another scene from the novel

[violetcheetah]

I'm thinking Sam's late 3-year-old or early 4-year-old; it's stolen from an afternoon with introverte and her son from many moons ago.

I had no idea he was right behind me until I spun on the ball of one foot to go back to the kitchen for my notebook, and I didn't even feel my hip bump him. But I saw in slow motion as he regained his balance right as his temple smacked into the corner of the TV cabinet. There was that nightmare paralysis as I waited for the wail, because the longer it takes to come, the worse it's going to be. It took so long that I was praying for the sound, because I could still see the impact over and over like a strobe in my mind, and I was thinking of skull fractures and contrecoup brain injuries and a miasma of other terms from the trauma shows on the Health Channel. For a century he stood rooted, his arms still spread from having caught himself, his gaze intense but far away, and finally his brow furrowed, first in mild surprise, then something deeper, and he pulled in an eternal breath, and I think I did, too, because I could see that his mind was still completely intact, and somewhere in there my paralysis must have ended, because I was already holding him when he let out an amazing baritone bellow right in my ear. The pain was like penance, cleansing; my guilt moved aside for now and I only thought about fixing him.

Still, the first thing I said was, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." And, "It's okay," which always seems like a stupid thing to say, meaningless. Somewhere in there the countless parenting articles about acknowledging feelings must have kicked in, because I heard myself say, "I know it hurts, but it's okay," and I heard a change in his screams, from long, single tones to staccato Morse code. He was trying valiantly to say words.

"I. can't. stop. cry-innnnnng!"

I had been squatting down, but suddenly my legs failed and I was sitting. I loved him. I loved him more than I'd ever loved him. I've been thinking about that all evening. I'm still trying to understand it now as I write, hours later. Maybe it's just a selfish, self-absorbed love, because he's so much like me. Maybe it's the way I felt my mother's arms around me right then, felt her comfort, felt for a moment that I was her, that she wasn't just outside of me holding me, but she was within my arms, holding him.

But there's something else. Something has changed in Sam. He's more himself than he's ever been. He's growing, and grasping, and becoming, and I don't know what he's becoming, but I can't breathe out when I think about it. I love him more now because there's more Sam than there was this morning.

I will hold that moment forever, but right then I had to move it aside like my guilt so I could find what he needed. I still felt my mother inside me, so it surprised me when my own voice came out, loud and strong so he could hear me over his own cries.

"You don't have to stop now! You'll stop when you don't need to anymore."

"But I don't liiiiike iiiiiit!"

"I know, but it makes the hurt stop sooner." He wailed in protest. "You know what else helps? Cursing."

"No... it... doesn't!"

"Have you ever tried it? Here." I pulled back a little so I could hold him by the shoulders and look him in the eye. "Take a deep breath and say whatever word you want. Really loud!" I pulled in my own exaggerated breath, and he imitated me. I could see the effort it took to stop breathing in, and then to not hold his breath, and he bore down like a woman giving birth.

"SHUHHHHHHHHHHCK!" His face screwed up in self-disgust. "God-dammit, that's not even a bad word!"

"Are you kidding, that's great! That was 'shit' and 'fuck' all at the same time! Go again."

He bellowed the same double curse, and a "God-DAMN," and then together we chanted "sonofaBITCH" half a dozen times before he paused and gingerly touched the knot on his head.

"Does it hurt any less?"

"...Maybe?" His eyes seemed to focus on his own past, on something that was ancient history now. "Yeah, cause that... that..." He came back to the present and gave me the sideways look I don't get from him often enough, where he's trying to figure out what he can get away with. "That sucked."

"Do you want the ice bunny?"

"I don't know." His voice wavered a little. "It might make it hurt more."

"Well, why don't we go in the kitchen and try the bunny, and either way, I'll set the timer to ten minutes, and you can say any words you want to until it runs out."

"Wow." His voice was soft, awestruck. Then that sideways look again. "Fifteen?"

"Thirteen, and then we'll reassess the situation."

"Cool. I like recess."

"That's not — never mind, sure, you can go play in the back yard after. But only when you're done cursing."