The Question Mark Heart

The Swan Habitat. September 2010

When Alex started middle school in 6th grade; his social anxiety (among other things) caught up with him. Middle school started much earlier than elementary school, and in case you forgot, mornings are not our friend. In the still dark frigid moments before the tardy bell rang, Alex and I would lean into the heater vents of our van, wishing the warmth would reach us faster, while we made our traditional pass through the student drop off lane before I could finally pull over and try to convince him to get out of the car (again, I apologize for idling in a non idling zone. Yes, I still have guilt over your children's lungs inhaling my exhaust. And yes, I truly am sorry that Zoe flunked her science quiz because the carbon monoxide poisoned her brain.) In my life as a mom, I have done a lot of driving, but  possibly, even more waiting. The other day while driving Logan, now 11 to school, I was waiting at the light by our neighborhood exit when two geese haphazardly wandered across the four lane road. Their unexpected presence sparked a memory of all the mornings Alex and I spent at the swan habitat before school, a routine that became our sunrise ritual:

 Most mornings Alex refused to get out at school; he was at once an 11 year old toddler throwing a fit, so we’d drive away, try to merge with the other parents but usually it seemed in the chaos of starting a new day, no one would let us in. I’d wait, signaling, until the crush of traffic had past and we could leave unnoticed; Alex sighing heavily as we pulled away from the school grounds. I’d turn left, to do what Alex always wanted, "Take a little drive, so I can get prepared to go inside." We'd drive the few miles in silence, move like zombies towards our traditional pre-dawn destination. We'd pass the bugling elk, pass the startled deer to stop by the side of the road and watch the swans. On this morning our spinning wheels had separated the fog hovering above the road and in the rear view mirror it looked like ghosts being pulled apart from each other, (like torn cotton candy). I watched as the broken mist rose up and seemed to reach across the gaping distance, hoping to reconnect, stretching with long, mournful arms.

Alex was quiet as we drove. I knew he was dreading school, dreading bells, pencils, and the emptiness of recess. And as we drove further away from the place we were suppose to be, I was left wondering how I could ever have said autism wouldn't affect us, wouldn't change our relationship. But I had said it, yelled it in fact across a whole parking lot at the doctor’s office, hollered to Russ, “This doesn’t change anything!” while I’d crossed the road, sweating in the suffocating Arizona heat.

At the sanctuary, there was a faded wooden sign explaining the refuge was built as a class project.

-And no matter how many times, I read the sign, I always envisioned the way the students would have told their parents their plans, and that image of bursting excitement, always fed into a vision of parents writing about their child in their Christmas letters, “Our little Timmy, 9,  has added one more feather to his already full cap (bless his soul) in between rescuing abandoned puppies, heading up the student counsel, participating in a focus group supporting overweight tweens and trying out for the Olympic skiing team, he's been building a refugee to protect our earth's waterfowl. He’s really an environmental professor in the making! Look out Jane Goodall!” I would sigh over how easily I imagined they could lace their words with layers of intricate, drooping pride.

 

But on this day, the reality of upkeep had surpassed all those sparkling classroom dreams. The water was stagnant, the grass overgrown, newspaper bunched in a branch of a tree. Alex rolled down his window, the cold air rushed in like death, when I pulled over so he could get out, his words were white smoke against the chalkboard sky.

We stood together, not touching, but close. Watched the ripples seep unaccounted into the sandy shore, watched the perfect silhouettes of the swans gliding on the silvery water unscathed, their beauty startling, their eyes shined like black pearls the unexpected trumpeting calls became the sound of rejoicing. I was distracted by a swan taking off from the pond, I watched her rise up, perplexed as it seemed her wings beat furiously against nothing.

Along the fringes of water, a group of awkward cygnets had gathered together; their down the color of soft gray rabbits. Their necks were short, movements rigid and calls harsh; the notes knocked against each other when they open their mouths to protest being pushed to the edge. Alex left me to walk some distance up the shore; he was almost far enough away to be lost. Near the edge of the fence, he’d found the broken remains of the shell of a hatched egg, he held up a handful of pieces, calling, “Come see what I found.” I moved slowly towards him, rubbing the sting of cold out of my arms while I walked. The fragments of new life were scattered like puzzle pieces along the trail and I was left suddenly wondering why the story of “The Ugly Duckling” starts with the life of the cygnet? Why did Hans Christen Andersen ignore the story before the story; a story where the mother swan had noticed her egg was missing. I wondered how many times she'd circled the sky, her ebony eyes scouring the ground, frantically searching for some clue as to what went wrong.

When I reached Alex, I touched his arm; he turned, bright eyed, hopeful, until I said a little too cheerfully, “We've stayed long enough. We need to go back. School will be okay.” Alex sagged under the weight of my words, he looked at me skeptically, knew I was lying, but turned to follow me back to the car anyway. We walked along the worn path silently, the frozen grass crunching under our feet. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the clouds had gathered in the spot it would grow from, gauzy and pink they stretched across the horizon, layers of orange weaved throughout, bloated like unraveled yarn, the clouds waited protectively, cupped like two hands, soft like a nest. At the car we stopped, resigned to our fate, but still, I hesitated, stalled along with him. I'd paused, holding my breath while I took in the beginning moments, reached for Alex’s hand and when he didn’t jerk away, it made me linger longer, savor the moment of hopeful suspense. 

What I remember from that long ago morning isn’t how I had to drag Alex into the school, wait at the counselors office, bribe him with extra rewards, distract him with funny stories, beg him with low, frantic pleas, or how I'd finally had to leave him; distraught, hurt and alone. What I remember….what I choose to remember, is how I stood with my son and watched the way the first light of day had touched the tired mountains, the quiet pond, the dewy grass and made everything sparkle. I remember we stood together in the unblemished calm of new light and Alex had pointed out two swans about to pass each other. I thought at first they’d collide, then, was sure instead they’d hurry along, intent to get to where they needed to be, but no. They’d paused, lingered (their webbed feet still paddling beneath the surface, still churning water, still keeping them afloat) unhurried, they seemed to absorbed each other’s presence, then almost like a greeting, each swan bent their neck into a graceful question mark, reverently dipped their soft heads and together their two curved halves made a perfect heart.

The same pond, the same day, a different view; the clouds rolling in.