(Prefatory Note: I wrote this story in 2008 while I was taking my first fiction workshop. Like "Unpracticed Altitudes" it's a little heavy on the manic pixie trope, but I still like it enough to preserve and present it here.)
It’s a new office every couple of weeks—new cubicles with new knick-knacks, new newspaper clippings, and new pictures of strangers’ families, all melting into one giant generic smiling super-family—but the work is always the same, ten-keying numbers into spreadsheets in the middle of the night while the staff is at home in bed. It means I leave Cameron alone most nights, but I know now that he’s safe. It’s boring work. It’s lonely work. Worse, it’s easy work, which means my imagination is free to roam. More and more often I think of Dr. Hemphill. We locate your signature in the time stream, he says. I imagine time as a stream where everything is fixed on the shores like animatronic robots on a theme park ride, happening again and again, once for each boatload of passengers. I wonder if I could get out of my boat, swim upstream. See other things in other places.
#
Somewhere I’m waking up in a white room and my head hurts. I’m lying in a bed. In the chair next to me there’s this girl with brown eyes. She starts talking, Oh thank God, they thought you might be in a coma, and it would have been all my fault.
Who are you? I say. My throat feels dry and I sound like a rock.
Amelia, she says, frowning. I’m Amelia.
Oh, I say. I lay my head back on the pillow, ready for a nap.
Nope, she says, hopping up and shaking me. That’s enough sleep for now. She waves to someone out in the hall. Come in here and tell him he’s not allowed to sleep.
A nurse steps into the room. Oh good, you’re awake, she says. Mr. Winterson, you’ve suffered a concussion, nothing too serious, but we’re going to keep you here overnight for observation, and I’m sorry, but she’s right, you can’t sleep. I’ll go get the doctor.
Concussion? I say, and Amelia, the girl with the leg warmers, starts twirling hair around two fingers, looking at the ceiling.
That’d be me, she says. I was smoking up on the wall outside the Fine Arts building and I pitched my butt without looking first. I startled you, and you slipped on the ice and hit your head.
The doctor arrives, a man with long hair and a beard. He shines a flashlight in my eyes, then says everything the nurse just said, but in a deeper voice. He adds that my parents have been called, and that my Dad is coming for me. A bit of the world pours back in. It’s the last day of class. I’ve missed my flight home. The doctor pats me on the shoulder, and then my assailant and I are alone again.
It won’t be so bad, she says, reaching into her purse. I have stuff to do. If I’d known I’d be hanging out here all night, I’d have brought more, but anyway. She pulls out a deck of New York Yankees playing cards and puts it on the bed with me. Then she’s climbs up, too, dropping her sneakers on the tile and sitting at the foot of the bed in her rainbow socks. I sit up to make room for her, feeling especially naked in my gown.
She deals. We play Go Fish, War, Crazy Eights. I teach her Gin. She teaches me Hearts. Sometime around three in the morning, the sky outside the window a perfect matte black, I struggle to shuffle the deck. My movements feel thick and stupid, cards escaping and fluttering away, and she reaches out and runs a hand through my hair, adjusting it, making it more to her liking.
Around five, she pulls a copy of The Witching Hour from her purse. Are you going to read to me? I say.
No, I thought you’d read to me, she says. It’ll keep you awake.
She lies next to me on the bed, her head propped up on one arm. She fills me in on the story as we go. Don’t tell anyone, but I think this book is kind of sexy, she says. Does that make me fucked up? I don’t tell her, but yes, I think it does.
What are you doing after this? I say.
What, you mean after your concussion? she says, laughing. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
Who are you? I say. My throat feels dry and I sound like a rock.
Amelia, she says, frowning. I’m Amelia.
Oh, I say. I lay my head back on the pillow, ready for a nap.
Nope, she says, hopping up and shaking me. That’s enough sleep for now. She waves to someone out in the hall. Come in here and tell him he’s not allowed to sleep.
