Lessons From Allen

I didn’t want the job in the first place. Allen and I definitely did not hit it off. After the first shift I slam into Gran’s apartment and glare at her. She sits calmly in her yellow wooden chair, dunking ginger snaps in her coffee. My daughter Jessica sits beside her, mirroring Gran’s every move with her chocolate chip cookies and milk.

“I’m finished! I’m not working there another minute! I’ll find something else, I promise!” My angry, belligerent tone fades into a pleading whine. Gran sucks thoughtfully on a soggy ginger snap.

“You lost your last two jobs, yes? Spent all your money, yes? Need your Gran to help you, yes?” She waits patiently for my mumbled assent. “My friend Pierre needs a worker. You live under my roof, you work for Pierre. This is final, yes?” Sagging onto a chair, I rest my forehead on the smooth table top.

“Gran. I can’t stand it.”

“Stand it, or stand on the street. This is what I told you, yes? Do I change my mind?” I don’t bother answering that one. Changing Gran’s mind is like standing in the path of a tornado and yelling at it to turn around and go back where it came from.

Gran’s friend Pierre has a special needs son that he’s cared for all his life. His wife left him a long time ago when he refused to put their child in a home.

Down to $2.25 in my pocket and facing life on the streets, I kicked my pride to the curb and asked Gran to take us in. She did, on one condition.

Life on the streets is beginning to take on a new shine.

However, I have four year old Jessica to consider as well.

Therefore, I steel myself every morning and walk up the steps to Pierre’s house. Like an unexpected slap in the face, the smell hits you first. Allen wets the bed every night. Adult diapers are no match for the massive doses of urine he puts out. The constant washing of sheets and blankets just isn’t enough, the smell seems to permeate the very walls. I take a last desperate gulp of fresh air before I let myself into the house of horrors.

Pierre greets me with a warm smile. He is spooning oatmeal into Allen’s mouth as though he has all the time in the world, and this is the most important thing he could possibly be doing.

“Good morning, Priscilla! Allen is really enjoying his oatmeal this morning!” He smiles at the son who is larger than he is. Allen grins in response, eyes squeezed shut. Pierre hurries across the street to open his accounting office, and I am left alone with Allen.

“Do you want some more oatmeal, Allen?” I ask, picking up the green bowl and extending the spoon. His hand shoots out like a prize race horse from the starting gate. He hits the bowl and oatmeal erupts into my face. Fleeing into the washroom, I cry silently as I try to wipe the sticky glop from my face, hair, and shirt. Allen is giggling like a maniac in the kitchen.

Giving up on the rest of the oatmeal, I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. I can do this. For Jessica, I can do this. Allen is standing at the living room window, bouncing lightly on his toes and staring at the bird feeder. I clean up the kitchen as quietly as I can, then go back to check on Allen again. Good. Still mesmerized by the delicate ballet of the colourful birds. I move reluctantly to the bedroom.

Gagging, I haul the wet sheets to the laundry room and wash the plastic mattress cover.

That night I snug the quilt closer around my girl. Jessica’s dark curls mix with the red yarn pony tails of Gran’s old doll. She is so beautiful, a tiny fairy princess. How can I, college drop out, loser, give her what she needs to become the amazing woman she deserves to be? I would never tell Gran, but I have considered placing her in foster care. Am I just plain selfish for keeping her? Will she hate me when she’s older, for not giving her more opportunities? Will her life just follow mine, dropping out of college because she’s foolish enough to become pregnant? Working one dead end job after another? My chest squeezes. Deep breath, Priscilla. I lie awake until the light begins to tinge the darkness, staring at the future playing out on the white tiled ceiling.

I am mystified by Pierre. Why would he choose to chain himself to such a burden? I’m back at work. Pierre is painting the table and himself with applesauce. He giggles when I wipe him down with a washcloth! Score one for me! Allen despises physical touch, and to be able to wipe him and hear him laughing it a rare moment!

He bounces to his mat by the window. Humming and chuckling, he points at his CD player. I grab his favourite CD of kids songs and soon the cheerful melody dances through the room. Allen rocks back and forth, eyes closed, blissfully lost in another world.

