Five Days of Highs and Lows

August 21st, 2008. The happiest day of my life. A summer storm washed away the countryside as I drove your mother to the hospital. Her contractions were steady, and the incessant rain clouding the windshield filled her heart with fear, the fear that lives in every mother when the safety of her child is at play. You were still on the cusp of birth, but she was very much a mother already. She had always been. “Slow down,” she repeated. “I swear, Tyler, if you drive us into a ditch in the middle of nowhere, you better learn how to deliver a baby fast.”

That would have been okay. I was willing to do anything to bring you into this world. For selfish reasons, maybe. How excited I was at the idea of becoming a father, of having a son. A son with endless possibilities ahead of him. A son that could succeed where I failed. It was as if I was young again, being given a second chance at life through my blood and flesh. “We’re almost there, Wendy. I got this. I’m right there with you.” Perhaps completely deaf to the tone of the moment, I tried cracking a joke. “Worst case, Old Joe’s daughter delivered a litter of cat herself at the farm last week. It’s pretty much the same, I’m sure she could figure it out. Just go ‘Meow’.” The joke did not sit well.

We finally reached the safety of the hospital. While your mother went through body-splitting pain, I sat quietly thinking of all the things I could teach you. I cherished the ambition of becoming a world class mathematician for a long time, but life decided otherwise. I didn’t have the potential, nor the discipline, so I became a high school teacher. You, however, had the potential, I was certain of it. And I would impart you with the discipline. You would learn algebra before any other kid of your age. You would know calculus by the age of twelve.  You would be introduced to differential geometry by the age of fifteen. The whole plan had been hatched, before you even drew your first breath. Who knows, maybe one day you could even fulfill my childhood dream: proving the Hodge Conjecture. One of the most elusive problems in mathematical history, a proof worth wealth and fame, and you would be the one to solve it. For me.

Naturally, you would also be the popular kid I always wanted to be, the life of every party. You would have so many friends, your mother and I would have a hard time keeping up, shielded from the bitter loneliness of existence by your social circle. Then I heard you cry for the first time, and I cried too. “Carl,” I told her. “We should name him Carl. Like Gauss.”

“Isn’t there anything more modern? You must have at least ONE math idol with a hip name.” She didn’t understand, of course. Who could dislike the idea of naming you after the Prince of Mathematics? It was my responsibility to set you up for success, starting with an honorable name. “Count yourself lucky I didn’t go for Euclid.”

We brought you home, elated with joy, love and hope. We were mom and dad now. For the good times… and the bad times.

***

July 4^th, 2011. The day my hopes shattered into infinitesimal pieces. There were hints throughout the years. You were different. You didn’t play with the other children, no matter how hard I tried to push you towards them. Your days were spent stacking up objects, so absorbed by the task it felt as if the world around you disappeared.  Most strikingly, you didn’t speak. Not a word.

“It’s a spectrum,” Dr. Callaway explained. “It’s difficult at this stage to know precisely where he’s situated. Cognitive tests indicate he has a strong sense of logic and patterns, but he’s severely behind on speech and social development.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I replied, unconsciously raising my voice. “He’s not even four, maybe it’s just a phase. I’m sure it’s just a phase.”

“Calm down Tyler.” Needless to say, your mother was unimpressed with my reaction, rightfully so. “Dr. Callaway is only trying to help us understand.”

“She’s not, she’s telling us there’s something wrong with our son. There’s nothing wrong with him!”

“You’re absolutely right Mr. Harris,” Dr. Callaway patiently explained. “Special needs shouldn’t be seen as disorders. They just mean your child will be learning differently. I am sure you will love him for who he is, with all the wonderful things he will bring into the world in his own way.”

I stormed out. Who did she think she was? You were MY son. How could she know more than me about your future? You were going to have so many friends, to escape the bitter loneliness of existence, to be introduced to differential geometry by the age of fifteen. None of what she said would change any of it.

And yet, it did. The years passed. It became more and more difficult to ignore it. Every morning, we took you to a special needs daycare. You seemed peaceful, happy, stacking up toys with the innocence of a child. The stuffed animals were your friends. I should have been grateful for all the blessings you gave us. Then why was I empty, mourning dreams that weren’t even mine to begin with?

***

April 13^th, 2014. The day everything collapsed. I came home late, my blood filled with poison. You covered your ears as I argued with your mother. The strongly worded sentences quickly escalated into yells of pure anger and resentment. Not towards you. Towards each other. We were both time bombs that had been waiting to explode for six years.

“Maybe if you learned to see your son for who he truly is, you wouldn’t need to drink like a dry barrel every night!” she blurted out.