A nurse steps into the room. Oh good, you’re awake, she says. Mr. Winterson, you’ve suffered a concussion, nothing too serious, but we’re going to keep you here overnight for observation, and I’m sorry, but she’s right, you can’t sleep. I’ll go get the doctor.
Concussion? I say, and Amelia, the girl with the leg warmers, starts twirling hair around two fingers, looking at the ceiling.
That’d be me, she says. I was smoking up on the wall outside the Fine Arts building and I pitched my butt without looking first. I startled you, and you slipped on the ice and hit your head.
The doctor arrives, a man with long hair and a beard. He shines a flashlight in my eyes, then says everything the nurse just said, but in a deeper voice. He adds that my parents have been called, and that my Dad is coming for me. A bit of the world pours back in. It’s the last day of class. I’ve missed my flight home. The doctor pats me on the shoulder, and then my assailant and I are alone again.
It won’t be so bad, she says, reaching into her purse. I have stuff to do. If I’d known I’d be hanging out here all night, I’d have brought more, but anyway. She pulls out a deck of New York Yankees playing cards and puts it on the bed with me. Then she’s climbs up, too, dropping her sneakers on the tile and sitting at the foot of the bed in her rainbow socks. I sit up to make room for her, feeling especially naked in my gown.
She deals. We play Go Fish, War, Crazy Eights. I teach her Gin. She teaches me Hearts. Sometime around three in the morning, the sky outside the window a perfect matte black, I struggle to shuffle the deck. My movements feel thick and stupid, cards escaping and fluttering away, and she reaches out and runs a hand through my hair, adjusting it, making it more to her liking.
Around five, she pulls a copy of The Witching Hour from her purse. Are you going to read to me? I say.
No, I thought you’d read to me, she says. It’ll keep you awake.
She lies next to me on the bed, her head propped up on one arm. She fills me in on the story as we go. Don’t tell anyone, but I think this book is kind of sexy, she says. Does that make me fucked up? I don’t tell her, but yes, I think it does.
What are you doing after this? I say.
What, you mean after your concussion? she says, laughing. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
#
Only I can’t get there. I can’t remember how the room smelled, what the chair looked like, the doctor’s name. Without these things it’s more like a favorite bedtime story than a real memory. So I end up going somewhere else, like Hemphill’s office, with its peeling paint, flickering lights, and the drip-drip-drip from the waterlogged ceiling panel to the black trash can in the corner. The pale girl at the front desk reading Being and Time. The sounds of heavy bass and police sirens on the street outside. The purple banner out front. The two diplomas on the wall, one from Harvard Medical School, the other from their Physics Department. The nail salon next door. Cameron in the chair next to me, squirming. It’s the first time in weeks that he’s acted like a normal eight-year-old. Hemphill behind his desk, looking over our paperwork, saying,
How did your wife die?
She tripped in the garden, I say. Fell and hit her temple on the sharp end of a rock.
And how many expiration dates are you looking to purchase? he says.
Is this real? Cameron says. He sounds angry, fed up with teasing adults.
Cameron, I say.
Absolutely, Hemphill says. This is very serious work we do here.
But I mean, how does it work?
It’s simple enough, Hemphill says, looking at me instead of Cameron. We feed a sample of your blood, augmented by some of your personal and medical information—he taps our paperwork--into our machine. Based on that information, we locate your signature in the time stream, which allows us to approximate the moment of your passing.
Approximate? Cameron says.
Hemphill glances at him, but again turns to me, like I’m the one asking questions. This is still a new science, and it isn’t as precise as we’d like. Free will can sometimes wreak havoc with our results. In any case, we locate the approximate moment of your passing, and we keep the information on file until a set time of your choosing – a week, a month, a year, whatever, before your date – and then we mail you a letter in one of these. He holds up a purple envelope dotted with puffy white clouds and the THS logo.
Cameron’s so far forward in his chair that he’s basically standing, his butt only grazing the seat. Is this legal? he says.
