Jude crouches in the corner, his stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm, a huge toolbox open in front of him. A small hole has been opened in the wall—probably Bren cutting it open to run wires—and fibers flutter around the perforated edges like thousands of miniature veins.
She has caught him in the act, a hammer in his hand, half of it posted into the fist-size hole that tunnels down to who knows where. Even as their eyes meet, hers still unfocused in the abrupt light, his serious and cross, he releases the hammer.
It drops into the bowels of the house. Entirely unreachable.
“Jude William,” she snaps. “What areyou doing?”
His shoulders knot up, his body packing down small, as she storms over and yanks him up. His rabbit slips from his fingers. Her grip is too tight, she knows this even before he shrieks in real pain, but in this moment she doesn’t care. How many tools has he dropped down there, and how the hell will Bren get them back?
“Stop it.When I put you in bed, youstayin bed, and youdo nottouch Bren’s tools.”
“I don’t like it here.” His mouth pulls down, but she’s had enough.
“And I don’t care!” she snaps.
He starts up that whimpering cry, like an engine sputtering to life before the screaming begins. All that’s left is to pick him up and be grateful,relieved, that he is still small and she can firmly grip his thrashing body. She knows how to hold him, where to pin, but as she storms upstairs, all she can think is:
I can’t do this when he’s bigger.
I can’t hold him, pin him, stop him.
I can’t.
She can barely keep hold of him as she shoulders open the nursery door to sit him down hard on his bed. He pops off instantly, and she has to grab him again, sit him down and then pin him as he keeps screaming. Already he is a mess, salty drool spun from his mouth, tears streaking down his cheeks. Only one word makes sense in the midst of it all.Rabbit.He dropped his rabbit. She could race downstairs and get it for him and mitigate the meltdown—except, isn’t that giving in? Her head feels split by the screaming, her nerves frayed. She just wants him to stop. Everything is always turned all the way up with Jude, his reactions disproportionate and volcanic, and she is just so—tired.
what is wrong with you that your son is like this
She closes her eyes, going motionless as she lets the pain slide out of her body. This is how she gets through times like this, when she can’t leave him alone but needs to escape. She imagines herself a statue done in white marble, carving tools discarded, but instead of dust left behind from the chisels cutting out her shape, the floor is covered in blood.
Footsteps pad softly outside the nursery, and then Bren is there, leaning awkwardly in the open doorframe. He’s backlit by the dullyellow glow from their bedroom light down the hall, but she can still see him looking sleepy and forlorn from the loss of her. The oversize Brown University sweatshirt and tousled blond bedhead make him seem like he’s still some scruffy college student instead of an accountant, a homeowner, a parent.
Sometimes she forgets how young they are, she only twenty-two and he twenty-three, both of them playing at being adults. Nights like these remind her that she should be looking through the undersides of shot glasses instead of knowing tomorrow’s hangover will be thanks to her child’s midnight hysterics. She wishes Bren wouldn’t see this, wishes she could pull him deep into the angular cavities of his old house and cover his ears, his eyes, let him continue to live in oblivion as to what he took on when he begged her to live with him.
Jude has begun to tire himself out, screams ebbing, his limbs no longer thrashing as he squeezes himself into a tight ball on his bed, his hands over his ears as tears streak down his cheeks in abject despair. A good mother would stay, clean him up and comfort him, but all she can think of is escape.
Slowly, Elodie picks herself up and steals toward the nursery door, guilt a living thing festering in her throat as she shuts it firmly behind her.
He did this to himself.
I am still a good mother.
I am.
Out in the hallway, she blinks in the disorientating light. She rubs one bare foot against her cold ankle as Bren scrubs at his fluffy golden hair with a rueful wince.
“Shit, what happened?”
“He was downstairs dropping your tools into a hole in the wall.”
Confusion creases his brow. “Why?”
“I don’t know why.”Don’t snap.She lets out a slow breath, frustrated at herself for still hesitating to let him in when it comes to Jude.
“Hey, hey, don’t worry about it.” He slips behind her and slides hands around her waist and flattens his palms over her belly.
With all the renovation work he’s done on the house, his hands have turned rough and chapped. They are workman’s hands, confident and beautiful. They are the hands that will cup the soft, malleable skull of her baby with such reverent, all-consuming love that she knows she will cry to see it.
Sometimes it sickens her, how good he is.
