Gabe
By Molly Cimikoski, Concord, NH
10th Grade, Concord High School
No parent wants to admit that their child is different. Not that my child is so bizarre, he just had a little harder time. Twenty years ago I gave birth to my son Gabe. Throughout his childhood, Gabe had always been a little behind the learning curve. Sure, he started speaking when he was only a few days old, but nothing remotely similar to English came out until a few weeks prior to his fifth birthday.
Gabe, though not the most clever, was the most friendly to all the children at school. His peers, however, did not pay him that same respect. Day after day, every day, Gabe endured their taunts, and day after day he prayed to the Lord for a friend.
Birthdays were always a sore subject with Gabe. They brought out a scarce emotion in such a strong way it was frightening. He felt hate. Not playground hate, or feelings of that variety. True barrier shattering hate. He never moved when he was in a moment of loathing. Sitting still became a control. Refusing his body movement was his rebellion. Gabe never felt hate towards people or events or really anything in particular. It tended to be situational. Gabe wasn’t a moron, he knew another year had gone by and he still wouldn’t be sending out a single party invitation. Every birthday of Gabe's has been almost exactly the same. The first was marked differently because his father was there. A few months later though his father was cruelly shoved out of the picture, out of our lives, out of a windshield by a Ford Taurus and a drunk man at the wheel. Other than that year, birthdays have been the same. Different toys under different shiny, metallic wrappings, but that’s not what a holiday is about. It’s about who you celebrate with, and who wants to be with you on your day. Gabe’s only partygoer is me.
The day of Gabe’s fifteenth birthday he was still without any party guests. Upon blowing out the fifteen melting candles Gabe turned to me and said tearfully, with the awkward speech I’ve grown to know as normal, “I don’t think God loves me no more.” I wanted to console him, but what could I have said? What could I have possibly said to my son? I don’t think, “Maybe you’re right” could dry his tears. To be quite honest though I was beginning to think the heavenly father didn’t love any of us anymore. There I was, a widow, with no way to help my son. Foolishly, I wanted to try anyway. I found Gabe in his room.
“Gabe?” I asked. He replied instantly as though he had expected this question all along.
“Yes Momma?” Suddenly it seemed that since I had opened this conversation there was no turning back.
“Honey, why did you say you don’t think God loves you anymore?” Once the words passed my lips they seemed to hang in front of me. Just like a comic strip, the words floated above my head into the ceiling. I gave Gabe a pleading look. I knew he didn’t want to talk about it. He was embarrassed that he had cried. God I wish he would cry right now. As a mother, I had spent fifteen years dealing with tears. Tears I can fix, but God broke my son’s heart! If Gabe were crying I could take him in my arms, wipe the tears from his cheeks, and serve him hot chocolate in bed. I knew that wouldn’t work this time.
After giving him a moment to gather his thoughts, Gabe spoke. “God doesn’t love me ‘cause he made me talk funny, he made it hard to learn, he made me sick, and I don’t got no friends to have over for birthday cake.”
Instinctively I said, “Say ‘don’t have any’ instead.”
“I don’t have any friends!” He cried out. I knew this was true, of course I knew it was true! I had endured this hell with him! I couldn’t tell him the truth though, so I lied.
I put on my cheery voice and said, “Well that’s just not true! Don’t you remember Beatrice?” I truly though that would work until I heard his reply.
“Pet rocks don’t count. Besides, Beatrice don’t like me neither.” Gabe had called my bluff, but we were both dissatisfied with the hand we were dealt.
Gabe had this, condition. Well, truthfully, he had two. One he was born with and would live with forever, and one that came about around age thirteen. The second wouldn’t give him the option of living with it forever. As a result of condition number one, he could hardly have a conversation in close to proper English; the ins and outs of the language were too complex. Due to condition number two, some days he was too weak to get out of bed each morning.
No doctor was certain how to cure Gabe, and no doctor was sure they could slow his rapidly failing health. They all had their theories, but none were working for Gabe. For the second time in his short life, I couldn’t help Gabe.
Twenty years after the birth of my son I am celebrating the third anniversary of his death. I know what the death certificate says, trust me, I’ve read it more than once. I also know that it’s a lie. Gabe may have had complications with cancer, but my little boy died of two things, loneliness and a broken heart. In some ways, I suppose they’re the same thing.