Hemphill smirks. Your son is a bright boy, he says.
He’s usually better behaved, I say.
Hemphill finally gives Cameron his full attention. Sort of, he says. We’ve applied for federal approval, but the people in charge are skeptical. So we ask that each of our clients sign a wavier.
I have to sign something? Cameron says.
Cameron, that’s enough, I say.
It’s all right, Hemphill says. You’re too young, actually. Your father will have to sign yours.
Cameron sits back in his chair, arms crossed, looking ready to throw something.
How did your wife die?
She tripped in the garden, I say. Fell and hit her temple on the sharp end of a rock.
And how many expiration dates are you looking to purchase? he says.
Is this real? Cameron says. He sounds angry, fed up with teasing adults.
Cameron, I say.
Absolutely, Hemphill says. This is very serious work we do here.
But I mean, how does it work?
It’s simple enough, Hemphill says, looking at me instead of Cameron. We feed a sample of your blood, augmented by some of your personal and medical information—he taps our paperwork--into our machine. Based on that information, we locate your signature in the time stream, which allows us to approximate the moment of your passing.
Approximate? Cameron says.
Hemphill glances at him, but again turns to me, like I’m the one asking questions. This is still a new science, and it isn’t as precise as we’d like. Free will can sometimes wreak havoc with our results. In any case, we locate the approximate moment of your passing, and we keep the information on file until a set time of your choosing – a week, a month, a year, whatever, before your date – and then we mail you a letter in one of these. He holds up a purple envelope dotted with puffy white clouds and the THS logo.
Cameron’s so far forward in his chair that he’s basically standing, his butt only grazing the seat. Is this legal? he says.
Hemphill smirks. Your son is a bright boy, he says.
He’s usually better behaved, I say.
Hemphill finally gives Cameron his full attention. Sort of, he says. We’ve applied for federal approval, but the people in charge are skeptical. So we ask that each of our clients sign a wavier.
I have to sign something? Cameron says.
Cameron, that’s enough, I say.
It’s all right, Hemphill says. You’re too young, actually. Your father will have to sign yours.
Cameron sits back in his chair, arms crossed, looking ready to throw something.
#
Somewhere very close to that, Cameron and I are at the kitchen table, each of us with a ballpoint pen and a yellow legal pad, a pamphlet entitled So You’ve Decided on a Happy Ending between us. I try not to thank of handjobs. I’m writing cliches like Take a comedy class, and Build a ship in a bottle. I’ve filled three pages before I notice that Cameron’s first page remains blank, except for a single scratched-out sentence. He picks at the bandage and gauze in the crook of his right arm.
What’s the matter? I say.
I can’t think of anything, he says.
What do you mean? There must be lots of stuff you want to do.
He shakes his head.
Bungee jumping, I suggest. Skydiving. Pole vaulting. Pitch the first ball of the season at a major league baseball game.
He shoves his chair back from the table, legs scraping against the linoleum floor. It’s stupid and I don’t want to do it, he says. He knocks the chair over and doesn’t bother to pick it up as he leaves the room.
I don’t follow him. I wouldn’t know what to do if I did. Since the police left us alone together the night of Amelia’s death, I doubt we’ve exchanged a thousand words. We sat and stood together at the funeral, but we didn’t touch. I haven’t touched my son since his mother died. I haven’t wanted to touch him. We used to get along. We went to the movies when Amelia was sick, or with friends. I let him see things his mother wouldn’t approve of. But now he’s a cold little stranger, silently hating me.
What’s the matter? I say.
I can’t think of anything, he says.
What do you mean? There must be lots of stuff you want to do.
He shakes his head.
Bungee jumping, I suggest. Skydiving. Pole vaulting. Pitch the first ball of the season at a major league baseball game.
He shoves his chair back from the table, legs scraping against the linoleum floor. It’s stupid and I don’t want to do it, he says. He knocks the chair over and doesn’t bother to pick it up as he leaves the room.
