His name is Garrett
Before their home became the front line where love and pain collide, this is how they imagined grandparenthood:
Donna Pensabene, 51, would still be the cheery traveler driving her zippy little Pontiac Fiero two-seater around the winding roads of Saratoga County. Her husband Larry, 56, would be talking in earnest (as opposed to in jest) about retirement. They'd relax. The Fiero is gone. Donna Pensabene now drives a clunky Chrysler 300M four-seater, big enough to fit a child and his many pieces of sports equipment. And Larry Pensabene won't be able to retire any time in the foreseeable future, because they need his full income for obvious reasons: The Pensabenes are grandparents raising a grandchild.
The child is 8. His name is Garrett. He has freckles. He loves motorbikes, skiing and wrestling with his grandfather. Garrett is hugging his grandfather now.
"Don't squeeze too hard," Larry Pensabene says on a recent day, just arriving home from work as a plant utilities engineer at the University at Albany. "I'm old, you know."
Then the two scramble on the couch for the television clicker. It's a game they play. Whoever gets it becomes master and commander of the TV. The choices are irreconcilable: cartoons or news.
A few feet away, in a tilted-back wheelchair in the center of their living room in Malta is Laurie Herman - Garrett's mother and the Pensabenes' oldest daughter. She's been in a catatonic vegetative state since 2000 after the car she was driving was broadsided by a dump truck.
The only thing she can move are her eyes, which blink but see nothing, and her mouth, which opens but can't take in food or liquid. She can hear. She can feel pain. No one expects her to ever recover. She's 33.
The Pensabenes never expected to be attending student-teacher conferences at this stage of their life. They raised two daughters. They thought their child-rearing days were over. They refer to Garrett as a blessing, a joy, an incalculably precious bond to their oldest daughter, whose body lies broken.
In Garrett's bedroom, toys are piled high: air hockey, foosball, a tennis racket, baseball bats and mitts, skis, all manner of plastic gizmos and games. Glance through the Scooby-Doo curtains and there's his Arctic Cat four-wheeler, with a governor gear installed to keep the speed to a maximum of 15 mph, tops.
"I don't want to see this kid get hurt," says his grandfather.
But he does want to see Garrett have as happy a childhood as possible. Do his grandparents spoil Garrett? Perhaps. Are they going to apologize for it? Not a chance.
"I'd like to think that rather than overcompensating for the losses Garrett's had in life, we're giving him a rock that he can cling to - a family," says his grandmother. "He can see and learn through us that family means everything."
On Garrett's door is a list of chores, including collecting firewood and bringing his dirty clothes to the washing machine.
"He's my helper," says his grandfather. "We pay him three hots and a cot."
Garrett's parents split up in 1996 soon after he was born. He rarely sees his father, who lives locally. He calls his grandfather "Papa."
Garrett dreams of the day when he can legally play the poker-style video lottery terminals at Saratoga Gaming and Raceway. This is what will happen, he says: He'll put a coin into the slot and win a million dollars on the spot. Then he'll buy a mansion and have a butler who's older than he is.
"How cool would that be?" Garrett says.
His grandparents have a backup plan for him. It involves a good education. He likes math and struggles with reading and writing.
"Your report card is coming on Friday," his grandmother says, beneath the twinkling of Christmas decorations festooning the living room walls. "Am I going to be happy?"
Garrett shrugs. He's on the couch. He's got one end of a wallet chain looped around his big toe and the other end in his hand, twirling it like a miniature jump rope. His hair is wet from playing in the snow.
"I think I will be," Grandma says.
Garrett's mother used to work as a nurse's aide in the Maplewood Manor nursing home in Ballston Spa.
"I used to kid her as she went to work, saying, `Yeah, pick me out a room with a view,' " Donna Pensabene recalls. "And she'd say, `Ma, I'll never put you there. Never. You'll never stay in a nursing home.' And I swore to God she'd never see one either."
That's why their daughter remains in their home rather than in a convalescent home. The house was originally a 10-foot-by-56-foot mobile home. After the accident, her father and friends put on an addition to accommodate her and her medical needs, including a lift to get her in and out of bed.
Until recently, Garrett was in denial about his mother, says Donna Pensabene.
"He ignored the whole situation," she says. He sees a psychologist to help him, she says, and he is beginning to open up and share his feelings.
And he's beginning to open up, his grandmother says, "and at least admit that, yes, this is my mom."
Seated in the living room, Laurie has a blanket covering her body from her feet to her neck. Her mother placed pretty little slippers with plastic poinsettia leaves on her feet. The Pensabenes say they take great care to show their daughter affection so that Garrett can see she's an important part of the family.
Sometimes Garrett says hello to her. Mostly he doesn't, preoccupied instead with the whims and whimsy of boyhood. His grandparents say he sometimes feels embarrassed by her. He barely remembers his mother when she was well. He has vague memories of boarding a plane with her when she took him to a trip to Tennessee. Vague memories of riding on a train with her when they visited Strasburg, Pa.
He doesn't remember the countless kisses she placed on his forehead or her holding his hand as he first learned to walk.
He remembers being in a car with her when he was 3 years old. It was just after his mom signed him up for swimming lessons at the YMCA. Just as they were heading home. Just after the truck plowed into the side of their car at the corner of Route 9 and Malta Avenue Extension at about 4 p.m.
He is still buckled tightly in the back seat. The red strobe beams of emergency lights slash through the shattered windows as frantic faces appear before him.
He doesn't remember his mother's body lying motionless only inches away. He remembers being unhurt, and he remembers the screaming.
His own voice.
