Sam. Or at least, that’s how he would make it seem.
“Like this,” and he’d fold the corners. Each fold was a slamming door.
“Like this.” Slam.
“Like this.” Slam.
“Like this.” Slam.
And then, “See?” A fuck you.
I stood there, as I was supposed to. My arms were crossed because that was my fuck you. That was the loudest slam of a door I was permitted to make. My own arms folded, against my own chest, still. Fists clenched, my heartbeat a hummingbird’s.
I am trying not to cry.
Sammy is crying. It’s his daddy’s door slamming that makes him cry. I turn to pick him up and his daddy tells me no. Slam.
“But the baby is crying.”
“He’s three years old, don’t call him a goddamn baby.” Slam.
My arms crossed and crossed fists clenched and clenched. See that? See how I have folded arms. See how my fists clench.
“You will learn first.”
Little Sam, still crying, now at my leg, it’s in his arms, his arms go up, my arms are folded, my fists are clenched.
“Do it.” Slam. He throws a towel. At my face.
“Mommy has to fold a towel now, son.” Slam.
Sammy doesn’t understand and neither do I. I decide to get this over with. I fold the towel. I fold the towel. I keep folding the towel. I fold all of the towels I can. I fold every towel in the world.
Standoff
The buildings balance on the plate, precarious. I set it down safely. They stand, secure. If all goes well, they will be gone soon. I visualize a rubble of crumbs.
He’s sitting on his bedroom floor, kneecaps even with his head. His fingers click crazy on the controller concealed between his thighs. His tongue is pressed wide between lips rounded and tucked, hiding the rose of them. He’s playing Xbox. I pray today he will eat breakfast.
“I’m not hungry, mom,” he says without looking up.
He never looks up.
“You need to eat. You’re getting too thin,” I say. “Look! It’s a bacon house with a pancake roof! See the toast tower? Chocolate milk juice!”
My voice sounds like a cheerleader’s.
He almost grunts and then says something about “we gotta kill these guys” into his headset mouthpiece. I stand for a moment deciding whether to touch his hair before I leave his room. I cannot risk him pulling away again; my heart has too many knives right now. Yet the pinprick of possibility that he would let me heavies my hesitation, such a prize.
I decide the risk is too great and I go.
When I check on him, an hour later, the food still sits, cold, like me.
I take the food buildings away. They crumble into the sink.
***
He is tucked in and I leave with my one guarantee still warm on my lips. It has been eight or more days since he stopped sleeping next to me. The space is cold again, wide again. Even when he was there, it was not much smaller, his frame so flimsy inside the most burdensome of gaps—a dead father’s side of a bed.
During the first days he’d crawl in from my side and roll over the top of me until his body rested perpendicular next to mine, two lines in a broken barcode. He’d stay that way through the night, as if by leaving the gap vacant, it might be filled again.
It made me regret the tales we’d tell him of fairies coming in the night, taking and leaving things in our beds while we slept.
The last one that visited only took.
***
He’s never really been a big eater so this struggle is not new, but the circumstances are so dire and life-changing, and therein lies my worry. I need to know what to do. His care is my concern. Mine alone.
I ask myself what I did before and the answer is—nothing. It was his father.
“Race you to the bottom of the bowl, champ!”
And so would go the stew.
“Two more bites and you get an extra half–hour of Xbox tonight!”
And so would go the spaghetti.
“Twelve more peas and I believe we
“Like this,” and he’d fold the corners. Each fold was a slamming door.
“Like this.” Slam.
“Like this.” Slam.
“Like this.” Slam.
And then, “See?” A fuck you.
I stood there, as I was supposed to. My arms were crossed because that was my fuck you. That was the loudest slam of a door I was permitted to make. My own arms folded, against my own chest, still. Fists clenched, my heartbeat a hummingbird’s.
I am trying not to cry.
Sammy is crying. It’s his daddy’s door slamming that makes him cry. I turn to pick him up and his daddy tells me no. Slam.
“But the baby is crying.”
“He’s three years old, don’t call him a goddamn baby.” Slam.
My arms crossed and crossed fists clenched and clenched. See that? See how I have folded arms. See how my fists clench.
“You will learn first.”
Little Sam, still crying, now at my leg, it’s in his arms, his arms go up, my arms are folded, my fists are clenched.
“Do it.” Slam. He throws a towel. At my face.
“Mommy has to fold a towel now, son.” Slam.
Sammy doesn’t understand and neither do I. I decide to get this over with. I fold the towel. I fold the towel. I keep folding the towel. I fold all of the towels I can. I fold every towel in the world.
Standoff
The buildings balance on the plate, precarious. I set it down safely. They stand, secure. If all goes well, they will be gone soon. I visualize a rubble of crumbs.
He’s sitting on his bedroom floor, kneecaps even with his head. His fingers click crazy on the controller concealed between his thighs. His tongue is pressed wide between lips rounded and tucked, hiding the rose of them. He’s playing Xbox. I pray today he will eat breakfast.
“I’m not hungry, mom,” he says without looking up.
He never looks up.
“You need to eat. You’re getting too thin,” I say. “Look! It’s a bacon house with a pancake roof! See the toast tower? Chocolate milk juice!”
My voice sounds like a cheerleader’s.
He almost grunts and then says something about “we gotta kill these guys” into his headset mouthpiece. I stand for a moment deciding whether to touch his hair before I leave his room. I cannot risk him pulling away again; my heart has too many knives right now. Yet the pinprick of possibility that he would let me heavies my hesitation, such a prize.
I decide the risk is too great and I go.
When I check on him, an hour later, the food still sits, cold, like me.
I take the food buildings away. They crumble into the sink.
***
He is tucked in and I leave with my one guarantee still warm on my lips. It has been eight or more days since he stopped sleeping next to me. The space is cold again, wide again. Even when he was there, it was not much smaller, his frame so flimsy inside the most burdensome of gaps—a dead father’s side of a bed.
During the first days he’d crawl in from my side and roll over the top of me until his body rested perpendicular next to mine, two lines in a broken barcode. He’d stay that way through the night, as if by leaving the gap vacant, it might be filled again.
It made me regret the tales we’d tell him of fairies coming in the night, taking and leaving things in our beds while we slept.
The last one that visited only took.
***
He’s never really been a big eater so this struggle is not new, but the circumstances are so dire and life-changing, and therein lies my worry. I need to know what to do. His care is my concern. Mine alone.
I ask myself what I did before and the answer is—nothing. It was his father.
“Race you to the bottom of the bowl, champ!”
And so would go the stew.
“Two more bites and you get an extra half–hour of Xbox tonight!”
And so would go the spaghetti.
“Twelve more peas and I believe we
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