I don’t follow him. I wouldn’t know what to do if I did. Since the police left us alone together the night of Amelia’s death, I doubt we’ve exchanged a thousand words. We sat and stood together at the funeral, but we didn’t touch. I haven’t touched my son since his mother died. I haven’t wanted to touch him. We used to get along. We went to the movies when Amelia was sick, or with friends. I let him see things his mother wouldn’t approve of. But now he’s a cold little stranger, silently hating me.
#
Somewhere better, the nurse is telling me I can go in and see her now, but to be quiet because her roommate is sleeping. I pad down the hall and through a doorway, and there’s Amelia propped up in bed, staring at the cast on her right leg. We’re in Oklahoma on our first vacation together. We were spending the weekend at Lake Broken Bow, but we’ll be spending the rest of our time here, because Amelia thought it would be a good idea to jump off a sixty-foot cliff into the water below. She hit a rock at the bottom.
Across the room, I can tell she’s in one of her glum moods. Most of the time, she’s energetic, super-cheerful. But every now and then, especially after she’s done something ill-advised, she crashes hard. She’ll spend days moping, locked up in her apartment, watching old movies on videotape.
She waves. Welcome to the goofballs and idiots ward, she says.
Hey, I say, crossing the room and kissing the top of her head.
You smell like the lake, she says, pushing me.
I sit in the chair next to her. You don’t smell so hot yourself, I say.
I lean my head against the wall behind me and stare up at the ceiling. I hear her sniff and I look over to see her wiping her face with the heel of one hand, her unbroken leg drawn up toward her.
I know, I know, it’s my own fault, she says. You told me not to.
I reach up to touch her arm, and she grabs me hand, yanking me to my feet. She pushes her hot, wet face into my middle.
You’re okay, I say. You’re okay. And hey, now we’re even, right? First I was in the hospital bed, now it’s you.
She turns her head so she can speak. It was my fault both times, she says.
But still, I say, rubbing the back of her neck. Who knows, maybe someday we’ll make it a trilogy.
You jumped after me, she says.
Uh-huh, I say.
Why’d you do that?
I didn’t really think about it, I say. I just sort of did it.
Marry me, she says.
Across the room, I can tell she’s in one of her glum moods. Most of the time, she’s energetic, super-cheerful. But every now and then, especially after she’s done something ill-advised, she crashes hard. She’ll spend days moping, locked up in her apartment, watching old movies on videotape.
She waves. Welcome to the goofballs and idiots ward, she says.
Hey, I say, crossing the room and kissing the top of her head.
You smell like the lake, she says, pushing me.
I sit in the chair next to her. You don’t smell so hot yourself, I say.
I lean my head against the wall behind me and stare up at the ceiling. I hear her sniff and I look over to see her wiping her face with the heel of one hand, her unbroken leg drawn up toward her.
I know, I know, it’s my own fault, she says. You told me not to.
I reach up to touch her arm, and she grabs me hand, yanking me to my feet. She pushes her hot, wet face into my middle.
You’re okay, I say. You’re okay. And hey, now we’re even, right? First I was in the hospital bed, now it’s you.
She turns her head so she can speak. It was my fault both times, she says.
But still, I say, rubbing the back of her neck. Who knows, maybe someday we’ll make it a trilogy.
You jumped after me, she says.
Uh-huh, I say.
Why’d you do that?
I didn’t really think about it, I say. I just sort of did it.
Marry me, she says.
#
Somewhere the phone is waking me fifteen minutes before the alarm, the sky outside my window graying into black. My hand fumbles on the nightstand and I answer. It’s Mrs. Beaker, from Cameron’s school, calling to tell me she’s worried. Cameron hasn’t turned in any assignments for two weeks, and the due date for his science fair project was this morning, but he didn’t bring anything, she understands there’s been some trouble at home, is there an afternoon I could come in for a parent-teacher conference. I mumble that I understand and can I call her back in the next couple of days when I’ve had time to check my work schedule.
