Chapter Text
I want my son back.
I want to fix him.
All this time, those thoughts repeated in my head like a mantra.
And now William's birthday was approaching again. Right after that would be the anniversary of the car crash. It would be a full two years.
I walked through the house. I found William sitting at the dining room table, staring at his phone. That was a nice change of pace, seeing him in another part of the house instead of hiding up in his room all day. I resisted the temptation to look over his shoulder and see what was on the screen.
His eyes glanced up at me only briefly as I entered the room. Then he resumed scrolling on the phone. His face was blank. (Depressed.)
Two years since he lost his memory. An unknown number of months since he got it back. William's memory came back gradually — there was no way to measure when the recovery was "complete". After all, nobody remembers every detail of their life. There was no litmus test for "normal" and "not normal" memory.
But William still hadn't gone back to normal. I could feel it.
He was depressed in a way he never was before the accident. Was I imagining it? Was I overreacting? My gut said no. Jeff and I talked to him about it — we tried to talk to him — and William would always give us smiles that didn't reach his eyes and false assurances and insist he was fine.
He acted like the old William. He watched the same movies, read the same books, played the same games. But sometimes, when he didn't know I was watching, I would catch him sitting by the window and staring outside.
Who knows how much he did that when I wasn't looking. How many hours a day had he spent like that, staring out the window like a motionless zombie?
(Negative symptom depression. Loss of energy. Loss of interest.) (The old William never had this problem.)
I want to fix him.
I want my son back.
I put on one of my own less-than-heartfelt smiles and walked up to the table. "So your birthday's a month away. Have you thought about what you want to do?"
Again, his eyes briefly met mine. He made a face that was not quite a smile and said, "I dunno. Same as last year, I guess. Just cake and presents at home."
Last year William didn't have a party. He told us that he didn't feel up for it. Jeff baked a cake, and William blew out the candles, but that was all. He didn't even invite any friends over to the house. It was his very first birthday since the accident but he let the day pass by without any fanfare.
Jeff and I didn't press him on it, but we hoped he'd be better by next year.
"Do you want to invite your friends over?"
He hesitated. "Nah. I just want a quiet dinner at home."
William always had a large group of friends growing up. But I hardly saw them anymore. Did he have some type of falling out with his friends? There was so much in his life I didn't know about anymore.
"Are you sure?" I asked. "Your dad and I were looking forward to celebrating this year. We could go to a nice restaurant. Or whatever you want."
"I just want dinner at home," he repeated, with a tiny bit of irritation, without looking away from his phone.
His aversion to large crowds was the most noticeable difference between pre-accident William and post-accident William. The old William loved the hustle and excitement of big parties. It's exactly why we went all-out for his Bar Mitzvah. But ever since the amnesia, even after he supposedly recovered, he became overstimulated too easily. Even in quiet settings like a library or waiting in line at the supermarket, the larger the number of people meant the more uncomfortable he was.
Even after his memory came back, that part of him hadn't gone back to normal.
I sat down at the table. "William? Can you be honest with me?"
There was a reaction I didn't expect. A flash of something in his eyes. Fear. Defensiveness.
But it was just for an instant. The emotion left his eyes like it was never there and he calmly said, "About what?"
I asked gently as I could, "Are you afraid of large crowds because you associate them with your Bar Mitzvah? . . . And the car accident?"
He shook his head. "No. It's not because of that."
So there is an "it" then, I thought.
He must have seen something in my face, because he looked annoyed at me and then returned his attention to his phone again. "I'm not afraid of crowds. I can be in them if I have to. I just don't like them."
"You liked them when you were younger."
"Well now I'm older. I like different stuff," he said defensively.
I briefly thought about how to respond. But he was my child, not my patient. I decided not to press him.
I smiled and stood up. "Maybe next year," I said, avoiding a commitment one way or the other.
But as I turned and walked away I thought, Next year? How long do I have to wait before things finally go back to normal?
I want to help him get over this.
I want to fix him.
I want my son back.
The sound of his chair scraping across the floor interrupted me from my thoughts. I turned back just as William slammed his phone onto the table and jumped to his feet. He angrily shouted, "What do you want from me?!"
