An Overreaction? I think Not

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Maybe I overreacted.

On a hot sunny Tuesday, we’re at the beach, the 5 of us, on the first day of our vacation. Around 11:15, Noah stands and says, I think I’ll walk to the pier. I’m not sure how long we’re going to stay at the beach. The temperature is around 90, and, this being our first day, we’re all likely to burn, notwithstanding the 30 SPF No Ad we had slathered on ourselves. I look south toward the pier. It looks inviting, jutting out into the blue Gulf, nothing separating us but a stretch of white sand. It’s pretty far, I say. Around 2 miles. At least. I know from experience.

When I was 20 years old, I spent 2 months in south Florida, waiting tables at a new golf community off Davis Boulevard. I stayed in the house where we’re staying now, which my parents had then recently purchased for family vacations. My cousin’s wife and kids were staying in the house too. One day I decided to walk to the pier with the youngest of the kids. He was around five years old. Although I don’t recall exactly, I probably told my cousin’s wife I was taking her kid to the beach, which was the truth. But when we got to the beach, the pier looked so nice, and not so far away, so we decided to walk. We walked and walked. And walked some more. Finally, maybe an hour had passed, we reached the pier. We walked out on it, looked at the fish, got our feet wet. I must have realized it was getting late so we started back. The boy was tired. I was tired. I carried him piggyback for awhile. The beach was too hot, so we walked up a block and took the sidewalks. He couldn’t walk anymore. I wasn’t sure what the distance was. But I was a college girl, sure of myself and thought we could get a ride. I stuck out my thumb, and a nice woman picked us up and drove us the rest of the way home. We were probably gone two hours. Maybe more. My cousin’s wife was frantic. I didn’t tell her we hitched, but I felt guilty. I’ve never forgotten that the pier is further away, walking, than it looks. That, and college kids do dumb things.

But I’m glad Noah wants to walk to the pier. I’m glad he’s embracing independence since he went off to college. I don’t want to doubt him, or even question him. I want him to know I trust him. Even though I’ve spent much of the last 19 years worrying. He didn’t talk at 2, or even 3. The social awkwardness. The autism diagnosis, changed to PDD at 6, changed again to PDD-NOS at 8. The years of speech therapy. Occupational therapy. IEPs. Callous parents. Thoughtless teachers. A dearth of friendships. Rays of hope: a school dance, camp, the crew team, some rowing medals, learning to drive, a rare but radiant smile. Finally, college. When we visited him there and took him to dinner at a Chinese restaurant, I asked him, are you happy? Yes, he said. This is the first time I’ve been happy in a long time. I’m glad he’s happy, and sad he was so unhappy. But that was in the past. Now is what matters, and now he is happy.

Why not let him walk to the pier? Do you have lotion on? Yes, I put it all over. We might be gone when you get back. Do you know the way home? Yes. I’ll walk if you’re gone. OK, have fun. Don’t get burned.

An hour passes, an hour and a half. I walk a half mile toward the pier, squinting my eyes. I don’t see him. I have to trust him, that he won’t get lost. Is it possible if we leave he’ll return but keep walking right on past our beach? Trust him, he’s 19 for god’s sake. Leave him alone.

At 1:30 we leave the beach, and leave a chair with his shirt and flip-flops so he won’t have to walk home in bare feet. He’s been gone over 2 hours. He has no money. He didn’t take his phone. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast.

I swim in the pool and have lunch. I shower. He’s not back. Maybe he’s lost. Would he think to borrow someone’s cellphone to call? I check his phone and mine for messages. No calls, no texts. I get in the car and drive back to the beach. It’s only about 3 blocks. I don’t see him. The chair we left is folded over on itself, his shirt and flip-flops wedged inside. I open the chair and lay the items on the seat, hoping he’ll see them. It’s 3:00 when I return to the house and tell Jon, he’s lost, we have to go look for him. I’m impatient waiting for Jon. I’m sitting in the car in the driveway, it’s 95 degrees, and Noah’s lost and hasn’t eaten, and he has no money and no phone. I think of Pride & Prejudice, when Darcy happens upon Lizzie just after she’s learned her irresponsible younger sister has run off with the dastardly Mr. Wickham. “She has no money. No connections. I have not the smallest hope.” He’s on medication. For ADD and depression. What if he has sunstroke? He has no ID. What is the effect of overexposure to the sun with Lexapro and Vyvance? And Abilify, just added to the mix? How long does he have to be gone for me to call the hospital, looking for a delirious sunburnt unidentified young man? What will I say to them when I call?