I pass through the upstairs hallway to Cameron’s room. The light is on but he’s not inside. I look at his posters of Green Lantern and Albert Einstein, the G.I. Joes scattered on the carpet. I look at the easel and canvas in the corner, a gift from Amelia last Christmas after Cameron won second place in his school’s art contest. The canvas is covered in a wide orange-yellow-brown streak. Is this an accident, or his new idea of art? Normally he paints pictures of made up things, improbable buildings on cliffs, in the sides of mountains, floating in space, people living in dome houses, sitting on Astroturf lawns and staring out into the vacuum.
I turn to his study desk, pushed up against the bedroom window and overlooking the back yard. The desk is buried in a clutter of homework papers, and disassembled appliances: clumps of wiring, a green and brown circuit board, the keypad of an ancient cell phone.
I go downstairs, calling Cameron’s name. In the hall to the kitchen, I notice my study door is closed. I always leave it open. I open the door and find this room empty, too. The bottom drawer of my desk, which I always keep locked, hangs wide open. My papers lie strewn across the surface. I move forward. I find copies of my last three tax returns, some bank statements, and the coffin catalogue from the home that buried Amelia. I pick it up and flip through it. I’d circled the ones I liked in red marker.
I gather the papers and return them to their proper place. I can’t re-lock the drawer. The lock’s been broken and won’t turn.
I find Cameron in the kitchen, standing in front of the microwave, making popcorn. He doesn’t look at me when I enter the room.
Cameron, I say.
He doesn’t answer. I move forward to stand behind him. He leans forward against the kitchen counter, staring at a scrap of paper. I see it’s covered in my handwriting, my scribbles: Beloved son, we hardly knew you. Your stay with us was far too short. You’re in Heaven with your mother now.
I reach down and snatch it away from him. He looks up at me. That’s private, I say. You had no right.
This is what my family has been reduced to: two people snooping through one another’s desks, trying to read their contents like chicken bones.
You’re grounded, I say.
I pass through the upstairs hallway to Cameron’s room. The light is on but he’s not inside. I look at his posters of Green Lantern and Albert Einstein, the G.I. Joes scattered on the carpet. I look at the easel and canvas in the corner, a gift from Amelia last Christmas after Cameron won second place in his school’s art contest. The canvas is covered in a wide orange-yellow-brown streak. Is this an accident, or his new idea of art? Normally he paints pictures of made up things, improbable buildings on cliffs, in the sides of mountains, floating in space, people living in dome houses, sitting on Astroturf lawns and staring out into the vacuum.
I turn to his study desk, pushed up against the bedroom window and overlooking the back yard. The desk is buried in a clutter of homework papers, and disassembled appliances: clumps of wiring, a green and brown circuit board, the keypad of an ancient cell phone.
I go downstairs, calling Cameron’s name. In the hall to the kitchen, I notice my study door is closed. I always leave it open. I open the door and find this room empty, too. The bottom drawer of my desk, which I always keep locked, hangs wide open. My papers lie strewn across the surface. I move forward. I find copies of my last three tax returns, some bank statements, and the coffin catalogue from the home that buried Amelia. I pick it up and flip through it. I’d circled the ones I liked in red marker.
I gather the papers and return them to their proper place. I can’t re-lock the drawer. The lock’s been broken and won’t turn.
I find Cameron in the kitchen, standing in front of the microwave, making popcorn. He doesn’t look at me when I enter the room.
Cameron, I say.
He doesn’t answer. I move forward to stand behind him. He leans forward against the kitchen counter, staring at a scrap of paper. I see it’s covered in my handwriting, my scribbles: Beloved son, we hardly knew you. Your stay with us was far too short. You’re in Heaven with your mother now.
I reach down and snatch it away from him. He looks up at me. That’s private, I say. You had no right.
This is what my family has been reduced to: two people snooping through one another’s desks, trying to read their contents like chicken bones.