I was too stunned to react.
William continued shouting at me, angry and hurt. "I have been trying so hard to remember every little detail from my old life! I'm trying to act exactly the way I used to, and all you ever want is more! When is it gonna be enough for you?!"
I blinked. I stammered a bit, not knowing what to say.
"That's not . . . William, I don't want you to remember things or act like you did before the accident for my sake. I'm worried about you."
"There's nothing wrong with me!" he protested.
"Then why are you so angry and depressed all the time?"
"How would you know if I'm depressed or not? You can't read my mind!"
"I know because I'm your mother," I said firmly.
"And if I weren't your child, you wouldn't care about me!" As he shouted again, he looked like he was on the verge of breaking down and crying.
I paused again, staring dumbfounded at him. "What does that even mean?"
He stopped. The anger seemed to drain out of him. His expression crumbled, and he lowered his face in shame. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for shouting."
"Honestly, I wouldn't mind if you shouted a little more once in a while," I told him. "You always bottle everything up. I can't help you unless you tell me what's bothering you."
William lifted his head and looked at me again. His eyes were large, sad, pleading. He was taller than me, but still looked so young.
He squeaked out, "I . . ." He fell silent. Tried again. "I feel like . . . I died back in that accident. Just for a minute, but enough. And I came back wrong . . . I feel like I'm not the same person I used to be."
"William, you are still the same person. You will always be my child, with your without your memories."
"But that's how it feels. I'm not the same, I just act like it. I have to act like the old William, because if I don't . . . I feel like you and Dad won't love me anymore."
That broke my heart. That's a cliché phrase, but there's no better way to say it. "Oh, darling, that is not true."
"I know! But it still feels that way. Any time I remember something wrong, or I act even a little bit different, it becomes this 'thing' with you and Dad. I need to be the same as when I was twelve to stop you from worrying. And I . . . I just can't." He blinked his bloodshot eyes. "I can't do this anymore."
"William . . ."
He looked away from me as he continued speaking. "I'm not who you think I am. It's not just the amnesia. It's not even about my abilities — people can gain or lose memories or abilities. It's . . . It's me! The real me, deep down. It's what I like. It's who . . ." He couldn't finish.
When talking about a personal secret a teenager keeps from their parents, there was a short list to draw from.
"William," I spoke up as gently as I could, "this is not an assumption or an accusation. Just a question. Are you talking about your gender or sexual orientation?"
He looked at me again with watering eyes. He looked like he was about to fall apart.
He said, "I still can't remember what I was before the accident. Yeah, I liked musicals and 'The Wizard of Oz', but that doesn't prove anything. Maybe I was too young to be sure. Or maybe I really was the same as I am now, maybe I'm worried over nothing. But I . . . And I know you're probably gonna tell that's not how it works, that I was born this way, but . . . I've always had this fear, this pit in my stomach, that I — that 'William Kaplan' used to be straight. And I'm . . . I'm not . . . I'm not straight. And I can't FIX it, Mom. I can't fix it!"
The tears finally started falling down his face, and he rushed over and hugged me tightly, burying his face in my shoulder.
Immediately, I wrapped my arms around him as tightly as I could. "Oh, baby. Oh my sweet baby. That is not something you need to 'fix'. I am so sorry if I ever made you feel that way."
He shuddered and continued sobbing onto my shoulder. "I don't know why I'm like this," came his muffled voice. "I don't know what I am."
"It doesn't matter," I said as I reached up and patted his head. "I love you no matter what you are."
"Because you gave birth to me," he mumbled. "It's not because of who I am, inside."
"That's not true." I lifted him off my shoulder and pushed him out of the hug only so I could see his face. "I would love you with all my heart if you were a goblin somebody left on my doorstep."
He stared at me for a bit. Then, ". . . Why?"
"There is no why," I answered. I placed my hand on the side of his face. "A mother's love isn't rational. A true mother loves their child no matter what they are. Gay or straight, abled or handicapped, biological or adopted. Anything. When I saw you in the hospital two years ago, when you came home, even today sitting at that table, there was a voice inside me saying, 'I have to protect this child'. Because that's what mothers do."
