containers in the trash.
In less than half an hour, I have erased Rick’s presence from the room. I have no idea what to do with the waterbed. I will never sleep on it again. I draw a heart in the dust with my fingeron the top of its wooden frame and print Rick’s initials inside it along with mine, then I wipe away the past with lemon furniture polish.
Tomorrow, I will ask Nick to help me drain the mattress. It’s just a piece of plastic, but even it holds Christmas memories.
I can still see Ben, Nick, and Meg rushing in here on Christmas mornings to join their dad and me on this bed. After a late night of assembling trains or bikes or remote-control cars, Rick and I were usually still dozing when our Smith herd charged into the room. Pumping our water-filled mattress with their hands and knees, our kids would create a tsunami that forced us from slumber
.
Small gifts stuffed into their Christmas stockings—candy, comic books, hair ribbons, maybe a wristwatch or baseball cards—got opened on our bed, while Rick waited for his coffee to brew and I for the tea kettle to boil
.
Everyone would be wearing new pajamas, a tradition I started when the kids were small and began begging to open one gift on Christmas Eve. Rick always demanded the kids put on warm socks and brush their teeth, before visiting Santa land downstairs in the family room, building their anticipation
.
When I hear the front door open, I go downstairs to talk with my Ben. I leave the bedroom door open, hoping life will spill back into the room.
Ben stands in the entryway, leaning his back against the door. A car drives by, and its headlights cast a ray of light around the room. I see tears glistening on my child’s face. Mama Bear wants to step aside and let Mother Hen do the talking, but I think we each could use a dose of both.
“I’m glad you’re home.”
Ben jumps, startled. He wipes at his face with the sleeve of his coat.
“What are you doing up?”
“Waiting for you.”
“I’m tired. I need to go to bed.”
Ben walks toward the steps. His intent, I’m sure, is to escape to the basement.
I block his path and give him a hug.
“Neither one of us can go on like this, Ben.”
He tries to shake free, but I don’t let him.
“Not tonight, Mom. Please, not tonight.”
I pull back enough to look at his face, though he turns to avoid my gaze.
“I went to your uncle Tom’s this evening. I was stopped at Little Sugarcreek when a red car flew through the intersection.”
Ben doesn’t admit he was the driver, but guilt flashes like a neon sign from the muscles in his jaw.
“Hand over your car keys.”
“Mom …”
“Give them to me.”
Ben holds the keys in his fist, debating, and then drops them into my open palm. He will never know my fear at that moment, while I waited to see whether he would comply or defy me. His acquiescence gives me grit to keep going.
“Now sit,” I say. “You’re going to tell me what you’ve been up to tonight.”
We sit down on the couch. He says nothing.
“We can sit here all night,” I say, nudging his shoulder with mine.
The words spill out, slow at first and then building speed as if he were still driving the car.
“I had to get out of here,” he says. “I needed to drive. Robert came with me.”
“Where’d you go?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“You’re probably right.”
Ben tells me he kept a close eye on the speedometer as he cruised residential streets toward the hills on Little Sugarcreek Road. Out in the country, the hum of the car engine turned into a roar.
“I could drive that road with my eyes closed,” he says. “I must have driven it one hundred times with Dad.”
Ben tells me that he and Robert rolled down their windows and let blasts of wet December wind smack their faces.
“When the car jumped over the first hill, I felt like I was flying,” he says. “We were screaming this song.”
“Pantera.
Great Southern Trendkill
,” I
In less than half an hour, I have erased Rick’s presence from the room. I have no idea what to do with the waterbed. I will never sleep on it again. I draw a heart in the dust with my fingeron the top of its wooden frame and print Rick’s initials inside it along with mine, then I wipe away the past with lemon furniture polish.
Tomorrow, I will ask Nick to help me drain the mattress. It’s just a piece of plastic, but even it holds Christmas memories.
I can still see Ben, Nick, and Meg rushing in here on Christmas mornings to join their dad and me on this bed. After a late night of assembling trains or bikes or remote-control cars, Rick and I were usually still dozing when our Smith herd charged into the room. Pumping our water-filled mattress with their hands and knees, our kids would create a tsunami that forced us from slumber
.
Small gifts stuffed into their Christmas stockings—candy, comic books, hair ribbons, maybe a wristwatch or baseball cards—got opened on our bed, while Rick waited for his coffee to brew and I for the tea kettle to boil
.
Everyone would be wearing new pajamas, a tradition I started when the kids were small and began begging to open one gift on Christmas Eve. Rick always demanded the kids put on warm socks and brush their teeth, before visiting Santa land downstairs in the family room, building their anticipation
.
When I hear the front door open, I go downstairs to talk with my Ben. I leave the bedroom door open, hoping life will spill back into the room.
Ben stands in the entryway, leaning his back against the door. A car drives by, and its headlights cast a ray of light around the room. I see tears glistening on my child’s face. Mama Bear wants to step aside and let Mother Hen do the talking, but I think we each could use a dose of both.
“I’m glad you’re home.”
Ben jumps, startled. He wipes at his face with the sleeve of his coat.
“What are you doing up?”
“Waiting for you.”
“I’m tired. I need to go to bed.”
Ben walks toward the steps. His intent, I’m sure, is to escape to the basement.
I block his path and give him a hug.
“Neither one of us can go on like this, Ben.”
He tries to shake free, but I don’t let him.
“Not tonight, Mom. Please, not tonight.”
I pull back enough to look at his face, though he turns to avoid my gaze.
“I went to your uncle Tom’s this evening. I was stopped at Little Sugarcreek when a red car flew through the intersection.”
Ben doesn’t admit he was the driver, but guilt flashes like a neon sign from the muscles in his jaw.
“Hand over your car keys.”
“Mom …”
“Give them to me.”
Ben holds the keys in his fist, debating, and then drops them into my open palm. He will never know my fear at that moment, while I waited to see whether he would comply or defy me. His acquiescence gives me grit to keep going.
“Now sit,” I say. “You’re going to tell me what you’ve been up to tonight.”
We sit down on the couch. He says nothing.
“We can sit here all night,” I say, nudging his shoulder with mine.
The words spill out, slow at first and then building speed as if he were still driving the car.
“I had to get out of here,” he says. “I needed to drive. Robert came with me.”
“Where’d you go?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“You’re probably right.”
Ben tells me he kept a close eye on the speedometer as he cruised residential streets toward the hills on Little Sugarcreek Road. Out in the country, the hum of the car engine turned into a roar.
“I could drive that road with my eyes closed,” he says. “I must have driven it one hundred times with Dad.”
Ben tells me that he and Robert rolled down their windows and let blasts of wet December wind smack their faces.
“When the car jumped over the first hill, I felt like I was flying,” he says. “We were screaming this song.”
“Pantera.
Great Southern Trendkill
,” I
Similar Books