You’re grounded, I say.
#
Somewhere, Cameron is a year old and has just started walking. I’m sitting on the couch, watching him zoom around the living room in his onesie, and I’m saying, Should we buy more baby gates? He walks behind the couch, where I can only hear him bobbing along. I mean, what if he goes into another room while we’re not looking and pulls something down on himself?
Amelia sits on the other end of the couch, feet up on the coffee table. He’s fine, Linus. Besides, you have to let them get a few bumps and bruises. It’s how they learn.
Cameron rounds the couch on my side. He throws one leg and elbow up on the middle cushion. He wiggles back and forth, struggling for purchase. He grabs my pants leg and drags himself forward onto the couch. He spends a moment rearranging himself, and then he’s sitting up, grinning at me.
This is before he’s talking, before he’s reading. This is before he starts frowning all the time. This is while I understand him, and I know it’s happening somewhere, but I can’t get to it, can’t find it. I can’t find any of the places I need to be.
Amelia sits on the other end of the couch, feet up on the coffee table. He’s fine, Linus. Besides, you have to let them get a few bumps and bruises. It’s how they learn.
Cameron rounds the couch on my side. He throws one leg and elbow up on the middle cushion. He wiggles back and forth, struggling for purchase. He grabs my pants leg and drags himself forward onto the couch. He spends a moment rearranging himself, and then he’s sitting up, grinning at me.
This is before he’s talking, before he’s reading. This is before he starts frowning all the time. This is while I understand him, and I know it’s happening somewhere, but I can’t get to it, can’t find it. I can’t find any of the places I need to be.
#
The work is easy, so your imagination wanders. Imagine you’re married, and you’re one of those rare couples who actually like one another. You’re content. Now imagine finding the love of your life in the back yard. At first you don’t understand what you’re seeing. You only get fragments. The hem of a blue flower-print dress rippling in the light September breeze. A solitary faded black shoe standing on its side in the grass. A line of ants marching across the mountain of a pale, milky, stubbled calf. An open hand, palm up. Long brown hair, clumped together on one side. Far away, you hear some low, desperate sound, and then you realize it’s coming from you.
You stop while everything else keeps going. One day your boss calls you into his office and says I’m sorry for you, I really am, but think of my position, we still have work to do, and then you’re free to stay up as late as you like because you have nowhere to be in the morning. And you can’t sleep anyway, because every time you close your eyes, all you can see is your son dying, too. Sometimes another kid brings a gun to school and shoots him. Sometimes he trips and breaks his neck falling down the stairs. Sometimes he runs out into the street and gets hit by a driver who’s not paying attention. It’s always random, uncontrollable, and in a world where your wife dies because she’s a little bit of a klutz, it doesn’t just seem possible. It feels inevitable.
So you stay up late, watching TV. Imagine at three in the morning, you see an ad on public access where a man in a white coat says, Tired of running from the end? Crippled by fear? Afraid of the unknown? Hi, I’m Doctor Arthur Hemphill, and we here at Timeline Health Services understand your pain. But why let fear stand in the way of a well-lived life? Using the latest in cutting edge technology, we can accurately predict the date of your death and notify you in plenty of time to prepare for the end.
He spreads his hands and smiles. Don’t spend the rest of your life worrying–we’ll do it for you.
Wouldn’t that feel like a sign from God, if you saw it? The belated answer to your prayers? Wouldn’t you write down the number at the bottom of the screen and put it in a safe place? Wouldn’t you go to a temp agency, say, Put me to work, whatever jobs you’ve got? Wouldn’t you start saving? Wouldn’t you make an appointment as soon as you could afford it? Wouldn’t you look past the shitty, collapsing building, try not to wonder whether the two PhDs on his office wall were real, and hope, just hope?
