sight. Tired of Sasha’s relentless questions. Tired of his wife’s relentless optimism. Tired of feeling helpless. Going to work was a pain in the ass, but it provided a haven for husbands of all stripes, a refuge from all that was uncontrollable on the home front.
* * *
Sasha apparently decided that since Max had learned to hold a fork, he was ready to wield a paintbrush. Todd heard about their first session of art therapy after the fact. Otherwise he might have intervened. Quite frankly, Sasha’s unwonted leap of faith surprised him. Usually she was eminently pragmatic, a refuge from his wife’s delusions. It felt like his ally was betraying him, siding with Rose over how best to negotiate Max’s condition. The worst possible approach was expecting too much of him. Give the poor kid a break.
When he got home from work that night, Todd could hear Max screaming even before he pulled into the driveway. It was hot and the windows were open. God knows what the neighbors thought. He followed the screams into the bathroom. Max was in the tub. The water was an alarming shade of red. Rose was trying to wash what looked like gashes on his arms. Max kept slapping back her hands, as though it hurt even more than usual to be touched.
“What happened?” Todd asked, modulating his voice to avoid escalating the situation.
“Nothing much,” Rose said. “How was work?”
“What’s going on here?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did he cut himself?”
Rose looked over her shoulder. Her mascara was running, like she’d been crying.
“It’s paint, not blood,” she said. “You’re projecting.”
“Don’t start with me.”
“Must have been a rough day at the office.”
She was right, as usual. Her sixth sense never failed her, even though he kept his oath never to divulge the logistics, let alone the consequences, of his drone missions. Blood everywhere. One of the rookie pilots had puked all over his keyboard, which Todd took to be a good sign. Evidence that the kid didn’t think he was just playing another video game. At the same time, none of the soldiers on the ground in Afghanistan had lost their cookies. Evidence that they were trained soldiers, not wimpy nerds playing at war in Nevada.
“Paint?”
“Art therapy.”
“What next?”
“The last thing we need tonight is your negativity. It’s been a long day.”
“Tell me about it. Do you want me to take over?”
“I’m already all wet.” Rose wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, smearing her mascara even more. “Remind me to wear goggles when I give him a bath.”
“Try it without the washcloth. It’s too scratchy.”
She dropped the cloth, and it disappeared into the red depths of the tub. Max struggled just as frantically when she scrubbed him with her fingers. They assumed he was just resisting human contact, as usual. The possibility that he might be cathected to the painted patterns on his arms escaped them. He was so rarely emotionally invested in anything new. Even Sasha had underestimated the success of their first art therapy session.
She had started by painting her own picture. ABA was big on what they called modeling. Todd called it Robotics 101. There was no denying that rewarding a child for aping mindless tasks produced tangible results. Max could now match squares with squares and stars with stars. Once in a while, he even managed to parrot a few words. Rose was ecstatic. But Todd hated the way his son’s voice droned when he repeated after Sasha.
“Say you love Daddy,” Sasha said.
“You love Daddy.”
Max extended his hand and Sasha placed two M&M’s in his palm, a red one and a brown one. He ate them both and Sasha made a mental note, which she later recorded in her logbook. Max was expanding his color palette.
“Not me, Max. You.”
“You.”
Max’s hand shot back out, but Sasha ignored it. He started banging his fist on the table.
“Say I love Daddy.”
“I love Daddy.”
“Good boy,
* * *
Sasha apparently decided that since Max had learned to hold a fork, he was ready to wield a paintbrush. Todd heard about their first session of art therapy after the fact. Otherwise he might have intervened. Quite frankly, Sasha’s unwonted leap of faith surprised him. Usually she was eminently pragmatic, a refuge from his wife’s delusions. It felt like his ally was betraying him, siding with Rose over how best to negotiate Max’s condition. The worst possible approach was expecting too much of him. Give the poor kid a break.
When he got home from work that night, Todd could hear Max screaming even before he pulled into the driveway. It was hot and the windows were open. God knows what the neighbors thought. He followed the screams into the bathroom. Max was in the tub. The water was an alarming shade of red. Rose was trying to wash what looked like gashes on his arms. Max kept slapping back her hands, as though it hurt even more than usual to be touched.
“What happened?” Todd asked, modulating his voice to avoid escalating the situation.
“Nothing much,” Rose said. “How was work?”
“What’s going on here?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did he cut himself?”
Rose looked over her shoulder. Her mascara was running, like she’d been crying.
“It’s paint, not blood,” she said. “You’re projecting.”
“Don’t start with me.”
“Must have been a rough day at the office.”
She was right, as usual. Her sixth sense never failed her, even though he kept his oath never to divulge the logistics, let alone the consequences, of his drone missions. Blood everywhere. One of the rookie pilots had puked all over his keyboard, which Todd took to be a good sign. Evidence that the kid didn’t think he was just playing another video game. At the same time, none of the soldiers on the ground in Afghanistan had lost their cookies. Evidence that they were trained soldiers, not wimpy nerds playing at war in Nevada.
“Paint?”
“Art therapy.”
“What next?”
“The last thing we need tonight is your negativity. It’s been a long day.”
“Tell me about it. Do you want me to take over?”
“I’m already all wet.” Rose wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, smearing her mascara even more. “Remind me to wear goggles when I give him a bath.”
“Try it without the washcloth. It’s too scratchy.”
She dropped the cloth, and it disappeared into the red depths of the tub. Max struggled just as frantically when she scrubbed him with her fingers. They assumed he was just resisting human contact, as usual. The possibility that he might be cathected to the painted patterns on his arms escaped them. He was so rarely emotionally invested in anything new. Even Sasha had underestimated the success of their first art therapy session.
She had started by painting her own picture. ABA was big on what they called modeling. Todd called it Robotics 101. There was no denying that rewarding a child for aping mindless tasks produced tangible results. Max could now match squares with squares and stars with stars. Once in a while, he even managed to parrot a few words. Rose was ecstatic. But Todd hated the way his son’s voice droned when he repeated after Sasha.
“Say you love Daddy,” Sasha said.
“You love Daddy.”
Max extended his hand and Sasha placed two M&M’s in his palm, a red one and a brown one. He ate them both and Sasha made a mental note, which she later recorded in her logbook. Max was expanding his color palette.
“Not me, Max. You.”
“You.”
Max’s hand shot back out, but Sasha ignored it. He started banging his fist on the table.
“Say I love Daddy.”
“I love Daddy.”
“Good boy,
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