“On what?”
“Not on what, on whom,” I tell him. “On Deborah. She said I can keep the equity in the house. That’s the good news. Now I’m waiting to see if there will be any more.”
“Will there be?”
“It’s possible,” I say, then, half drowsily in the sun. “It’s possible,” I repeat.
Thomas smiles. “My big sister,” he says. “Who would have thought she’d have it in her?” I can tell he’s on edge, though, despite his smile. I see him go in and out of these phases (mood swings would probably be a more accurate way to describe them, except they can last weeks or even months) and he seems to be accelerating into the anxiety stage. He stands and starts pacing back and forth before me.
Then he changes the subject. “They’ve made a movie about the woods,” he tells me. “Actually, it’s an old movie, but I’ve only just seen it for the first time. A movie that really captures it.”
“Captures what?” I ask.
“The terror,” he says, simply. I’m astonished, that he’s talking about this, the thing he never talks about.
When very young, Thomas had spent much of his time in the woods, both alone and with his friends. He had a little pup tent and would sneak out of his window with it in a backpack (a backpack not dissimilar to what he carries his belongings around in now). He’d take it into the woods and sleep there. He had his secret places. I never asked, and never told on him. In fact, many times I’d cover for him, especially in summer months, when sometimes he wouldn’t come home until lunch or even dinnertime.
That changed when he was twelve, when he started going to the rectory with the other altar boys. It was when the mood swings (for lack of a better word) began. Then the woods became a place of unease (no, worse, terror) for him. I’d ask him to come play there with me or even go for a walk. He’d refuse. He never explained why, but I noticed that he started sleeping with his curtains drawn over the window that faced the edge of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, which ran up to our property. Then, right around that same time, there was my own . . . experience . . . that rendered the woods inhospitable to me as well.
“What is this movie?” I ask.
“Three kids go off into the woods to shoot a film,” he says. “And bad things, terrible things, happen.” He shudders as he says this. “It was frigging hard, but I watched the whole thing last night. Jesus, it brought up a lot.” He didn’t have to say whether what it brought up was good or bad.
“I was always scared shitless out there alone,” Thomas says, after a pause. I decide not to say anything, but to see what comes next. Better late than never, these revelations. “And sometimes frightened even more when other kids were there, given that my friends were such f*ck-ups. I always thought it would make me stronger, able to deal with the real things that were going down.” He didn’t tell me about the real things until it was too late.
I stand up and walk over to where he is pacing, and still him by putting my arms around him, rest my cheek against his. Both of us damaged goods, needing to take care of each other. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I say. “Absolutely nothing. I’m here, and always will be for you.”
31
Helen
I JUST LEFT THE OBSTETRICIAN. Funny, after an illness-free life, all these doctors’ appointments, all these blood tests and checking of blood pressure, and now, today, the ultrasound. I didn’t sense that wonder at seeing the shape of the child—perhaps I’m too inured from my residency in OB-GYN. Besides, I feel her already. I know it’s a girl, and will know for certain in a month when I have my amnio. I debated whether to have one—there are certain risks—but have discovered a deep well of worry that shouldn’t have surprised me, given my line of work. There’s so much that can go wrong, too many toxins in the air and water, and too much hazard in our DNA. I’m already protective of this child, determined to do this right. As if sheer willpower will bring forth the perfect physical specimen from my womb.
I’ve added four hundred more calories per day to my diet. More reds. More greens. More yellows. I can almost taste the colors. I’m filling out, and my pants won’t fasten around my waist. My scrubs have gone from extra small to small.