He smiled a little. But he was still hurting. "I wanted to give you your son back," he said. "I tried so hard. I was scared to be anything different than you expected."
"I know. I'm sorry I made you feel like everything had to be the same. It doesn't. You're a teenager, William. This is the time for you to try different things, to explore who you are and what you like. I promise, there is nothing you can do or be that would ever make me stop loving you."
I continued. "I loved the old William. And I do miss him sometimes. But I love you, too. The current you, right now. No matter who or what you are, you are still my child."
And with that, it looked like a weight he'd been carrying for two years had finally been lifted.
William hugged me again. "Thank you, Mom."
.
Later that evening, with me sitting by his side, William told his father that he was gay. Jeff was fine with it. He hugged William and told him he loved him, which was no surprise. (I don't want to trivialize William's coming out process, but let's be real, Jeff was never going to have a problem with it.)
We all talked for a bit. And when we finished, William got up and walked towards his bedroom. But he lingered in the doorway for a bit. He turned to face us, resting his hand on the door frame. He smiled at us, seeming somehow happy and somber at the same time.
"Mom, Dad . . . Thanks for choosing me to be your son."
.
Things got better after that.
Over the next several months, William got new clothes, trying out lots of different looks. He eventually settled on dark shirts and skinny jeans. He started experimenting with make-up; thick black eyeliner and black nail polish. Though we agreed he would wait until he was sixteen to get piercings — same age I got my ears pierced, it seemed fair.
Other parents might assume the dark emo look was a sign of depression. But ironically, William acted a lot less depressed with it. He had fun with the goth aesthetic. He was bright, cheerful, and talkative again. Less nervous around Jeff and me.
Before the accident, one of William's hobbies was stage magic — illusions and sleight of hand and theatrical stuff. Now he made the transition to the more occult type of magic. He studied old folklore about witchcraft — "real magic" as he called it. And he gradually got more into it over time. He researched everything he could about the history and the legends. Everything from Wicca and Voodoo, to psychic phenomena, to the more recent discoveries on Asgard and superheroes and how they related to the old legends.
Honestly, I wasn't thrilled about it. Some of it was vaguely Satanic. But it's not like he was hurting anybody and I did promise.
William was better. But maybe not perfect. He still seemed troubled occasionally. Then again, there probably isn't a way to be a teenager without feeling a bit troubled. It took me time, but I learned to worry about it less.
And then . . .
"I have a boyfriend!" William declared with a huge grin the moment he saw us after school.
"Hey! That's terrific," Jeff said. "What's his name - Or is he not out yet?"
"His name's Eddie. And can he come over for dinner this weekend? Because I really want you to meet him."
"Absolutely," I answered. "We'd love to meet him too."
And he smiled brighter possibly than I'd ever seen him.
.
Eddie was wonderful. A very charming young man. When William's sixteenth birthday approached, it was no surprise that William wanted to spend the day with him.
Jeff greeted Eddie at the door. They made friendly small talk and discussed where Eddie was taking William, setting rules for curfew and such.
I turned to see the newly sixteen-year-old William. He stood back a short distance and watched the scene, smiling the whole time.
But suddenly his smile fell and he turned his head to the side, like he heard something. He stared at the empty space next to him. But no one was there.
"William?" I said.
He just kept staring, confused, at a person who wasn't there.
I walked up next to him. "William?" I repeated.
He snapped out of it, turning his head towards me. "Huh?"
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm—" He answered as a reflex, then paused. He smiled a bit sadly, and talked to me more honestly. "I dunno. It's been three years, but that keeps happening. I can't shake the feeling that there's something important I can't remember . . . I shouldn't let it bother me. I have you and Dad. I have a great boyfriend. I should be happy — I am happy. But I can't stop thinking . . . What's missing?"
I didn't know either. But I knew that I had been thinking about it all wrong before. It wasn't already three years, it was only three years. William was only sixteen. He had his whole life ahead of him.
I smiled at him and said, "You'll figure it out in the end."