The ribs aren’t cooperating much either, shifting from sore and tender to stabbing and stinging. Despite how lousy I feel, I stop by Devon’s room to tuck him in.
Entering through the doorway, I find him belly to floor and searching beneath his bed.
“What are you looking for there, kiddo?”
He draws his head up to look at me. “My pajamas.”
“Unless I’ve missed something, Mom doesn’t keep them there.”
“But they were just on the bed a little bit ago.”
“Then they have to be somewhere.” I give the room a cursory inspection.
Devon stands up and frowns.
“No worries, buddy.” I pull open his dresser drawer, grab another set of pajamas, and hand it to him. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”
As he begins changing into his PJs, I take a seat on the bed and notice Jake several feet away, chin resting on paws, foreboding eyes aimed at me. Again, I’m baffled. Long before my son’s body can hit the sheets, without fail, Jake is already there and waiting. This is a constant, one I’ve been witness to for years. It’s their pattern.
But not tonight.
Devon crawls into bed, and I nod toward the dog. “Is he doing okay?”
Without so much as sparing Jake a glance, he says, “Uh-huh.”
“Are you sure?”
“Uh-huh,” he says again.
“Because he seems a little down.”
“He’s okay.” Devon pulls the blanket up and over his chest.
“And he’s usually in bed with you by now.”
My son shrugs and reaches across the bed for Jake’s favorite toy, the rubber bone, then tosses it onto the floor. The bone drops beside Jake’s head. Jake doesn’t seem remotely interested. I puzzle over the strange dynamic playing out between boy and dog, wondering if there’s more to this than Devon is telling me.
“Daddy?”
I look quickly back at my son.
“The accident hurt you bad.”
“Not so bad,” I say and notice that Jake is now sitting across from Devon’s door and gaping at it. Just like earlier. As if he’s waiting for something.
“Daddy?” Devon says again, and I look back at him.
“We forgot liftoff last night,” he informs me.
“You’re right.” I consider Jake again, still troubled by his behavior.
Liftoff is our secret evening ritual. Actually, it was how I used to get Devon into bed when he was younger. We never said bedtime or sleep, because for most kids, those are dirty words. Instead it was a time travel mission, and he wasn’t sleeping, he was transforming into a special crime fighter to rid the world of evil. It worked like a charm, and even though he eventually wised up to my game, our little routine has endured. I’m not really up for this, considering how I feel, but his eager expression makes it hard to say no.
“Ready?” I say.
“Ready,” he replies through a big, gap-toothed smile.
I pull the covers up snugly around him, then intone, “This is Ground Control to Spartan Newberg.” He still loves when I use his covert crime fighter code name. “Do you copy?”
“Copy!” He squirms, then settles.
“You are clear for liftoff.”
Devon makes rumbling rocket sounds with his mouth.
And I begin the countdown. “Five . . . Four . . . Three . . . Two . . .”
“One!” he shouts with glee, then does the liftoff noise.
“Go get those bad guys, kiddo. The clock is ticking, Spartan, and only you can restore order to the world.”
I straighten the covers, kiss his forehead, then step softly toward the door.
Before leaving, I steal one last look at Jake, still parked there, still with that desolate, edgy, ominous expression.
17
I spend most of my night riding the Insomniac Express, bouncing between brief periods of turbulent sleep and wakeful, agitated tossing and turning. My head and ribs take their shots at keeping the action going.
With a new sun now on the rise, I look at Jenna beside me in restful slumber, kiss her cheek, and she blearily opens her eyes.
“Come closer,” she says with her sleepy little smile, softly brushing a hand across my cheek.
I do, and she returns a sleepy little kiss.
“Feeling any better?” she asks.
“Some.” I force a comforting grin.
She doesn’t say anything, but I know the look. My wife is worried. For reassurance, I kiss her again, then drag my aching body from bed to shower, hoping the warm water will deliver some relief.
Unfortunately, the payoff is marginal at best. I’m a bit more awake, but that just makes everything hurt harder.
I dry off, then check my injury in the mirror. The forehead swelling has gone down, but . . .
Something doesn’t look right.
I move in closer, study myself, then discover the problem. My hair looks odd and unfamiliar. Different, but I have no idea how. Still, looking into the mirror is making me terribly uncomfortable.
I try to concentrate on brushing my teeth but can’t let the uneasiness go. I keep glancing up, and the more I see myself, the more on edge I feel. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I turn on the faucet, throw my hands under the water, then run my fingers across my scalp. I grab a comb and restyle, but the result ends up exactly the same.
My hair is still wrong.
“Honey, you’ll be late,” Jenna calls from the bedroom.
I look at the clock and realize she’s right.
Another glance in the mirror only fuels more frustration, so I reach for the comb, move my part to the other side, and find a small measure of respite from my bad hair day.
Strange things are happening.
And they’re scaring the hell out of me.
18