Raising Blaze Read online

  RAISING Blaze

  BRINGING UP AN EXTRAORDINARY SON

  IN AN ORDINARY WORLD

  DEBRA GINSBERG

  For Blaze

  You bring me joy.

  { CONTENTS }

  PROLOGUE

  1. ENOUGH BREATH TO CRY

  2. SCHOOLED

  3. THE GOOD DOCTORS

  4. WHAT COLOR IS TUESDAY?

  5. BUTTERFLIES AND FIRE DRILLS

  6. SHRINKING

  7. THE YELLOW WIRE

  8. DANGEROUS BORDERS

  9. TEA AND EMPATHY

  10. LOST AT SEA

  11. MAGIC AND APPROPRIATE LAUGHTER

  12. APPROACHING THE TOWER

  13. WATERLOO

  14. HOME

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE

  OTHER BOOKS BY DEBRA GINSBERG

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  PROLOGUE

  October 1997

  I’m standing in front of the frozen vegetables in my local supermarket, staring at the peas and corn and wondering exactly what it is that I need. My right foot is looped into the bottom rack of the shopping cart and I’m incredibly cold. This supermarket is kept at a temperature cool enough to preserve corpses. My sister Maya, my son Blaze, and I are on our weekly shopping excursion. Blaze calls this effort “the Big Shop” and it’s become a routine we cannot stray from. Every Sunday at four we buy cereal and granola bars, bottled water and corn chips, apples and frozen pizza. We buy large quantities of the four foods that Blaze will consent to eat at any given time and sometimes—throwing caution to the winds—try to sneak in a cucumber, rice cakes, a banana. Anything to diversify Blaze’s menu. We’ve actually managed to add celery and carrots in this way, although they’re still not the foods of choice.

  I spy one of the mothers from Blaze’s school hovering over the snack cakes and I turn my head so that she won’t recognize me, wheel her cart over, and start up a conversation. I find encounters with these other mothers extremely uncomfortable. They always know who I am before I can introduce myself.

  “Oh, hey, you’re Blaze’s mother, aren’t you?”

  That’s how it always starts and then I sense the inevitable unspoken subtext: I know who Blaze is. He’s that strange kid in special ed. You’re his mother so you must be strange too. It must be difficult for you, having a kid like that. Of course, I wouldn’t know, my kid is normal.

  I might be imagining this subtext but I doubt it. My years spent paying careful attention to body language and verbal nuances tell me I’m not too far off. Of course, none of these mothers would ever say these things out loud. They’re all absurdly polite most of the time. It doesn’t help that while I’m talking to them (“Oh, yes, I do think Mrs. Jones gives the kids too much/not enough homework….”), I’m actually thinking that they are the strange ones and we are the ones who are actually normal. Whatever normal means. Then again, it’s that very thinking that got me here now, hiding my face so that I won’t have to speak to another mother.

  The thought of having another one of those strained conversations is exhausting right now and I search for an escape. Blaze himself provides one as he runs over to me from the Wolfgang Puck display and says, “Mom, I want to pretend I’m being born again.”

  “What?”

  “I want to pretend I’m being born again. You can be the Mom. Maya can be the baby. The baby me.”

  I look at him carefully. His round, brown eyes are fixed on mine and he’s waiting for an answer. I can tell, with the understanding I’ve been able to hone over the ten years of this boy’s life, that this is a serious question and an idea he’s gone over in detail, not another repetitious request about why the garbage truck is so loud or why butterflies have to exist.

  “But why would Maya be the baby?” I ask him back. “You can be the baby. Again.”

  “Okay, so can we do it? Can we pretend I’m being born again?”

  “Why do you want to do this?” I ask him slowly. Aside from the obvious implications that “born again” suggests, I’m thinking about our recent visits to Dr. S., the child psychiatrist who told me and my father in the hush of his La Jolla office that, given the birth history I’d provided, it was his opinion that Blaze’s difficulties, differences, whatever we wanted to call them, were caused by birth trauma. I’ve been vigilant in keeping this information from Blaze, who was in another room at the time it was delivered. Blaze records all the conversations he hears internally to be played back later at his own discretion. When the conversations involve him, his attention to them is that much greater. One of my goals this last year has been to avoid having Blaze think there is anything wrong with him at all, because, in fact, it is my belief that there is not. But Blaze is answering me now and his response has nothing to do with Dr. S. He is talking about another one of his three aunts, my twenty-year-old sister, Déja.

  “Déja told me that when I was born I didn’t have enough breath to cry. So I want to be born again and see what it was like not to have enough breath to cry. Is that true?” he asks, switching gears slightly, “did I not have enough breath to cry? Did I sound like this?” He makes a strangled, mewling sound in the base of his throat that sounds painful to my ears.

  “Well, yes, it’s true, sort of,” I say wondering, with slight irritation, why my youngest sister always feels the need to present Blaze with these concepts. I’m always left to clean them up for him in the end.