You stop while everything else keeps going. One day your boss calls you into his office and says I’m sorry for you, I really am, but think of my position, we still have work to do, and then you’re free to stay up as late as you like because you have nowhere to be in the morning. And you can’t sleep anyway, because every time you close your eyes, all you can see is your son dying, too. Sometimes another kid brings a gun to school and shoots him. Sometimes he trips and breaks his neck falling down the stairs. Sometimes he runs out into the street and gets hit by a driver who’s not paying attention. It’s always random, uncontrollable, and in a world where your wife dies because she’s a little bit of a klutz, it doesn’t just seem possible. It feels inevitable.
So you stay up late, watching TV. Imagine at three in the morning, you see an ad on public access where a man in a white coat says, Tired of running from the end? Crippled by fear? Afraid of the unknown? Hi, I’m Doctor Arthur Hemphill, and we here at Timeline Health Services understand your pain. But why let fear stand in the way of a well-lived life? Using the latest in cutting edge technology, we can accurately predict the date of your death and notify you in plenty of time to prepare for the end.
He spreads his hands and smiles. Don’t spend the rest of your life worrying–we’ll do it for you.
Wouldn’t that feel like a sign from God, if you saw it? The belated answer to your prayers? Wouldn’t you write down the number at the bottom of the screen and put it in a safe place? Wouldn’t you go to a temp agency, say, Put me to work, whatever jobs you’ve got? Wouldn’t you start saving? Wouldn’t you make an appointment as soon as you could afford it? Wouldn’t you look past the shitty, collapsing building, try not to wonder whether the two PhDs on his office wall were real, and hope, just hope?
#
It’s a long snowy night. The wind bends the trees and bellows at the windows. I leave the office before the first of the day staff arrive, an elf vanishing before the shoemaker wakes. In the predawn light I scrape the ice from my car and drive home, watching the morning traffic creep down the highway in the opposite direction.
When I pull onto my street, I see Cameron standing at the mailbox, bundled up in last year’s winter coat. He looks like he’s tossing confetti into the wind. As I come closer, I see that he’s shredding a dark purple envelope. As he tears each piece, he holds it aloft and releases it, watching it blow away in the wind. Several scraps have caught in the branches of a neighbor’s tree, and look strangely at home there, like recycled leaves.
I throw the car into park in the middle of the street and climb out, fumbling with the keys and seatbelt. I yell over the wind. Cameron turns and sees me, his hand still above his head. He runs. I run, too, leaving the car door ajar. He tears at the envelope as he goes, pieces whipping past my face.
The wind hollers and blows snow, and Cameron and I are in a white tunnel. Somewhere, he’s six and we’re at the pool, and I’m standing in the shallow end with my arms open, calling to Cameron to jump to me, I’ll catch him, but he turns and runs away, so I get out of the pool to follow him, and we’re both running and we’re in the living room and he’s four and he’s running from me to his mother, squealing, looking for safety from the tickle monster, and then he’s three and he’s hiding under the covers in his bed, giggling as I pretend to look for him, wondering aloud oh where oh where could he be? and I pull the blankets back and bellow, Ah-ha! only he’s not there, it’s Amelia, and we’re in our bedroom in the middle of the night and she’s starting to show, and she rubs her belly and whispers Promise, but she’s laughing and rolling away, and we’re playing a two-person game of tag in the university courtyard, and she keeps ducking out of my reach, shouting over her shoulder, smiling, taunting me, but I can’t hear her over the wind, I promise, I promise, not both of you, not him too, I promise, but she’s out of my reach and then Cameron and I are both rolling in the snow, and I’ve got him by the ankle and he’s trying to kick me, but my grip is strong, and reeling him in, shouting, Who was it for? Who was the letter addressed to? and I’ve got my hands on his shoulders and I’m shaking him, and then the wind quiets.
His face is pink and all scrunched up. Snot streams from his nostrils and his breath hitches. The remains of the envelope shake in his hands. It’s the first time I’ve touched my son in three months and I’m hurting him. I let go. He gets to his feet and steps away.
Why do you want me to die? he says.
