Free Shatter My Rock by Greta Nelsen Page B

imported beer on his breath.
    I
think of Owen but quickly realize he’s in no danger, the center of attention
and the newest apple of his grandparents’ eyes. “Hey.”
    “Have
I told you how hot you are?”
    I
giggle. “Not really.”
    The
novelty of this interaction fascinates and excites me, transports me to a
smoke-filled dorm room where a baby-faced, nineteen eighty-five version of Tim
lays his naked body to mine. “Well, you are,” he repeats.
    I
want to maul him right here but know I can’t. Instead, I settle for a
tantalizing tonguing of his ear, followed by a momentary brush of my thumb
across his nipple. “I love you,” I say, meaning it fully, “but we should get
back.”
    It’s
dark enough in this closet that I can’t read his facial expression, but from
the way he squeezes, it’s clear he disagrees. “I want you.”
    I
wriggle away, crack the door open and promise, “Later.”
    ----
    For
an event largely populated by the seventy-plus crowd, this place hops with
energy. I join a cluster of women throwing their best moves at the DJ’s
sonic-speed version of the Macarenaand whip out some talent of my own.
In the fray, I bump up against Ally. “Having fun?” I ask.
    She
nods, grins.
    I
notice Tim slipping over to the makeshift bar, which is adorned with plastic
hula dolls, flowery leis, and a pair of sun-yellow tiki torches—a tropical
theme I pulled from nowhere to lend a little heat to this dead-of-winter
soiree.
    Once
Tim gets his hand around another bottle of Stella Artois, he moseys to the head
table, where the guests of honor dote on our baby son—and I follow.
    “He’s
the spitting image of Tim at that age,” Tim’s mother, Ellen, says, beaming at Owen.
    Tim’s
Aunt Ruth brushes the wispy bits of sandy-blond hair from Owen’s forehead. “A
Fowler man, through and through.”
    This
exchange would tickle me if I didn’t know the truth; instead, it suffocates.
“Mommy’s here,” I chirp, snatching the baby from Ellen’s arms and nuzzling him
to my neck. I rub gentle circles around his back. “Good boy.”
    “Gettin’
any sleep?” Tim’s dad, James, an age-progressed copy of my husband, asks him. There
is tension between these men, Tim’s father none too keen on Tim’s decision to
play Mr. Mom.
    Tim
steals the baby from me as I have stolen him from Ellen, flaunts his fatherly
bond with Owen. Without a word, he tells his dad, I will be here for my son
in ways you never were.
    I
feel sorry for Tim on this point: His father is the gold-standard of his
generation, the aloof manly prototype. The lack of affection between them—as
painful as it may be—conforms precisely to expectations.
    I
am sadder still for the fact that Tim may not be able to right this wrong with Owen,
a child connected to him solely through the quirks of assumption and imagination.
But at least there is Ally.
    Tim’s
half-drunk beer warms on the edge of a banquet table, while I escape to the
ladies’ room. When I return, I find that my husband has trotted out his newest
baby game: peek-a-boo.
    Intently,
I watch as he cradles Owen in the crescent of his lap, covers his face and
waits. With glee, he flaps his hands aside and booms, “Peek-a-boo!”
    Owen
is not old enough to be an equal partner in this game, yet the delight he feels
is evident in the sparkle of his eyes and his open-mouthed, baby-bird smile.
    Tim
plays on, attracting a throng of gooey-centered, middle-aged women who either
pine for the good old days or wrestle with the thought of giving motherhood one
last shot. Don’t, I want to scream at them, warn them off the idea
before it sticks. Don’t do it.
    I
think this not because of Eric Blair but because of Owen, what he’s just now
done, what he continues to do. His little baby arm, once soft and squishy as a
Campfire marshmallow, has snapped rigid in a way that hurtles me back to
Ricky’s bedside, nineteen seventy-three. It’s a myoclonic jerk, the harbinger
of Dukate Disease. Owen’s