  (A recent discussion went something like this: “Déja says those two people in the movie were French kissing. What’s French kissing, Mom? Why do people do it?”)

  “Well, we can try this,” I say finally, “but maybe you want to do it differently this time. Maybe this time you can have enough breath to cry. Do you want to try it that way?”

  Blaze is studying me again, measuring the depth of my interest in his proposal. He can see that the idea is taking root.

  “Yes,” he says, “sure.”

  Maya approaches us holding a box of Chinese restaurant tea. “I forgot this,” she says. “Can’t have stir-fry without it.”

  “Blaze wants to restage his birth,” I tell her. Blaze looks over at her and nods.

  “Okay,” she says slowly, checking my expression to gauge the seriousness of what I’m saying before registering a reaction.

  “We’re going to do it differently this time,” I tell her. Maya was present at Blaze’s birth and so she suspects immediately what “differently” might mean. She nods again.

  “Okay, sure,” she says.

  As we head off to the produce department, I start wondering if, in fact, we can do it differently this time. I wonder how much of his own birth Blaze remembers or senses in the recesses of his extraordinary mind. I have the feeling that he probably remembers most of it although I haven’t shared these feelings with anyone outside my family. I smile to myself and shake my head. I remember that night in vivid detail. It might have happened only last week for the quality and clarity of my memory.

  So much of Blaze’s birth is tied to where we are now. Since our visit to Dr. S., I’ve been reliving those moments frequently. Now that Blaze has proposed this psychological experiment, I am thrust immediately into the wee hours of a summer night ten years past. And, after all, we were in it together, Blaze and I. Why wouldn’t he remember it as well? I cast another look at my son and see him creating storms in his head as he watches a mist descend on the lettuce. As I watch him, I realize that his desire for rebirth is much more than an experiment. It’s understanding he’s after. Understanding and healing.

  { Chapter One }

  ENOUGH BREATH TO CRY

  Any story about a birth must
have its origin in a story about conception. And if the story is about conception (at least, a conception that happens in the traditional way), then there has to be a story about the two people responsible. This is usually where the complications and intricacies come into play for the first time; two people creating a third. Our story is like this too—complicated, intricate, ongoing. If it had just stayed the two of us—John and me—this would have been a very short story, indeed. But, we created a third. And, despite our best efforts to dissolve the connection between us, that third person links us together forever.

  I met John in the most mundane way possible; at a party in Portland, Oregon, where I was living in 1986, introduced by a mutual friend who thought we would hit it off because we were both aspiring writers. As we stood talking, drinks and cigarettes hanging casually from our hands, I didn’t even think John was my type. He was good-looking, I thought, but not nearly dangerous enough for me. At that point in my life, I was still mostly attracted to men who were dark, edgy, and damaged in some way. In short, a challenge. John seemed a bit too smooth to fit this profile but I gave him my phone number anyway (like I said, he was good-looking and he could string an intelligent sentence together—both real bonuses) and when he called me a couple of days later, I agreed to a date.

  It was during that first, very simple, just-coffee-and-dessert date that I decided I really liked John and the fact that he wasn’t my type was probably quite a good thing. So there was a second, more elaborate date. We went to dinner and then to a play. John walked me home to my apartment and I asked him if he’d like to come up for coffee. He kissed me in the middle of my tiny kitchen and then everything just ignited.

  The word ignited seems particularly appropriate to me. John and I didn’t just start dating each other; we burst into flame. We fell into intimacy quickly, easily, and without thought. Our relationship was so passionate and so physical that I kept thinking we were getting along like a house on fire. But there was more to it than just remembering the aphorism: I could visualize the burning house, I could feel the two of us consuming each other.

  Aside from the few hours every day when we worked at our separate restaurant jobs, John and I spent every moment together. When we weren’t caught in the throes of passion, we were talking about it. We spent hours discussing how neither one of us had ever experienced the white heat we were generating between ourselves and what did that mean? What could it be? Was it love? Maybe something even deeper, we thought.

  John started calling me “Juliet” and stood in the parking lot under my fourth-floor apartment, pitching small rocks at my window. “I can’t leave you,” he wailed up at me. “You are bliss.” He read a draft of my novel and said I was a gifted writer. I read a draft of his novel and thought it was deep. He cooked lasagna for me in my little kitchen. I bought him a black wool sweater. Every time he appeared at my door, he brought a small gift; daisies, a bottle of red wine, a rare old book titled Devil in the Flesh. He had a “meet the family” dinner at my parents’ house and seemed to enjoy the experience. He put me on the phone with his mother who said, “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  After three weeks of this intensity, John turned to me and said, “I think this might be It. You, I mean. You and I.” It might be, I thought. Yes, it might indeed be. Admitting this felt frightening, as if I were relinquishing what little control I had over my fate. Falling in love is still falling and making that leap scared me. I remembered what a painful process picking myself up after one of those falls could be. Still, I let myself fall. I was twenty-four and not in the least bit concerned with protecting myself emotionally.