Leaving him to enjoy his music, I head back to the kitchen to clean up applesauce. I’m humming along to Allen’s music, washing dishes, feeling pretty optimistic. Today I can see a glimmer of hope- maybe Allen is getting comfortable with me and the job will become easier.

Suddenly an ear splitting scream sounds directly behind me. I leap like an Olympic medalist, my flailing hands send up a geyser of soapy water, and my elbow hits the drain rack. Dishes go flying. My knee hits the cupboard hard enough to wring tears from my eyes. I now understand why Pierre’s dishes are all plastic. Allen stands behind me, doubled over, clutching his round belly and giggling joyously. Tears roll down his plump cheeks.

“Scilla jump. Scilla jump. Water.” His giggles ripple and trill, and now that my heart is slowing it’s frantic race I realize how sweet and musical his laughter is. Finally I laugh with him, leaning weakly against the counter and holding my aching knee.

I am tired, but I’m also basking in a warm little glow as I walk home. Jessica’s mighty hug when I step in the door fans the fledgling flicker of contentment, and the wonderful smell of Gran’s fettuccine and garlic bread spreads that fire to every cell in my body.

A month later, work is going fairly smoothly. Wet sheets still make me gag, the occasional larger accident is just as difficult to bear. But I’m getting less food thrown at me, and Allen has more days where he’s content.

Today is a good day, and Allen is dancing awkwardly around the room to the sound of his music. Spinning and twirling with his eyes squeezed shut, heedless of bumps and bruises, he’s lost in the music. I understand why Pierre only owns heavy, sturdy furniture. No knick knacks, plants, or ornaments here.

The CD skips. Allen’s concentration is broken. It skips again. He stops and frowns uncertainly at me.

“Music?” he asks anxiously. I try to get it to play properly, but it keeps getting stuck at a single high note. Allen hovers nervously, fingers flitting rapidly in front of his eyes. “Fix it. Ok. Scilla fix it.” he assures himself, his voice high and unnatural. I can’t fix it. My hands start to tremble and cold sweat shivers down my back. All my crisis intervention training dissolves into an insubstantial puddle of panic as Allen seizes the stereo and heaves it. I duck, it whips past me and makes a dent in the wall. “Music. Music. Scilla fix it!” he shrieks, and starts grabbing everything in reach and throwing it. I scramble for my phone, hit Pierre’s number.

Allen is lying on the floor on his belly, screaming, pounding his head on the linoleum. I try to slide a pillow under his head to soften the blows. The pillow flies back at me and the hammering continues unabated. Pierre bursts inside.

“The CD player wouldn’t work…” I babble helplessly. Pierre nods, directs me to turn off the lights. He stretches out on the floor beside Allen and starts crooning a very soft lullaby. I can hear the soothing melody whenever Allen pauses for a breath. I don’t know if Allen can hear him at all. Finally the screaming begins to abate, the pauses became longer. Pierre sings on, seemingly not aware of the writhing, agitated man beside him. At last Allen heaves an exhausted sigh. Pierre still sings.

Tentatively, Allen shifts closer to his father and rests his head against Pierre’s shoulder. Tears still streak his chubby face, and his hands are clasped as if to give himself comfort. The beatific smile on Pierre’s face when his son voluntarily leans against him brings tears to my eyes. Allen’s attempt to reach out is a moment Pierre will treasure forever, and he’ll be talking about it for days. I know he will not move a muscle until Allen withdraws. I wonder if he would movie I suddenly collapsed in a seizure or if a gunman would break in.

I study them silently, the slender gray haired man in his simple business suit, peaceful smile on his lined face. The large man lying beside him, wavy blonde hair askew, leaning trustingly on the old man’s shoulder. I think of the wife and mother who left her family behind, and wonder if she ever looks as content as this pair. I think of Jessica, my doubts about being the best parent for her, and the thoughts of giving her up to someone else. My heart twists in agonizing clarity and more tears fall.

I get back to Gran’s that evening, and there’s Jessica, hopping up and down in anticipation. Scooping her up in my arms, I twirl her around and hug her close.

“Mommy, Mommy, you’re squishing me!” she squeaks. “Mommy come see, me and Gran made cookies!” Gran smiles knowingly at the tears in my eyes.