“I wonder who the blind one really is,” I retorted, the words coming out of me like venom. “Just because you manage to pretend like everything is normal, doesn’t mean it is. Don’t even try to pretend like it’s not an act.”

“An act?” she exclaimed indignantly. “Since when is being a loving mother an act? I call it being a decent person!”

“I’m a loving father too!” I replied. “I just don’t dial back my emotions to fit into your pretty pink life.”

“A loving father doesn’t struggle to look at his son,” she cried out. “A loving father puts his family before his own selfish needs!”

“I have no problem seeing him for what he really is, and I still love him.”

“Still,” she whispered disapprovingly. “That’s the keyword here. Still. True, unconditional love doesn’t know still. Say it. Out loud. What do you see when you look at him?”

That’s when the word came out. A word I should never have said. A hideous, disgusting word that was a in reality a reflection of myself, not a reflection of you. It took about a microsecond for me to regret it, but it was too late. Things could never go back to the way they were. It was now your mother who couldn’t look at me in the eyes. She hired a lawyer the following day. The dream of a perfect family had collapsed, by my fault.

***

October 7^th, 2016. The time we spent apart was enlightening. For the first time, I realized what I was missing. Your presence, your smile, your laugh. The few moments we did have together were beyond precious. I was ecstatic to have you for myself that weekend. I had been given a chance to be a father again, even if only for three days. I picked you up from school, and your giggles as your tried to skip over the pavement cracks in the fall weather brought me to life again. You still wouldn’t speak, nor play with other children, but your teachers said you could solve puzzles like no one else. I knew it, deep down inside: you could still do math. That fire was still alive. I resolved to teach you math every weekend we spent together. Enough with the play time.

The minute we got home, I pulled out a stack of paper, put a pencil in your hand, and we got started on algebra. You did it brilliantly! Polynomials, quadratic functions, even trigonometry, you picked it up one right after the other. At the age of eight years old, you had mastered more advanced work in two days than some people master by the time they reach college. A geyser of hope erupted within my core. Your condition was merely a façade. There was so much potential to unlock, such brilliance eluding me behind those evasive eyes. What if it was still possible? What if you could still prove it?

I put another sheet of paper in front of you. The Hodge Conjecture statement was there, black on white. “Let X be a non-singular complex projective manifold. Then every Hodge class on X is a linear combination with rational coefficients of the cohomology classes of complex subvarieties of X.” Then I went to bed, and tossed and turned all night.

The following day was like Christmas morning, in the middle of October. I woke up, as excited as a child would be. You were still in the living room, your eyes blankly fixated on the sheets of paper before you, except this time they were filled, from top to bottom. Page after page of complex algebra, written by the scribbling hand of an eight-year-old. Impossible. You had done it. The Hodge Conjecture had been proven by my son, the one who was “different.”

Nobody would have believed me. How could I go into the world and tell them my eight-year-old son with special needs had solved a Millenium Prize problem? The idea was ludicrous, it was unthinkable. Yet, the proof was there. The world needed to know, I couldn’t just keep it for myself, such groundbreaking work belonged in the public domain. There was only one option left: I had to claim it for myself. The world would have to believe I came up with the proof. The man they always underestimated, who ended up working as a high school teacher, would go down in history amongst the ranks of the greatest mathematicians as the genius who proved the Hodge Conjecture. It was the only way.

***

           September 4^th, 2020. Another summer comes to an end. As I write these words for you to read, the last golden rays of the sun set on another empty, lonely day. The marble steps of the manor reverberate the echo of every step I take. The surface of the swimming pool returns the reflection of a man I don’t want to see. I sit alone at the dining room, in front of an empty plate. The proof of the Conjecture did bring me wealth and fame, but it also brought me terrible isolation. Childhood dreams aren’t always what they seem.

           It didn’t take long for your mother to figure out I couldn’t have done this on my own. She couldn’t prove it, but she knew I didn’t have it in me. You, on the other hand, had it, with your prodigious skills hidden behind blank stares. Mother always knows best. That’s why she won’t let me see you anymore. Deservedly.

           Anyone would say it’s useless for me to write you this letter, that you can’t read it anyway. Now, I know you can. I know you’re capable of going way beyond anybody’s expectations. It’s all right there, in a corner of your mind. If you ever lay eyes on this page, this is the only thing you need to understand: I’m sorry. I love you.

There comes my cat, my only friend. It jumps on my lap to lick the remnants of my food, sending the pages flying across the room, then turns to me with piercing eyes, as if it could see through my soul. The noise it utters bitterly throws me right back to August 21st, 2008. ‘Meow.’ Turns out cats also have a questionable sense of humor. The joke did not sit well.