Blink
It’s a slow and sleepy afternoon in early September. His little butt is stuck up in the air as he crawls bear-style across the lawn. He doesn’t like the prickle of grass on his baby knees. She knows that. She should’ve put him in pants before coming outside, but a little grass never killed anyone she tells herself as she stifles a yawn.
He’s a few feet away on the phone as usual. Another business call. She doesn’t bother to listen. His best friend sits at the iron patio table sipping his coffee. He stopped by seconds before the phone rang and is now prisoner to the lengthy call, making small talk with her between sideways glances at his negligent friend. She stands, her hands on the back of a sun-warmed chair. Listening to him, she keeps her eyes on the baby because the curiosity of a child can rival a cat’s any day, and her little guy loves to taste his way around.
A flick of her eyes and there’s he is again. He’s going to wear a bald spot in the lawn pacing, always pacing, while he’s on the phone. His friend taps a beat; the coffee spoons jingle, out of tune, on the metal table. She notices the woven mat at the edge of the patio is frayed and bends to tuck the shredded edge under. A piece comes loose in her hand. She’ll need to buy a new one the next time she’s out.
She resumes her watch. A stink bug hums by the baby, and he plops on his diapered butt, eyes wide as the bug lands on the windowsill.
Unsteady footfall. A shaky voice.
“It’s no wonder his blood levels are off, Tess. The doctor says he has liver cancer.”
She has blinked, and the universe has collapsed. She hears barking sobs somewhere far away as she claws violently through the debris: liver cancer, what does she know, Joe had it and that woman from work, they died, is there anyone she knows who has survived, no.
No.
No!
She wailing, already in mourning; black shadows have dressed her in funeral attire. Gone are welcome mats and patio tables, best friends drinking coffee and slow September days. But he’s there, and he’s stopped to stare at his grief-maddened mommy. The known world has disappeared, but she scoops up the one piece that remains.
She breathes him in: the crushed grass, the sugary milk-breath, his sun-kissed baby hair. The laws of God and science no longer exist, only his scent entering her lungs, only her belief that this will save him.
