Night Talk

The urge to sleep tickles my brain as I lie in the semi-darkness of David’s room, fully dressed, atop his yellow bedspread. As usual, my nine-year-old is on the parquet floor with a kaleidoscope of blankets and pillows. His two skinny legs are stuffed into the sleeve of my bathrobe that he found in the hamper. He calls this menagerie his “nest” and, the experts tell me, he derives sensory satisfaction from the rigid floor, the fleecy covers, the bolster pillows, and the tight squeeze of the sleeve around his hips. Though cocooned, his body restlessly shifts and squirms, but it’s his mind that is truly spinning.

“Mom, I want night talk,” he says. 

“Go to sleep.” I open a novel and begin reading to myself in the dim light.

“I can’t. I keep thinking about things. I’ve got so many things to tell you.”

“Like what?”

“Like how much I hate school.” He props his chin on his palm and looks up at me. “How did you go for so many years? I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it.”

“You will.”

“It’s too hard. All day long it’s blah, blah, blah from the teachers. And in math they force me to show my work. And in gym, everyone cheats, but Mr. Gunn doesn’t say anything to them. And it’s so hot all the time and—” 

 “You really have to settle down.” I return to my book.

“But I’ve got to ask you something.” 

 “Okay.”

He rolls from side to side, then covers his head completely with his blanket, blocking out the world. Things are hard for him—school’s too strict, parties are too loud, friends are annoying, and life is both terrifying and boring. Finding food that he will eat is a constant struggle—the wrong texture, flavor, smell—and despite being hungry, he rejects many of the meals I offer. We have narrowed his menu to Amy’s macaroni and cheese, rice with butter, and smoothies.

Even as a newborn, David seemed more sensitive to light and sound than my daughter had been. At three months old, he’d shimmy under the blanket until his head was covered. When I pulled the blanket down, he found a way to reposition it. In infant massage class, David’s screams drowned out the cooing of other babies. During circle time, he’d place his hand over his ears when a gentle song began, then run from me, knocking every toy off the shelves.

The class moderator saw what I knew in my heart but was loath to face. One day, she pulled me aside and suggested I have David evaluated in an early intervention program for very young children with emotional and behavioral difficulties. Thus began a life of consultations: therapists, psychiatrists, educators, and pediatricians. In my desperation to find an answer or a clear-cut diagnosis, I even consulted a psychic. (She offered crystals and amulets to allay David’s “chaotic energy,” which I accepted, half-believing I might see a change in him.)

Despite my efforts, no definitive answer has been offered. The closest I get to something concrete is “Atypical ADHD with generalized anxiety.” David started medication at age six, first for hyperactivity, followed by an antidepressant at seven, and then a mood stabilizer. I agonized over side effects, but accepted the recommendations when I witnessed improvements. Despite the drugs, though, David’s behavior and learning difficulties persist.

Half the experts recommend a residential facility or specialized boarding school. When I broach the subject with David, he calmly tells me he would kill himself if he ended up in such a place. Whether or not this is a threat, a promise, or theatrics, I’m not prepared to take the risk. 

I hear my husband’s footsteps on the stairs; my daughter’s calling me from the next room to watch TV with her. They need me too, but David’s pleas for attention take precedence, especially at night. He pulls me into his world of worries, and I try to work a sorcerer’s magic to relieve him of his daily existential stresses. But in this dark room, with this restless anxious boy, I’m afraid I will make a mistake and just confuse him, or send him into a spiral of even more questions.

 “What’s the point of living, if we’re all going to just die one day, anyway? And what would be the last word you would say, if you knew the world was going to end in ten seconds? And if we don’t believe in God, but we are good all of our lives, do we still go to hell?”

His questions unnerve me. Going to heaven or hell is not something we as a family discuss or believe. We consider ourselves progressive, semi-agnostic, interfaith, and modern. Where does he get these ideas? Why does his mind conjure notions that on the one hand seem so mature, but nevertheless torment him? I try to convince myself that he must have seen something on a recent Simpsons episode or heard snippets of someone else’s conversation. But there’s a flash of self-recognition in his inquiry.

As a child, I was bedeviled by similar thoughts: heaven and hell, the meaning of life, the folly of the material world. At 13, I suffered what was then labeled a “nervous breakdown.” Even as an adult, if I’m not careful, these thoughts sneak into my consciousness. When they do, I become vulnerable to depression and what doctors describe as a “mixed state”—agitation and dread. Luckily, the correct medical cocktail and years of therapy have settled my mind.

Every mother of a son like David knows how easy it is to pick up the thread of guilt and weave a reason—bad genes, poor parenting, junk food, too many video games—and blame ourselves for our children’s problems. Now David has inherited my philosopher’s mind without the cushion of maturity.

Still on the top of the bed, I turn to him, listen to his low intermittent groans, the sound of his growing anxiety.

“The point of living is to be happy. The last word I would say if the world was coming to an end is ‘I love you.’ I don’t think you’re going to hell,” I offer, trying to be terse, concrete, and calm.

“But . . .”

“No but,” I interrupt. “Just get your butt to sleep.”

It’s 9:30. I should leave his room, but I stay. I count the darkened windows of the buildings across the street. Inside them, I imagine, all the other children are sleeping. Their mothers are listening to music, honing their careers, sharing a peaceful moment with their husbands at day’s end. I lift the book in my hands and try to read. But worry whispers in my ear. It’s not heaven or hell, the meaning of life, or the end of the world that troubles me. It is whether this child, wound so tightly in these blankets, will find a way to make sense of the world—with me, and someday, without me.