whirled. "It's in the middle of the damned carpet. Did it jump off the wall?"
Paul stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned against the doorjamb. "Maybe you knocked it loose while you were over there."
The trembling came over John again. "You little shit." He reached for Paul, grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt, and slapped him hard, getting his entire arm into it. Paul spun from his grasp and collided with the doorjamb.
John gaped, staring at his hand as if it had acted of its own accord. As suddenly as it had come, his rage vanished, leaving cold nausea in its wake.
Paul cringed. An angry red spot stood out just under his left eye. John reached for him again; Paul shrieked and recoiled. He ran for the stairs, wailing all the way to the top and down the hall. The slam of his bedroom door cut off his cries.
John sank to his knees, still gaping.
Hurried footfalls sounded on the basement stairs. Marie rushed into the room, wide-eyed. "What's wrong? What happened?"
He shook his head slowly.
"John?
John?
"
He put a hand over his mouth. He feared that if he tried to speak, he would vomit instead.
"You bastard." She went upstairs.
April 19, 2026
The third anniversary of Steven's death, and the first since Paul was born.
Marie has gone to visit Steven's grave. I elected to stay home. Marie didn't like that very much.
I don't understand. She's the one who keeps telling me that Steven is gone, that the time for grieving is over, that I have to let him go.
True, I haven't been to Steven's grave since the funeral. But that was for a different reason. I wasn't ready to accept his death then. Since I've accepted it now, I just don't see the need to go. Cemeteries are for the dead. And I've spent far too much of my time obsessed with about death.
Or maybe I'm just afraid of having a relapse.
At moments like this, I realize that it's still too fresh in my mind, all of it: the thunderstorm that hit the night we drove home from Marie's parents' farm after an Easter dinner; hydroplaning off the road and into a ditch, rolling twice before slamming upside-down into a tree; Steven's terrified screams. Marie and I had been scraped and bruised but had escaped serious injury. Steven had not.
He was pinned in the back seat. The 911 dispatcher I spoke with over the cell phone assured me the ambulance could home in on my UWB signal, that we just needed to "hang on" until it arrived.
Hang on -- as if it were that simple. One of Steven's lungs had collapsed, I learned later, and he had massive internal hemorrhaging. Marie and I could do nothing but wait in a weed-choked ditch by the side of the road, drenched by torrential rains, and watch as our son died before our eyes.
Too fresh in my mind: the black depression I battled afterward, disconsolate despite Marie's best efforts; the unshakeable numbness and apathy as my writing career failed; the blissful, dreamy feeling of slipping away as I sat in a bathtub full of warm water, bleeding from the wrists I had opened with a steak knife.
I've never written about it until now. The pain is still so close. Not good to dwell on it. All that is past. I have a new life now, and new crosses to bear.
Marie took the baby with her to the cemetery. When I asked her why she wanted to do that, she said, "At least then I won't be alone."
They've been gone for over five hours. Marie's previous visits to Steven's grave have lasted no more than two. She must have gone to her sister's house. She does that a lot lately.
It's so much harder this time. I don't know why. None of it is like it was before. I keep telling myself that perhaps I'm romanticizing the past, but I'm not.
For this we left the Church. For this we went through all of our retirement savings and took out a second mortgage on our house. Over this we agonized for weeks, waiting for a call from Dr. Aiken to tell us whether any of the fertilizations had succeeded. And on days like this, God help me, I wonder if we did the right
Paul stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned against the doorjamb. "Maybe you knocked it loose while you were over there."
The trembling came over John again. "You little shit." He reached for Paul, grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt, and slapped him hard, getting his entire arm into it. Paul spun from his grasp and collided with the doorjamb.
John gaped, staring at his hand as if it had acted of its own accord. As suddenly as it had come, his rage vanished, leaving cold nausea in its wake.
Paul cringed. An angry red spot stood out just under his left eye. John reached for him again; Paul shrieked and recoiled. He ran for the stairs, wailing all the way to the top and down the hall. The slam of his bedroom door cut off his cries.
John sank to his knees, still gaping.
Hurried footfalls sounded on the basement stairs. Marie rushed into the room, wide-eyed. "What's wrong? What happened?"
He shook his head slowly.
"John?
John?
"
He put a hand over his mouth. He feared that if he tried to speak, he would vomit instead.
"You bastard." She went upstairs.
April 19, 2026
The third anniversary of Steven's death, and the first since Paul was born.
Marie has gone to visit Steven's grave. I elected to stay home. Marie didn't like that very much.
I don't understand. She's the one who keeps telling me that Steven is gone, that the time for grieving is over, that I have to let him go.
True, I haven't been to Steven's grave since the funeral. But that was for a different reason. I wasn't ready to accept his death then. Since I've accepted it now, I just don't see the need to go. Cemeteries are for the dead. And I've spent far too much of my time obsessed with about death.
Or maybe I'm just afraid of having a relapse.
At moments like this, I realize that it's still too fresh in my mind, all of it: the thunderstorm that hit the night we drove home from Marie's parents' farm after an Easter dinner; hydroplaning off the road and into a ditch, rolling twice before slamming upside-down into a tree; Steven's terrified screams. Marie and I had been scraped and bruised but had escaped serious injury. Steven had not.
He was pinned in the back seat. The 911 dispatcher I spoke with over the cell phone assured me the ambulance could home in on my UWB signal, that we just needed to "hang on" until it arrived.
Hang on -- as if it were that simple. One of Steven's lungs had collapsed, I learned later, and he had massive internal hemorrhaging. Marie and I could do nothing but wait in a weed-choked ditch by the side of the road, drenched by torrential rains, and watch as our son died before our eyes.
Too fresh in my mind: the black depression I battled afterward, disconsolate despite Marie's best efforts; the unshakeable numbness and apathy as my writing career failed; the blissful, dreamy feeling of slipping away as I sat in a bathtub full of warm water, bleeding from the wrists I had opened with a steak knife.
I've never written about it until now. The pain is still so close. Not good to dwell on it. All that is past. I have a new life now, and new crosses to bear.
Marie took the baby with her to the cemetery. When I asked her why she wanted to do that, she said, "At least then I won't be alone."
They've been gone for over five hours. Marie's previous visits to Steven's grave have lasted no more than two. She must have gone to her sister's house. She does that a lot lately.
It's so much harder this time. I don't know why. None of it is like it was before. I keep telling myself that perhaps I'm romanticizing the past, but I'm not.
For this we left the Church. For this we went through all of our retirement savings and took out a second mortgage on our house. Over this we agonized for weeks, waiting for a call from Dr. Aiken to tell us whether any of the fertilizations had succeeded. And on days like this, God help me, I wonder if we did the right
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