Finally Jon gets to the car. He has a cooler with Gatorade and a banana. Noah will need those, he’ll be hungry and dehydrated. I’m driving, and he says let’s check the beach again first, then go to the pier. He’s not at the beach. We drive toward the pier, stopping every few blocks to scan the beach. He’s not there. We arrive at the pier, and Jon says he’ll walk from the pier back to our beach in case Noah is somewhere in between. I’m going to drive back to our beach and wait, with Noah’s phone. I drop off Jon, and as I’m pulling out of the block, I see a middle aged man in shorts, a tan shirt and walkie-talkie. I hesitate a moment, then call out the window. “Excuse me,” I say, “are you beach patrol?” Yes, he says, and suddenly, without warning, I burst into tears. I get out of the car, leaving it running, walking toward him and I get out the words, “I can’t find my son,” and the tears are pouring out of my eyes like someone has turned on a spigot. He probably thinks my son is 6 years old, not 19. He tells me to move the car off the street, so I back up carefully and maneuver it into a parking spot, reserved for people with beach passes. Do you have a beach pass? He says. Yes. Is it a handicapped sticker? No. Then you’ll have to move it. Move the car? But my son is lost. My son is 19 but he gets confused, I say. Noah’s phone starts buzzing in my hand. I can’t figure out how to answer it but I see the call is coming from “Mom’s phone.” Jon has my phone so he must be calling to say he found Noah. In one minute, he found Noah. Before I’ve figured out how to answer the phone, I look up and see them walking toward me. Really, Mom? Really? Noah says. Don’t you trust me? Jon says, he’s been playing volleyball and Frisbee. With some Cubans.

We get in the car and I hang my head, and tears are now virtually squirting out of my eyes, and I am powerless to stop them. All the grief and worry and fear that’s been welling up inside me for the past 3 hours, for the past 19 years, emerges like a flood out of my face. Noah says he was practicing his Spanish and the Cubans were practicing their English. I get a hold of myself and start driving.

We stop at our beach so Noah can retrieve his beach chair, shirt and flip-flops. He emerges from the beach, washes off the chair at the outdoor shower, and returns to the car. Where’s your stuff? I ask. It wasn’t there, he says. I look closer at the chair. That’s not our chair, I say. He has grabbed someone else’s chair. He returns to the beach, finds the right chair, with his stuff, and I drive us back to the house. We get out of the car and I hug Noah around his thin waist. Noah, I say, if anything ever happened to you, I would never get over it. Never. I know Mom, but I just wish you had more faith in me. I do have faith in you. But I still worry.

I spend the rest of the day inside my head, beating myself up for not having enough faith in Noah, and at the same time trying to grasp the possible reality that he is behaving like any normal 19 year old. He’s having fun. He’s capable of taking care of himself. He’s behaving thoughtlessly. Normal. Normal is all I ever wanted for him.

That was on Tuesday. On Wednesday, after Jon intercepted a text while using Phil’s phone, a text asking about a bong belonging to Noah’s friend, a text that implied they used this bong at the school a block away from our house, we have a conversation with Noah in which we learn he’s been getting high about once a week. For how long, we don’t know, but definitely while he was away at school getting C grades and a D. Getting high while we’re spending $40K a year on his education. Getting high while he’s having trouble concentrating. Getting high while trying to find the right mix of meds to help him manage his ADD and depression. I tell him I don’t accept his getting high, and if I find out he continues to get high, I will take him out of college and I will sell his car. That car is in my name, I remind him, and if you don’t think I’ll sell it, just try me. He doesn’t get why we are upset.

We go to dinner, the 5 of us, and I can’t even look at him.

I go to bed, and I cry for an hour.

I conclude, a mother knows when to worry, a mother’s instinct is never wrong, I was right to worry yesterday at the beach, and I’m right to worry now. Me, overreact? Count on it.