Stuck in Neutral by Terry Trueman

confusion playing across his face—he seems to be trying to place me.
    â€œI don’t know you,” he says. “Are you an angel?”
    â€œNo,” I answer, a little shocked that we are actually talking.
    â€œDad, it’s me,” I say, realizing that these are the first words he’s ever heard me speak.
    â€œOh my baby,” Dad whispers, and begins to weep. “Oh baby boy, you’re gone. Oh God, I’m so sorry you’re gone.”
    â€œDad, it’s okay. I’m okay.”
    â€œOh God, Shawn, you’re gone.”
    I interrupt, speaking firmly, “Dad, I’m right here, I love you, I need you to know—”
    Ignoring me, Dad interrupts. “I’m so sorry I lost you, baby, I’m so sorry I had to let you go. You were my baby, my baby boy, and I said good-bye, I left you and I lost you.” Dad sobs.
    â€œDad, it’s all right,” I insist, trying to interrupt; I want to comfort him.
    Dad says, “You’re gone, you became an angel because I let you go. Double-jointed thumbs, just you and me. I had to let go....” His tears choke off the rest of his words.
    I begin to cry too. “Dad, Daddy … I … I can’t.” I’m crying too hard to speak.
    â€œI’m so sorry, baby boy,” Dad says, his voice trembling, slicing into me like a scalpel carving an aching loss.
    â€œYou’re an angel, baby boy. The angels came and loved you away because I let you go.
    â€œGood-bye, son,” he says softly. “Good-bye, baby boy. Go be an angel.”
    â€œI love you, Dad,” I say, and in the instant before the dream ends, I add desperately, “I don’t want to die!”

15
    Inside me this moment changes
    into something never felt before;
    a flutter of feathers as two birds, falling,
    pass down through a blind, silent prayer,
    whispering good-bye to dreams and hope,
    pass down, falling, and whispering good-bye .
    I t’s Saturday morning. Surrounded by sleeping bags, coolers, suitcases, cosmetics kits, groceries, noise, laughter, and the high-pitched chatter of female voices, Cindy, her friends, and Mom are doing the last-minute preparations for their trip to Spokane. Go, Spartans!
    After what seems like hours the van is finally packed. Mom stops to give me a kiss on the forehead as she moves toward the door. But before her lips can even pucker up, Cindy, laughing, pulls her away. And suddenly they’re gone. In a burst of energy and collective chaos, they’re out the door.
    Vonda, my respite care provider, is nice. As near as I can tell, “respite care provider” is a fancy name for baby-sitter. She’s taken care of me before. She’s a little impatient at my feeding times, and I’m sure when she has to change my diapers, she comes up with lots of better ideas for making six bucks an hour. But most of the day she watches TV, chats on the phone, and reads Good Housekeeping or Glamour, which she has brought along with her. She doesn’t give me much attention, but then nobody else does either.
    Today she’s happy. She’s working on her nails, glopping on deep-purple polish, followed by a sprinkling of gold glitter. She’s at least, league minimum, fifty pounds overweight, but her nails and her hair are perfect. I like her. Later tonight she’ll feed me, then give me my meds. She’ll put me in my pajamas, making sure I’m dry and clean; then she’ll put me to bed.
    The day goes by so fast. Each hour seems like a minute. Whenever I manage to focus on the digital clock on the microwave in the kitchen, I’m shocked by how much time has passed.
    It’s already early afternoon by the time I have my first seizure.
    Outside of my body I decide to take a little tour of Seattle: Pike Place Market, the Seattle Art Museum, Pioneer Square, the waterfront with its cheesy piers and stench of fishy salt water.
    I take this seizure slowly. I consider