Never a Hero

Besides, practicing after he came home gave me an excuse to be with him. He fed me dinner more often than not. He wasn’t a bad cook, but he cared far more about nutrition than about taste. I never complained, although I did add a generous amount of salt and pepper to everything he served me. After dinner, we’d take his dogs for a walk, and then we’d settle on the couch for an hour or two of TV before I went home.
    Despite having taken me to the Greek restaurant, I learned that he preferred cooking his own meals because he had no control over what restaurants put in his food. I thought it was a bit eccentric, but it dovetailed well with my reluctance to go to crowded restaurants. We spent our evenings at home. He was always patient and understanding. I was comfortable with him in a way I’d rarely been with anybody in my life.
    “Tell me about your stutter,” he said one night. We were sitting on the back porch, watching the dogs play in the yard. The sky was beginning to darken, an orange glow appearing in the west. It was chilly outside, but we were warm and comfortable in our jackets.
    “What about it?”
    “I’m curious, that’s all. You mentioned once that it used to be bad, and yet, except for that time at the restaurant, I’ve barely noticed it.”
    “It’s better than it used to be.”
    “Because of some kind of therapy?”
    I’d intentionally avoided that question the first time he’d asked it, but it seemed dishonest to do it again. “Partly I’ve learned to deal with it. To talk a bit slower, and to anticipate what might trip me up.”
    “And what’s the other part?”
    I sighed and hugged my arms around myself, more for comfort than for warmth. “The w-worst thing is feeling like somebody is focusing on me, waiting for me.”
    “Like the waitress.”
    “Yes. Restaurants were always the worst. My m-m-mother would force me to order, but she h-hated if I stuttered. She’d say, ‘Try not to sound like a retard this time.’”
    “You mother called you that? She actually used that word?”
    “N-no. Sh-she didn’t call me that. She said, d-d-don’t sound like it.” The distinction seemed important to me. And yet, I’d inadvertently stumbled into the heart of the issue: my mother.
    Nick was watching me, clearly outraged. I had no doubt he would have torn my mother apart if she’d been present. I wondered if I’d feel vindicated, or embarrassed.
    I took a deep breath to steady myself. I reminded myself that this was Nick I was talking to. Nick, who would never laugh at me, or roll his eyes, or tell me to spit it out already. Nick, who was my one true friend.
    “It was my m-mother’s fault,” I said at last. “It’s generally accepted that there’s a cause, whether it’s physiological or psychological. There’s some debate about the specifics. I can’t really speak for others, but for myself, it’s turned out to be largely psychological.”
    “I don’t know if I understand. There must be a physical cause.”
    “Well, there probably is something that starts it. But how much it continues depends a lot on other factors. One thing that’s generally accepted is that anxiety can aggravate it, and the reaction of the listener can aggravate it, which in turn causes more anxiety and more stuttering.”
    “A vicious cycle.”
    “Exactly. So, things like having the waitress f-focus on me, and knowing she’s imp-p-patient, that can trigger it.”
    “You’re talking about the waitress, but you said it was your mother’s fault.”
    “Yes.”
    “Because she handled it poorly?”
    “She wanted me to be like everybody else. She wanted a normal son. Not a freak.”
    “Owen, I wish you wouldn’t use that word. You are normal.”
    I nodded because I didn’t trust myself to speak. On some level, I knew he was right. A congenital amputation didn’t mean I wasn’t “normal.” A stutter didn’t, either. My father had told me the same thing over and over again: “There’s not a damn thing wrong with you, son.” And yet, I couldn’t remember a single incident from my childhood where my mother had encouraged me. All she’d ever done was criticize.
    “The p-p-point is, it varies a lot from person to person. But for me, my mother is my biggest trigger. High school was the worst, because she’d tell all of my teachers about it, like she was setting me up. And kids would make fun of me. And then . . .” I stopped there. I wasn’t about to share that part of my story yet.