sleep, save for the wolves howling in the distance. ”A veterinarian?” I asked myself when she voraciously read the animal encyclopedia. Yet when a bird hit the windowpane, she bolted outside, and what I saw next shocked me.
Trouble began for Meghan in high school. She was impulsive like many teens, but her controlling nature and strength made her dangerous. I saw animalistic passion, individuality, beauty, yet I found myself suppressing a growing alarm. More than once her trigger reflex sent her lunging at another student.
It didn’t help her popularity with the administration when I took her side. My husband and the principal were perplexed by Meghan’s rage fueled reaction upon witnessing a boy pinch a girl’s nipple as he passed her, or when another boy grabbed Meghan’s ass.
The difference was that most girls turn their anger inward, I tried to explain, whereas Meghan was healthy enough to know that neither she nor her classmate deserved to be treated like that. They looked at me dumbfounded that I would defend her behavior. I sensed that I wasn’t making an ally of the principal.
He told me that during class time, Meghan repeatedly interrupted her teachers to correct them, and once lay down at the back of a classroom to take a nap on the carpet. “How serious are these offenses?” I asked the principal, raising my eyebrows to imply, “Not very.” “She’s not going to manage well here if this continues,” he responded, but he sounded more defensive than threatening.
School counselors labeled her “autistic” and “oppositionaly defiant.” The idea that it was genetic eased my shame if not my panic.
Although otherwise she was a fish out of water in high school, Meghan was at home on the track where she proved to be a fierce athlete. Meghan ran as though tracking prey, passing opponents until she led the pack. But her body began to betray her in other ways.
My neighbor brought products that had helped tame her son’s hair, and suggested extra sturdy clippers for nails that grew like claws.
At her annual IEP meeting in high school, when the school counselor referred to the hair on Meghan’s hands as fur, Meghan lowered her head and licked with long strokes of her tongue. Although unspoken, we all knew Meghan would be at the alternative school if it weren’t for her running prowess.
“Don’t let the stress divide you two,” my neighbor counseled. “She’ll be gone soon enough.” But there was nothing to allay my husband’s grief when the daughter to whom he had cooed, and whom he’d imagined walking down the aisle, sniffed his armpits when he entered the house. “Sensory Integration Dysfunction,” the counselor tried to assure him.
Meghan grew anxious as the college acceptance letters arrived. “We would be honored to welcome a top athlete like you to our school,” the letters stated confidently. But after the tumult of the last several years, the three of us were doubtful.
Once when I passed her room at night she motioned to me to join her. “Listen,” she said when I was next to her at the window. Amongst the yaps and howls of wolves one voice was audible above the others. “The leader of the pack is calling,” she said looking into my face. I beamed back at her. In the moonlight she was beautiful, and the wonder on her face transported me to the days when we sat with my neighbor on the park bench as she tracked the children, curiously watching, and trying to figure things out.
We began hearing her footsteps pass our window at night. She walked lightly, hoping we wouldn’t hear her. “Let her go,” my husband, said, “She needs to be a teenager.” But I worried nonetheless. A teen party seemed too much to hope for. I expected an explanation when I found mud on the carpet one morning, but instead Meghan squatted as though she was going to urinate on it. “What the hell?” I blurted, and she looked up surprised.
The counselor had a name for Meghan’s predilection for spiders. “Pica,” she called it looking at me over her glasses, and I wondered how much more of this either of us could stand. My need for answers and my pain were equally excruciating.
One afternoon when my neighbor came for tea she was uncharacteristically quiet. Finally, glancing down at the flowered table cloth between us she confided, “Randy was only seventeen when he left suddenly in the night. We told everyone that we’d enrolled him in military school, but I don’t really know the truth.” Her eyes briefly met mine and then she glanced down again. “I thought you should know,” she said hoarsely.
As if on cue, the next night Meghan was gone.
Some nights sitting by Meghan’s window I think I hear her calling me. But it’s only the pack leader’s companion harmonizing with his howl in the moonlight. He’s found a mate.
I wonder if the school or neighbors will send the police since I haven’t called for help and can’t provide an acceptable explanation. Or perhaps they’re just relieved that she’s gone.
My neighbor doesn’t stop by anymore, but we sometimes see each other at the supermarket. The look that passes between us conveys the depths of sadness only a parent is capable of, and an unsettling peace. Our suspicion -– that for which anyone else would think us crazy -- reassures us, yet we can’t bring ourselves to speak it aloud.
My husband says, “She’ll be fine,” but his tone is heavy, and his eyes won’t meet mine.
I listen to the wolves at night. My longing, resignation, and sorrow, voiced in their song. I’m glad they’ve found each other.
I imagine my neighbor joining me here, the two of us listening to the wolves, and how comforting her presence would be. Instead I crawl into bed, and hold my husband’s hand in the darkness.
In the spring, will the wolf pair have pups biting the tips of their ears and nipping at their heels? Will we be fortunate enough to hear their yips, immature and out of tune with their parents while I hold my husband’s hand under the patchwork quilt? Would we be safe if we walked into the trees to find them there?
