I was in the hospital for five weeks when I was ten. My left leg was being lengthened millimeter by monotonous millimeter. There, I met an Amish boy who had been injured in a farm accident. I don’t remember much about him, exactly, but my parents befriended his, and in the following year, we visited their homestead, ate jarred meat, and, when dusk fell, watched their many children put on a play from behind a sheet, illuminated shadows made from an oil lamp. I gave one of the youngest girls my favorite doll because the only dolls they had with were hand-sewn, awkward creatures more monster than toy.
I don’t remember what happened to the boy, if he recovered, or even if I spoke to him during our visit to their farm. My mother soon died and there ended our family’s relationship with anyone who required some effort to visit. But I wonder now if the boy struggled to reconcile his startling introduction to modern pleasures amid the unpleasurable at the hospital, if he ever, while back on his farm, wished he could return to those white rooms, to the dings of the nurses’ call button and the rattle of the IV poles and gurney wheels, just to taste some jello and watch TV again.
More often during my hospital stay, I visited a little boy who had been badly burned. His toddler body was covered in white bandages until they were removed, revealing his brick red skin, shiny as a newly polished floor. He had curly strawberry-blond hair, so sometimes he looked to me like he was still on fire. I was drawn to him, maybe to my own feelings of nobility when I persisted in staying in his room while he cried, which was most of the time. Or maybe I just stayed to witness a pain greater than my own.
I lift heavy weights because I can no longer lift my son. I’ve grown stronger over the past year: my quads have a stone-like quality under the skin and fat. I think of myself as an ice cream cake. Hard center, soft exterior. I enjoy the bulge in my bicep. I like to flex and find the crease between bicep and deltoid. But I still cannot lift him. I work at the gym for a month or more and I injure myself. Elbow, wrist, knee, back, and have to pull back my training for awhile until that injured part of my body heals, and then it’s up the hill again. But I still can’t lift him. He is now 100 pounds which is a lot but still little, and yet like the proverbial sack of potatoes, N doesn’t know how to use his own body to help me. I think of figure skating pairs, the man lifts the woman, but it is the woman’s core, the woman’s complimentary tensity, that assists in the lift and lightens the man’s load. N just hangs, an armful of wet towels. There isn’t one moment of hysteria; it’s a slow drip of hand-numbing anxiety: this could be it. No matter how hard I train, how strong I become, I might never be able to lift him again.
And again I can see her on the distant shore, the maybe other me who might decide not to feed her son in order to keep him small, in order to deny him a growing body because his mind does not keep apace. She thinks of him as a baby, she thinks of him as a toddler, she thinks of him even last year when he was eleven, when she could still lift him. No, that’s not right: she wishes for him to be again eleven. Is this empathy for the woman who tosses her child off a bridge, or the man who engages a shotgun to keep the future from ever arriving for his child and then himself? Is my fear of the future and my inability to keep lifting my spirits, my hope, just hysteria? There was a time when it was still ok for him to go and play on the playground, because he was small. There was a time when it was still ok for him to climb into a shopping cart and ride instead of walk. He is small for his age, but it is only a matter of time until he is taller, thicker than she is, stronger, and she fears that’s when the hyena she hides will burst from behind her hyoid and devour all hope. She is certain that when he is 14 and 17 and 22, he will still want to play on the playground, ride in a shopping cart: it makes her sick how his world will get smaller as he grows, it makes her pulse with a keening need to keep him to stay small. For there to be symbiosis between his mind and his body. She is a mother who might do whatever it takes to stop time.
So instead I try to grow. The longer I can lift him, the longer he can stay little, and there is little chance I will become her.
The kitchen chairs–red vinyl seats and back, chrome metal base, like an S without a top–had become a hazard. The angled metal below our knees would sometimes give out, bend and the person in that particular chair would without warning begin to deflate, maybe be held in the air for that one split second before descent, like a volunteer in a dunk tank. My mother blamed my brother, leaning back in the chairs, all casual in his teen-ness, for bending the chairs, when shifting his weight and altering the physics of the thing. The same could be said for his presence in our household. All arms and legs and attitude shifting the air even when he wasn’t moving. The table was still sturdy, the chrome legs doubled pipes, and the laminate top resistant to stains and knife cuts. Some nights when I didn’t want to eat one of my vegetables and was made to sit at the table until I did, I would run my fingernail along the grooves of the chrome that ringed the table, chipping away at the dried food that had accumulated there over the years, that my mother’s well-intentioned cleaning never quite prevented. It was the same with the cabinets, pale wood, plain fronts, delicate metal handles that caught grime that hardened over time. There was a circle of worn-away varnish around each of the handles where she had used a rough sponge or a cleaning detergent too harsh and her error became visual to everyone so available for judgment. To me, there were items all over the kitchen that incited my fear. A coffee can of gathered leftovers scraped from plates stowed under the kitchen sink and saved for the outside animals. Another rusted can of rusted batteries in the bottom junk drawer below the overstuffed drawer of kitchen towels. Another can at the top of the closet with bullets for the shotgun that hung below it.