colt’s on the verge of a growth spurt.
“What’s scary, Ry?” she’d asked.
“That I’m gonna die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want you and Dad to die.”
She’d become more alert, swimming up hard through the medication to tackle his fears. “You’re not going to die, honey,” she’d told him. “You are going to live for a long time and be very, very, old. Ancient. So am I. I’m going to be a good grandmother for your kids, and I’m going to get old and very, very gray and love you forever,” and she had tickled him just above his belly button, and they both had giggled. They had lain like that for a few minutes, snuggling, and then Ryan had curled into her chest and let out a long, satisfied breath. As their bodies emanated warmth she focused on the memory of being pregnant, of carrying him for all those months.
She had thought him asleep, but then he piped up again, surprising her with his alertness. “I miss him, Mommy,” he said. “I miss James.”
This simple declaration had sideswiped her. She’d been focusing so much on cultivating a sense of normalcy in the house, stepping around the issue, that she had not spent enough time, she realized, probing the loss from her children’s perspective.
“I miss him too, Ryan,” she said, dry-eyed. And again she fought against the power of the medication as it tugged her back toward a dreamless sleep. “And it’s OK to miss him. It’s OK for us all to miss him forever. It hurts a lot.” It must have been this admission that had freed Ryan to nod off in her arms. The next morning she couldn’t recall when Pete had eventually come up and lifted their son back into his own bed. Such was the power of those pills.
Which was why today, Maura was determined to have a family meal. She had spent the last hour making a salad with her homemade dressing and creating a stir-fry of chicken and vegetables that her kids loved. It was 6:00 P.M. Pete should be home any minute. “Dinner,” she called, lifting Sarah into the high chair. “Wash your hands, Ryan.” Maura shook out the dry dog food for Rascal and lowered his metal bowl back onto the floor. “Sarah, here’s your milk.” Her daughter grabbed her sippy cup solemnly, turning it to study the cartoon image of the Little Mermaid on the exterior.
She finished cutting chicken bits for Sarah and spooning out white rice for Ryan as the phone rang. Maura could see from the caller ID that it was Pete.
“Hey,” he said. There was the murmur of bar chatter in the background. The Depot, she thought, his favorite place to gather for a “pop.” She’d been there a few times over the years, a darkened man cave next to the train station with the smell of tapped kegs and a sticky film on the highly varnished bar. Two giant TVs, held by chains, tilted from the ceiling at each end of the room, perpetually tuned to ESPN.
“Hey.” They were quiet for a moment, and she could hear a loud baritone laugh spike over the conversation. How could he possibly sit in a bar, just four weeks after their son’s funeral? She marveled for more than the hundredth time how differently men and women grieved.
“Billy just showed up and he’s had a bad day. I think I’m gonna stick around here for a while longer,” he said. Was he slurring slightly? How long had he been there? She had told him when he left that morning she wanted to have a family dinner, that they needed to reestablish some kind of normal routine for their kids.
“So I figured.” Her voice was cool.
“Save me a plate, will ya? I’m just having one more pop with the guys. Just one. I’ll be there. Billy just broke up with his latest. Or I guess she sort of blew him off. Remember her? Marjorie?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s been there for us through this thing, you know, Maura? For our family. I just want to support him. OK? Home in an hour.” He practically hung up before she could reply.
On some level, Maura understood that this male
“What’s scary, Ry?” she’d asked.
“That I’m gonna die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want you and Dad to die.”
She’d become more alert, swimming up hard through the medication to tackle his fears. “You’re not going to die, honey,” she’d told him. “You are going to live for a long time and be very, very, old. Ancient. So am I. I’m going to be a good grandmother for your kids, and I’m going to get old and very, very gray and love you forever,” and she had tickled him just above his belly button, and they both had giggled. They had lain like that for a few minutes, snuggling, and then Ryan had curled into her chest and let out a long, satisfied breath. As their bodies emanated warmth she focused on the memory of being pregnant, of carrying him for all those months.
She had thought him asleep, but then he piped up again, surprising her with his alertness. “I miss him, Mommy,” he said. “I miss James.”
This simple declaration had sideswiped her. She’d been focusing so much on cultivating a sense of normalcy in the house, stepping around the issue, that she had not spent enough time, she realized, probing the loss from her children’s perspective.
“I miss him too, Ryan,” she said, dry-eyed. And again she fought against the power of the medication as it tugged her back toward a dreamless sleep. “And it’s OK to miss him. It’s OK for us all to miss him forever. It hurts a lot.” It must have been this admission that had freed Ryan to nod off in her arms. The next morning she couldn’t recall when Pete had eventually come up and lifted their son back into his own bed. Such was the power of those pills.
Which was why today, Maura was determined to have a family meal. She had spent the last hour making a salad with her homemade dressing and creating a stir-fry of chicken and vegetables that her kids loved. It was 6:00 P.M. Pete should be home any minute. “Dinner,” she called, lifting Sarah into the high chair. “Wash your hands, Ryan.” Maura shook out the dry dog food for Rascal and lowered his metal bowl back onto the floor. “Sarah, here’s your milk.” Her daughter grabbed her sippy cup solemnly, turning it to study the cartoon image of the Little Mermaid on the exterior.
She finished cutting chicken bits for Sarah and spooning out white rice for Ryan as the phone rang. Maura could see from the caller ID that it was Pete.
“Hey,” he said. There was the murmur of bar chatter in the background. The Depot, she thought, his favorite place to gather for a “pop.” She’d been there a few times over the years, a darkened man cave next to the train station with the smell of tapped kegs and a sticky film on the highly varnished bar. Two giant TVs, held by chains, tilted from the ceiling at each end of the room, perpetually tuned to ESPN.
“Hey.” They were quiet for a moment, and she could hear a loud baritone laugh spike over the conversation. How could he possibly sit in a bar, just four weeks after their son’s funeral? She marveled for more than the hundredth time how differently men and women grieved.
“Billy just showed up and he’s had a bad day. I think I’m gonna stick around here for a while longer,” he said. Was he slurring slightly? How long had he been there? She had told him when he left that morning she wanted to have a family dinner, that they needed to reestablish some kind of normal routine for their kids.
“So I figured.” Her voice was cool.
“Save me a plate, will ya? I’m just having one more pop with the guys. Just one. I’ll be there. Billy just broke up with his latest. Or I guess she sort of blew him off. Remember her? Marjorie?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s been there for us through this thing, you know, Maura? For our family. I just want to support him. OK? Home in an hour.” He practically hung up before she could reply.
On some level, Maura understood that this male
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