By Catharine Cooper

Two days before I am set to move to Mexico, I see my son walking along the highway. He’s dragging a small black wheeled-suitcase behind him toward a seaside park. His head is downturned, focused on the sidewalk, yelling with and against the voices that torture his schizophrenically damaged mind.

Austin, now 42 years old, looks reduced, lessened. I recognize him from behind by his walk, not his person. The normally blonde fringes of hair around the edges of his bald pate shimmer in a chemically bleached yellow, as do his fluffy eyebrows, and the goatee hanging off his chin, tied in the middle with a small rubber band. I have to blink several times to make sure it is him.

I have often seen him lying or sitting on one of the park benches. The frequency of sightings leads me to believe he’s living under the nearby bridge with a collection of other homeless men and women, an odd juxtaposition to the hotel ¼ mile away where rooms start at $1200 per night. His location is confirmed by the emailed receipts I get from the nearby drugstore where he buys new beach towels, underwear, t-shirts, and things to eat. Tuna with crackers. Olives. Packaged meats. Bottled water and protein drinks. A fifth of vodka. He receives a federal disability check once a month of $900.

When I see him, it is two days after his birthday. I have sent him “Happy Birthday” texts which he has not answered. I have sent birthday money via Zelle that he has not collected. The voices in his head have convinced him that I am a bad person and not to be trusted. He’s angry with me for things he imagines I have done. I hesitate to stop, but remind myself I am leaving the country, turn the car around, and pull into the lot underneath the park. I leash the dog, and together we climb the stairs to the grassy lawn rectangle. 

Austin doesn’t see me at first. He’s sitting on a bus bench, focused on un-packing and re-packing his bag. My two-year-old doodle-pup, Loki, pulls forward on the leash, seeing his ‘bro’. Austin sees the dog first, then me. He rises angrily from the bench, pulls back his shoulders, and puts his fists together in a fighting stance. I freeze. Loki starts to growl. My hands shake and my legs feel rubbery. He walks toward me across the grass.

“How could you do it to me?” he screams.

“Do what?” I answer.

“Why do you keep calling the police?”  

His face is red, the top of his head sunburned and blistered. His pale blue eyes storming.

I don’t move. The dog keeps barking.

“I don’t do that Austin,” I say. “I’ve never called the police on you.”

“Why? Why?” He tilts his head and the words pour out in a mournful wail.

“It’s not me, Austin. Honest.”

I know he doesn’t believe me, but he lowers his arms, and bends down on one knee in front of the dog.

“Who’s this?” he asks, even though he’s known the dog for two years.

“That’s Loki,” I say.

“No,” he says. “That’s Loki, and that’s Loki, and that’s Loki.” He’s pointing his finger at something I can’t see in a circle around his body.

I stare at him, decide on the spot to just go along.

“Okay,” I say. “They’re all Loki.”

“Are you alive? Are you really alive?” he asks. “Can’t you see all the dead people around you?”

He whirls in another circle, pointing to people or ghosts that I cannot see. He flips around toward me.

“I can’t call you Mom,” he says. “I can call you Catharine. I can’t call you Mom.”

He steps closer.  

“Show me,” he says. “Show me the scar.”

I lift up the edge of my t-shirt to show him the caesarian scar. He traces the white raised line with his fingertips.

“I came from inside of you,” he says. He looks at me as if to question that fact.

Austin’s face softens.

“I remember surfing with you in Hawaii.”

“Yes. You went out at Sunset in big surf with just a boogie board and fins.”

“I’m a skimmer.”

“One of the best.”

His energy shifts. Pieces of common memories create a warm string running between us.

“And a baseball player.”

“Scouted by the Majors.”

For a full minute, we share snippets of almost normal conversation. And then abruptly, he stops.  Stares at me closely.

“Give me a hug.”

We have not touched in two years. He wraps his large biceped arms around me and I cling to him, bury my head against his chest searching for the sound of his heartbeat. Like a fast forward and backward movie. The tiny always-smiling baby boy. The toddler holding my hand. The child zooming down the playground slide. The straight-A student. The baseball star. His world filled with so much promise.

I feel myself slide into him as he lets go and walks back toward the bench. He looks over his shoulder once, then focuses on his belongings. I feel the tears on my cheeks before I know I am crying. I take one last look, put my hand on my gut, and walk down the stairs. Once inside the car, I let myself sob until I’m gasping for air and know I have to make myself stop.

When I drive out of the parking lot, he’s laid down on the bench, head on top of a folded towel, a T-shirt draped over his eyes. I wonder, should I bring him food? Isn’t that what a mother’s supposed do? Then I remember, he thinks anything I give him is poisoned, and he’ll throw it away. Traffic whirs past him. What do passersby think? Another homeless man marring their perfect oceanside park.

I grab a last glimpse of him flat on his back, dab my eyes, and wish again that of love alone could fix what is broken.  

Catharine Cooper lives in Baja California Sur, Mexico, with her Australian Cobberdog, Loki, and writes a blog, bajadreaming.me. An avid surfer, swimmer and SUP boarder, she’s working on a book of photo essays and a memoir about surfing.

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