violetcheetah | "Raising Samuel" scene: Juice Music (Reply)

His hearing's fine, the pediatrician says. And it makes it worse, because if he can hear, then what's wrong? Is there — I don't want to even write it, but it's on a loop in my head — Brain damage? Neurological? Aphasia? I asked Dr. White about aphasia, off-handedly, not wanting to sound like the crazy mother, and she said stuff about language acquisition and every kid is different and he obviously understands just fine, and I don't know if I was imagining her not looking me in the eye as much as usual.

I'm afraid to start looking things up, because I know how I get, but what if it's something that needs early intervention? But he needs me to not go crazy and spend 14 hours a day in the library, he needs me here, preferably without scribbling in this damn notebook all the time, at least while he's awake.

But he needs to be understood, too. He's almost two, and he wants things, but he can't tell me what he wants, and I can't stand the frustration, his and mine both, but God, listening to that wail of fury, like I'm betraying him by not reading his mind. What happens when he's five, or ten, or twenty? Will he be angry all the time, or will he just lose hope and shrivel up?

Okay, shut up now. It's written down, so put it down, do Dad's AA Serenity Prayer, and build a block tower for when he wakes up. Sam, not Dad; Dad can build his own tower. Is this the good kind of laughing, or the crazy hysterical kind? I don't think I care.

***

It's still unreal. I'm reading what I wrote six days ago, and I realize I've been laughing on and off for the last three hours, the good, crazy, hysterical kind.

Sam has figured out how to get out of his crib. He can't manage to turn around to face forward once he's clambered onto a kitchen chair, but he can apparently somehow hoist himself over the crib rail, and then not crack his skull, and then make his way down the stairs and into the living room, all without my hearing a thing, so I don't know how long he'd been down there. I thought Dad had gotten up with him when the crib was empty, but O Lordy no, he was all by himself. Surrounded by all Larry's CDs, the cases on one side, about fifty un-cased CDs on the other, both apparently having made great material for building towers, which had of course been toppled. The CDs were still laid out like an unwrapped roll of pennies.

I blurted out "Shit!" of course, and immediately thought I need to stop cursing so he doesn't pick it up, and then there was the pang of, it doesn't matter, he doesn't talk. But he still understands tone, and the glee and pride fell away from his face, so I put on my most convincing smile. "You surprised me, Sam! I see you've been busy! You made a tower all by yourself!" He beamed at "tower," and I thought again that at least he understands words.

He reached for the roll of CDs, and I could hear the scraping coming, if any of them were even still playable. I swallowed the f-bomb, turned it into, "Ooh! Ooh!

"Oh-kay, Sam, it's time to clean up the toys. But this time I'm going to clean up, because these are Larry's special toys, and we have to be really gentle. Like with the kitty."

"Ghee!" His one consistent word, meaning anything good: kitty, juice, garbage truck, book, tower.

"Right. So you're going to pick up a case, that's the square ones with the pictures and writing on the little books, and I'm going to look inside." He handed me a case. "Very good, just like that." I was still smiling. "And then I'm going to open it, and look, it's empty!" So now I'm going to gently, gently, sort through the shiny round things, and I'm going to find the one with the same words. This square one says 'Bach' and 'Cello Suites' and 'Yo-Yo Ma.' One day you'll be able to read that," I felt that pang again, "and then you can put them away your own da-ang self." I kept smiling, and now it was almost actually funny. "Of course, hopefully by then you won't be building towers out of them, but — Oh, look! Yo-Yo and Bach and Cello! And now, I'm going to put this one into the stereo, and we get to listen to the whole thing all the way through to see if I'm going to have to buy Larry a brand new copy! Oh boy!" He clapped his hands. "Yeah, well, we'll see what you think after the 17th 50-minute block of classical music."

I sat back down after I started the stereo, glad that at least for the moment, Sam was distracted by the music and not trying to help. When I glanced up after half a minute, my heart skipped with a new, old fear. He was motionless, staring, his arms half out, hands splayed rigid. I relaxed a little when he blinked, blinked again, but it was still so strange. I realized he was slowly leaning forward, on his tiptoes. I moved in front of him to catch him when he fell over, but he balanced himself with those stiff arms. He was holding his breath, but with his mouth open; I was holding my breath, thinking of seizures, neurological somethings, thinking I was deluding myself thinking he might be smiling. I didn't notice the music, until there was an ocean wave of notes and Sam's grin and his heels hitting the floor and almost unbalancing him, and then a stutter-step dance in place, and "Gheee!"

"All-righty, then. I guess you like that one." The music faded; the second track started.

"Noooooooo!"

"What?" At least he pronounced the whole word.

"Nonono!" I had my fingers on my temples; I didn't know what he wanted, there'd be a meltdown — "Again-again! A-other again!"

He stomped his foot and I unfroze. It was hard to speak, to inhale. "You want, you want the first, the first song."

"Yeah! Again, Mama, play again juice mus'c!"

"Juice music? What is —"

"Playyyyyy!" I flinched; it was like he was in pain.

"Okay, okay." I backed up to the first track. He took the same stance as before, but this time he wasn't quite motionless. His fingers twitched, bunched into fists, spread out again. Then his butt started wiggling, just a little, like a kitten about to pounce. The music seemed to be headed for the crescendo, but then it quieted again, and he shivered, then was completely still again, except for a slow, slow smile, not breathing again, and finally the delayed crescendo, and with it a grin he couldn't contain, so he spun in a circle as the music faded.

"Again play a juice mus'c!" It was suddenly completely normal: another cookie, another bedtime story, the same story, over and over.

"One. More. Time. And then we have to listen to the rest, okay?" He was starting a typical toddler pout; I held the pause button and put on a stern mother look. "Take it or leave it, son."

He drew in a slow breath. "I take it."

I announced breakfast time as soon as the third playback was over, even while I regretted heading off an argument, a conversation. I was still dreaming, and I was afraid when the music stopped, I'd wake up. "Do you want apple juice or grape?" I asked without holding them out for him to point to.

"Grape! Grape is mus'c juice!"

"I see..." And then I did. "Is grape always music juice, or is apple music juice sometimes?"

He pondered mightily. "Apple is mus'c lunch."

"So there's more than one music juice?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think maybe there's another juice music in the living room? Because there's a whole pile to go through. You might find something you like better than apple or grape. Maybe there's cookie-juice music."

He eyed me warily. "Want grape juice."

"You shall have grape juice with breakfast. After that, we'll see. And I'm going to have grape juice, too, because I don't think I need coffee this morning. But we'll see about that later, too."