  Nature is direct and its laws are specific. Anything that burns as ferociously as we did in those first couple of months will eventually consume itself and, ultimately, that is what happened. John and I began quarreling over issues that hadn’t even factored in the previous weeks of passion. He became irritated with my insecurity. I thought he was lazy and moved on his goals too slowly. He said I was too impulsive. I accused him of being selfish. He said that I was the most demanding person he had ever met. I told him that he was unable to see a point of view other than his own. We began arguing late at night when we were tired and frustrated. Our barbs were sharpest then and most likely to do real damage. We fought in bed and we made up there too, but this roller coaster of emotions became nauseating after a while and we started showing signs of wear. That flaming house had burned to the ground and we were lying in the ashes.

  I wasn’t really surprised when John showed up one day dressed in tan slacks and a beige, cashmere sweater. This was breakup attire and I knew it. He started talking about how we had gone so fast—perhaps too fast—and now we weren’t making each other happy and we should probably give each other some space. I have to say, John was terrible when it came to breaking up. He was predictable and showed none of the requisite tortured quality he needed to have to make it seem like the whole thing had been my idea. Every time he opened his mouth, I guessed at what he was going to say before the words fell out of it. All I really needed were the key words anyway: space, time apart, not working out and so on. It was a textbook speech and even had the obligatory kicker, “I hope we can still be friends,” attached at the end.

  “No!” I screamed at him, “we most definitely cannot be friends!”

  I was hurt, not so much by the fact that John was ending our relationship, but by the sheer unoriginality of his words. I thought I warranted something more careful, some greater showing of emotion. I was also angry, too angry to even cry about my lost love. I let the Portland skies do that for me. I spent days walking the downtown streets, rain streaking my face, taking the place of the tears I couldn’t shed. When I got home from these walks, I stared dumbfounded at my unblinking answering machine. I couldn’t believe that he hadn’t called, wasn’t sorry, wasn’t missing me so badly that he couldn’t wait another second to see me. But, of course, I hadn’t called him, either.

  A week after our breakup, I discovered I was pregnant. For a few days, I just sat on the information, trying to figure out what shape my future was going to take with the addition of a child. For me, there was no decision whether or not to have the baby, but there were decisions to be made about how to tell John. For a while, I entertained the notion of not telling him at all. But then I remembered a conversation we’d had early in our relationship, after we’d compared various scars but before we’d declared our love for each other. I had told John that if, despite our best efforts at prevention, I happened to become pregnant, I wouldn’t consider an abortion. I had my reasons, I told him, and I wouldn’t change my mind. It was a risk, I told him.

  “Well, we’ll have to be very careful,” he told me.

  Clearly, we hadn’t been careful enough. Matters of care aside, however, he had a right to know. Before I could contact him, though, John finally called me to see how I was doing and to tell me that he missed me. We made a date for dinner.

  “But I don’t want to spend the evening arguing,” he told me.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I don’t think that will happen.”

  John did not react well to the news that he was going to become a father. He demanded that I have an abortion immediately, claiming it was completely unfair that I make a decision that would affect his life permanently, against his wishes. My point, that it was quite clearly my body we were talking about, fell on ears deafened by anger. Sure it was my body, he said, and I was using it as a weapon to demolish his future. I reminded him of the discussion we’d had about what I would do if I became pregnant and, after denying that such a conversation had ever taken place, he claimed that if I’d felt so strongly about abortion, I should have been much more careful from the start. He’d done his part, he said. It was obvious to him that I’d gotten pregnant on purpose and, he said, I must have been trying to rope and tether him from the very beginning.

  I tried to answer John rationally and spoke as if I had even the vaguest notion of what I was getting into.
I told him that I had no desire to “tether” him, didn’t want to marry him, and didn’t even particularly care if we were even romantically involved. But I stressed that he should think carefully about what his role was going to be in the life of his child.

  John was furious. How could I even consider having a child when my own financial prospects were bleak and his were worse? Why would I want to raise a child that was unwanted by at least one of its parents? How could I, in good conscience, intentionally ruin three lives? He held fast to his position and said that if I insisted on keeping the baby, I was going to have to go it alone.

  John and I had several conversations over the next couple of weeks, each more bitter and filled with recriminations that the last. No, he wouldn’t help, didn’t want to be with me, was outraged at me and my senseless, irresponsible actions. I stopped trying to be rational after the first conversation. He was a big boy, I maintained, twenty-eight years old, and he knew better. He was acting like a spoiled baby. Hadn’t he realized that he couldn’t give me directives on what to do with my own body? I became as angry as he and ended most of the conversations with the inelegant instruction that he should go fuck himself.

  John moved to California shortly afterward and some time after that, I received a letter from him, telling me where he was and that he hoped I’d come to my senses and changed my mind. We exchanged a few hostile missives after that and then, finally, there was nothing but a yawning silence between us.