Dan gulped, not speaking, but half nodding, lifting his eyes, tear-stained and reddened, to Xander, and then to Laurel.
“Mum…” he said faintly.
She squeezed his hand, realising he couldn’t say more. Shock and fear were still only just below the fragile surface. She led him back into the sitting room, drew him down beside her on the sofa, absently clicking off the TV. She put her arms around him, snuggling him up against her. She could still feel slight tremors going through him. Guilt still consumed her. Excoriated her.
She realised Xander was standing in the doorway.
“What can I do?” he asked. His voice was low. She heard guilt in it too.
Both of us—we both did this. We did it to our son—our own son.
She took a breath. “If you look in the top cupboard by the cooker you’ll see a carton with strawberry-flavoured powder in it. Make it up with milk from the fridge, and warm it in the microwave. You’ll find a sippy beaker in the cupboard for the mugs. I use it when he’s not feeling well because it’s easier to drink from.”
She’d brought both with her, never dreaming she’d need them because she’d reduced her son to sobbing terror. Knives stabbed her, guilt and remorse…
She saw Xander give a brief nod and disappear. She went on nestling Dan against her, holding him close.
“Dad’s making you your strawberry milk, pet,” she said. She dropped a kiss on his head, arm tightening around her. He wasn’t capable of speech yet, and she could still feel his little body trembling. She didn’t try and say any more, just smoothed his hair again, holding him against her. She just wanted him calmer and restored, and not terrified any longer.
Terrified of me, of Xander and I yelling at each other. Filling the air with our rage. Our vile, destructive rage—
Through the open doorway she heard the microwave ping, and a few moments later Xander was there, coming up to the sofa holding Dan’s old sippy mug that had been his since infancy. A safe, familiar friend.
The sofa dipped as Xander lowered himself down on it, holding out the mug. “Here you go, Dan,” he said. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
Dan took it, and started to drink from it, the familiarity soothing him. He didn’t say anything, but Xander did. He lifted his hand to close it gently around Dan’s shoulder, his other arm stretched out along the back of the sofa.
“I’m sorry we scared you, Dan,” he said. “We didn’t mean to, your mother and I. We were just…arguing.” His voice was low and quiet. Dan’s eyes were half shut, the soothing repetition of drinking his warm strawberry-flavoured milk calming him, his little body warm against her side. She could feel him relaxing now, coming down the other side of the tumult in him.
“Mums and dads argue sometimes,” Xander said in that low, quiet voice. “We didn’t mean to upset you.” He paused a moment. “We won’t argue again like that.” His eyes had been on Dan’s face, but now they lifted to hers. “Will we?” he said.
There was a wealth of meaning in his words. Of intent. She could feel the will emanating from him like a force field. Telling her. Warning her.
But she did not need warning. She knew what they had done. What harm, what damage. What they must never, ever do again.
She swallowed. It felt like there was a rock in her throat, in her lungs. “No,” she said. “We won’t. I promise you, darling, we won’t.”
Xander stood by the patio doors. Night had fallen, but he did not draw the curtains. He stared out into the unseen garden, his thoughts heavy. At the slight sound behind him he turned. Laurel had come back into the room.
“He’s asleep,” she said. “No bath, just straight to bed.” He could hear the careful neutrality in her voice.
He nodded, making his way back towards the sofa, sitting down, leaning forward slightly. “We need to talk,” he said.
He waited as she crossed to the sofa facing him. While she’d been upstairs, getting a suddenly exhausted and out-of-it Dan to bed, he’d lit the wood burner, and a cheerful flame burned behind the glass door, throwing warmth into the room. He’d set the central heating on as well, keeping it relatively low. There’d been heat enough expended, destructive and dangerous.
To Dan—
Laurel sat herself down, that same contained pose of knees and legs neatly parallel, hands in her lap. Tension was visible in her, her face still pale, but she was calm at least. The calm after the storm.
The storm that must never happen again.
For Dan’s sake.
She had begun to speak, her voice low, expression sombre. Her words echoed what was in his own head. “What happened this evening must never, never happen again.” Her words fell into a heavy silence.
Then he said, “No.” His gaze rested on her. It was hard to do so, but he must. “Somehow—” he paused, then went on, picking his words through the impossibility of what he was now saying “—we have to find a…a different way…forward.”
He studied her expression. It was still sombre, still netted with tension, but had that tension diminished, even if only very slightly, by what he’d just said? He spoke again. “I don’t know—” he paused again, then made himself go on “—just how we’re going to do that, but we must.” His gaze rested on her. “For Dan’s sake.”
