911, what’s your emergency?
My son, he just ran off, he’s mad at me and he just ran off and I can’t find him…
What is your location, ma’am?
Downtown… um… Division Avenue… I… at the elementary school… I don’t know the address…
How old is your son, ma’am?
He’s 9… he’s alone… oh god…
My car swings around the corner, looping again around the school, and as it does I see one, two… three teachers running in opposite directions, yelling, their hands cupped around their mouths, Trevor, Trevor!
My eyes scan the street surface, the bushes, the houses, wondering where he could go, where he could run so fast, and his form flashes in front of my eyes, a memory, and my words, He won’t go far… as his teacher dashed after him.
We’d been talking at pickup, his teacher and I, about what happened that day.
He’s been so angry lately, his teacher said, and I don’t know why.
For Trevor, anger is a demon, something he has to exercise from his body, and he succumbs to its hold on him. Right in front of me he becomes a changeling, my beautiful little boy, and the spark in his eyes dampens as if all the light in the world has gone out.
What is your son wearing, ma’am?
I sob. I don’t remember… shorts? A T-shirt? I don’t remember…
Does he have any special needs or take any medication?
Yes… I croak. Yes, he’s… emotional… he’s a very emotional kid… I can’t find the words to say it. The stigma. Depression. Anxiety. Other things nobody could put their finger on. Sensory processing disorder? ADHD? Nonverbal learning disorder? Oppositional defiant disorder? Attachment disorder? Nothing quite fits him. So many doctors, so many appointments.
Go sit in the car, I’d told him, gesturing abruptly as he screamed at his teacher and me. Go sit in the car!
But Trevor’s body listens to his demons, and after he walked angrily toward the car and sat for a few moments, he flung the door wide open and took off, just like that, his long legs stretching in front of him, his arms pumping in the misty post-rain coolness, and then he was just… gone.
Looping around the block again, I see a teacher in the playground waving her arms at me frantically. Then I see another teacher and he has Trevor in his arms, his towering height crouched down over the boy holding him tightly, and Trevor’s eyes are trained on my car as I speed into the parking lot again, an acid flavor in my mouth.
The teacher has him! I tell the 911 operator. He’s here, thank god…
So you are not in need of assistance, ma’am?
No… thank you… thank you… and I’m dropping my phone and running toward Trevor, the door to the car agape, engine still running, and I trip forward and grab his shoulders and bury my face in his neck and a voice comes out of my throat I have never heard before.
You never ever ever do that again! I shriek into his shoulder, shaking him and holding him tight against me at the same time. I thought you were gone! I thought you were gone!
I’m sorry, Mom! Trevor says next to my ear.
I thought you were gone! Why would you run off like that? I need you to promise me you will never ever do that again! Not to anyone!
I promise, Mom… He is bewildered at my response, his voice wavering as his teacher hunches down over us both, his strong hand pressing into my back, resolute.
Trevor, you scared Mommy. You scared all of us. You can’t run off like that. It’s not safe.
I know, I know, I’m sorry… he moans. I sob again, shutting my eyes against the light and the whole world, holding him tighter, tighter than I ever have.
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