"I'm alive! I'm alive! I'm alive!"
Donna Pensabene, 51, would still be the cheery traveler driving her zippy little Pontiac Fiero two-seater around the winding roads of Saratoga County. Her husband Larry, 56, would be talking in earnest (as opposed to in jest) about retirement. They'd relax. The Fiero is gone. Donna Pensabene now drives a clunky Chrysler 300M four-seater, big enough to fit a child and his many pieces of sports equipment. And Larry Pensabene won't be able to retire any time in the foreseeable future, because they need his full income for obvious reasons: The Pensabenes are grandparents raising a grandchild.
The child is 8. His name is Garrett. He has freckles. He loves motorbikes, skiing and wrestling with his grandfather. Garrett is hugging his grandfather now.
"Don't squeeze too hard," Larry Pensabene says on a recent day, just arriving home from work as a plant utilities engineer at the University at Albany. "I'm old, you know."
Then the two scramble on the couch for the television clicker. It's a game they play. Whoever gets it becomes master and commander of the TV. The choices are irreconcilable: cartoons or news.
A few feet away, in a tilted-back wheelchair in the center of their living room in Malta is Laurie Herman - Garrett's mother and the Pensabenes' oldest daughter. She's been in a catatonic vegetative state since 2000 after the car she was driving was broadsided by a dump truck.
The only thing she can move are her eyes, which blink but see nothing, and her mouth, which opens but can't take in food or liquid. She can hear. She can feel pain. No one expects her to ever recover. She's 33.
The Pensabenes never expected to be attending student-teacher conferences at this stage of their life. They raised two daughters. They thought their child-rearing days were over. They refer to Garrett as a blessing, a joy, an incalculably precious bond to their oldest daughter, whose body lies broken.
In Garrett's bedroom, toys are piled high: air hockey, foosball, a tennis racket, baseball bats and mitts, skis, all manner of plastic gizmos and games. Glance through the Scooby-Doo curtains and there's his Arctic Cat four-wheeler, with a governor gear installed to keep the speed to a maximum of 15 mph, tops.
"I don't want to see this kid get hurt," says his grandfather.
But he does want to see Garrett have as happy a childhood as possible. Do his grandparents spoil Garrett? Perhaps. Are they going to apologize for it? Not a chance.
"I'd like to think that rather than overcompensating for the losses Garrett's had in life, we're giving him a rock that he can cling to - a family," says his grandmother. "He can see and learn through us that family means everything."
On Garrett's door is a list of chores, including collecting firewood and bringing his dirty clothes to the washing machine.
"He's my helper," says his grandfather. "We pay him three hots and a cot."
Garrett's parents split up in 1996 soon after he was born. He rarely sees his father, who lives locally. He calls his grandfather "Papa."
Garrett dreams of the day when he can legally play the poker-style video lottery terminals at Saratoga Gaming and Raceway. This is what will happen, he says: He'll put a coin into the slot and win a million dollars on the spot. Then he'll buy a mansion and have a butler who's older than he is.
"How cool would that be?" Garrett says.
His grandparents have a backup plan for him. It involves a good education. He likes math and struggles with reading and writing.
"Your report card is coming on Friday," his grandmother says, beneath the twinkling of Christmas decorations festooning the living room walls. "Am I going to be happy?"
Garrett shrugs. He's on the couch. He's got one end of a wallet chain looped around his big toe and the other end in his hand, twirling it like a miniature jump rope. His hair is wet from playing in the snow.
"I think I will be," Grandma says.
Garrett's mother used to work as a nurse's aide in the Maplewood Manor nursing home in Ballston Spa.
"I used to kid her as she went to work, saying, `Yeah, pick me out a room with a view,' " Donna Pensabene recalls. "And she'd say, `Ma, I'll never put you there. Never. You'll never stay in a nursing home.' And I swore to God she'd never see one either."
That's why their daughter remains in their home rather than in a convalescent home. The house was originally a 10-foot-by-56-foot mobile home. After the accident, her father and friends put on an addition to accommodate her and her medical needs, including a lift to get her in and out of bed.
Until recently, Garrett was in denial about his mother, says Donna Pensabene.
"He ignored the whole situation," she says. He sees a psychologist to help him, she says, and he is beginning to open up and share his feelings.
And he's beginning to open up, his grandmother says, "and at least admit that, yes, this is my mom."
Seated in the living room, Laurie has a blanket covering her body from her feet to her neck. Her mother placed pretty little slippers with plastic poinsettia leaves on her feet. The Pensabenes say they take great care to show their daughter affection so that Garrett can see she's an important part of the family.
Sometimes Garrett says hello to her. Mostly he doesn't, preoccupied instead with the whims and whimsy of boyhood. His grandparents say he sometimes feels embarrassed by her. He barely remembers his mother when she was well. He has vague memories of boarding a plane with her when she took him to a trip to Tennessee. Vague memories of riding on a train with her when they visited Strasburg, Pa.
He doesn't remember the countless kisses she placed on his forehead or her holding his hand as he first learned to walk.
He remembers being in a car with her when he was 3 years old. It was just after his mom signed him up for swimming lessons at the YMCA. Just as they were heading home. Just after the truck plowed into the side of their car at the corner of Route 9 and Malta Avenue Extension at about 4 p.m.
He is still buckled tightly in the back seat. The red strobe beams of emergency lights slash through the shattered windows as frantic faces appear before him.
He doesn't remember his mother's body lying motionless only inches away. He remembers being unhurt, and he remembers the screaming.
His own voice.
"I'm alive! I'm alive! I'm alive!"
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