I look from the envelope to him. I open my mouth to tell him he’s only eight. That he doesn’t understand. But I can’t. I can’t say it. He doesn’t understand. Maybe I don’t either. I reach out, grab him by the wrist, and yank him closer. He stumbles and trips, but I catch him, pull him into my lap. Oh, sweetheart, I say. Oh, Cameron.
Somewhere, I’m meeting my wife. Somewhere, we’re falling in love. Somewhere we’re all together and a family. But here, now, Cameron can’t stop crying. His grip on the envelope loosens and it blows away. I watch it fly high and far through the morning sky until it’s out of sight.
I don’t want to die, he says. I don’t want to die. The top of his head bumps my chin.
You won’t, I say. You won’t. I kiss the top of his head, thinking how much he smells like his mother. You’re okay, I say, trying as hard as I can to make it true. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay, holding on as tight as I can.
When I pull onto my street, I see Cameron standing at the mailbox, bundled up in last year’s winter coat. He looks like he’s tossing confetti into the wind. As I come closer, I see that he’s shredding a dark purple envelope. As he tears each piece, he holds it aloft and releases it, watching it blow away in the wind. Several scraps have caught in the branches of a neighbor’s tree, and look strangely at home there, like recycled leaves.
I throw the car into park in the middle of the street and climb out, fumbling with the keys and seatbelt. I yell over the wind. Cameron turns and sees me, his hand still above his head. He runs. I run, too, leaving the car door ajar. He tears at the envelope as he goes, pieces whipping past my face.
The wind hollers and blows snow, and Cameron and I are in a white tunnel. Somewhere, he’s six and we’re at the pool, and I’m standing in the shallow end with my arms open, calling to Cameron to jump to me, I’ll catch him, but he turns and runs away, so I get out of the pool to follow him, and we’re both running and we’re in the living room and he’s four and he’s running from me to his mother, squealing, looking for safety from the tickle monster, and then he’s three and he’s hiding under the covers in his bed, giggling as I pretend to look for him, wondering aloud oh where oh where could he be? and I pull the blankets back and bellow, Ah-ha! only he’s not there, it’s Amelia, and we’re in our bedroom in the middle of the night and she’s starting to show, and she rubs her belly and whispers Promise, but she’s laughing and rolling away, and we’re playing a two-person game of tag in the university courtyard, and she keeps ducking out of my reach, shouting over her shoulder, smiling, taunting me, but I can’t hear her over the wind, I promise, I promise, not both of you, not him too, I promise, but she’s out of my reach and then Cameron and I are both rolling in the snow, and I’ve got him by the ankle and he’s trying to kick me, but my grip is strong, and reeling him in, shouting, Who was it for? Who was the letter addressed to? and I’ve got my hands on his shoulders and I’m shaking him, and then the wind quiets.
His face is pink and all scrunched up. Snot streams from his nostrils and his breath hitches. The remains of the envelope shake in his hands. It’s the first time I’ve touched my son in three months and I’m hurting him. I let go. He gets to his feet and steps away.
Why do you want me to die? he says.
I look from the envelope to him. I open my mouth to tell him he’s only eight. That he doesn’t understand. But I can’t. I can’t say it. He doesn’t understand. Maybe I don’t either. I reach out, grab him by the wrist, and yank him closer. He stumbles and trips, but I catch him, pull him into my lap. Oh, sweetheart, I say. Oh, Cameron.
Somewhere, I’m meeting my wife. Somewhere, we’re falling in love. Somewhere we’re all together and a family. But here, now, Cameron can’t stop crying. His grip on the envelope loosens and it blows away. I watch it fly high and far through the morning sky until it’s out of sight.
I don’t want to die, he says. I don’t want to die. The top of his head bumps my chin.
You won’t, I say. You won’t. I kiss the top of his head, thinking how much he smells like his mother. You’re okay, I say, trying as hard as I can to make it true. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay, holding on as tight as I can.
©2013