A Bedtime Story
This is one of the first stories I shared with the world. It still brings a tear to my eye. I hope you love it as much as I do.
This story won an Honorable Mention in the Writer’s Digest 93rd Annual Writing Competition.
Of my three children, Colin has always been the most difficult. He was a challenging baby – he fussed and cried for what felt like two years straight – and he’s not any easier as a kid. I don’t know why.
His sisters never give me much trouble, and I’m not worried about them. They’re sweet and obedient with delightful senses of humor that never fail bring a smile to my face. Their personalities are so warm and so wonderful, they’ll go through life surrounded by friends and admirers.
But I worry about Colin – he’s contrary to the point of petulance, stubborn to the point of pigheadedness. I keep telling him he’s making life harder for himself. But he always has to learn things the hard way. You can’t convince him ahead of time that his endeavors will end in failure – he has to experience it for himself. People don’t respond well to that personality type.
The hardest thing to get through to Colin now, though, is how much I love him. I don’t have much time – I can feel it deep in my core.
I have no problem with his sisters.
My husband already tucked the kids in bed, and I sneak around afterwards to give my children a final few words of love before they drift to sleep.
Beverly, my oldest, is sitting on her floor, playing with her menagerie of stuffed animals. She’s holding her stuffed giraffe in one hand, galloping it across the floor to her favorite doll, which is slumped against her dresser.
She doesn’t look up when I enter her room. She’s too intent on her game.
“I love you, Beverly,” I say, trying to push a lock of her hair off her forehead. It’s tangled – my husband must’ve forgotten to brush it again – and resists my efforts.
“I love you too, Mommy,” she whispers, still engrossed in her game.
There’s a sheen in her eyes that reminds me of tears, though I have no idea why she might be upset. I smile and watch her for a bit, admiring the way her little mind works. I love her creativity.
I go to Danielle’s room next. She’s my youngest, my baby, the precious gift I never knew I needed until I was holding her in my arms. She’s already asleep, lying on her stomach, wet fingers resting on the pillow next to her open mouth.
Her blanket’s crumpled at the foot of her bed. I leave it there – she doesn’t need it. The room’s warm enough.
“I love you,” I whisper.
She smiles in her sleep and snuggles deeper on her pillow.
I try to smooth the baby-fine hair away from her face but it doesn’t move. It never does what I want it to. I sigh and leave her to her dreams.
Even though there’s no light shining under Colin’s door, I know he’s still awake. The click-clacks of his toys are sharp in the otherwise quiet, dark hallway. He’s building a “creation” in there, I just know it. He’s always building creations.
I slip into his room. Sure enough, he’s sitting on the floor with his blocks and train set spread all around him. His tongue sticks out as he positions a section of train track underneath an elaborate block-arch he’s got balanced on the carpet. It looks like he’s building an intricate city.
“Hey, buddy,” I say.
He ignores me.
“Whatcha building?” I crouch next to him, careful to avoid knocking into a block tower.
He hunches his shoulders.
I sigh and he looks up at me with wide blue eyes. He’s scared of something, but I have no idea what.
I reach out a hand to him, but he ducks it, face panicked.
“You know I love you, right?” My voice is unsteady.
He shakes his head and turns his back to me, shoulders trembling. Always so difficult.
I stand and leave.
What else can I do?
***
I wander through the house late one morning, aimless, searching for inspiration.
The pictures of our family spread along the walls are getting dusty. All except for a new one, hung up at the end of the upstairs hallway.
This one has just my husband and the kids in it, taken on my favorite beach at our local lake. Everyone’s smiling, but there’s a tightness to their eyes not present in the other pictures. My husband’s holding a metal cylinder in his hands. It looks vaguely familiar.
I wish I could have gone with them that day. I love walking around that lake. I can’t remember why I didn’t go. Something about . . . No. My mind slides away from the thought.
I shiver and turn from the photo.
There’s not much time left.
There has to be some way I can get Colin to listen to me. I’ve got to tell him I love him.
But how?
I find myself in the basement, staring down at a box I don’t remember stashing there.
It’s one of those printer paper boxes you see in office buildings, the kind people use to carry around their stuff when they move desks. The lid’s tucked underneath – the objects in the box poke so far out the top you wouldn’t be able to put the lid on anyway.
The things inside are familiar: a few three-ring binders whose cover sheets I designed and the battered notebook I always carry around to meetings. My stapler’s in there, too – the purple and green one Beverly painted for me when she was in kindergarten. And here’s the laminated notecard with little Danielle’s handprints on it that I tacked up on my cubicle wall.
Why is this box here?
Something happened, didn’t it? Something awful.
I remember driving home late one night. Bright headlights veering into my lane. No time to swerve. And then . . .
I shake my head.
There, resting on top of a stack of papers is a picture frame with painted popsicle sticks glued to the edges. Inside the frame is a picture of Colin and me, taken at his preschool during one of the “parent involvement” days they have every month or so.
This one had been close to Halloween, and we decorated a pumpkin together by gluing random foam cutouts on it. He’d been so happy when I’d arrived – my job often kept me from making the parental days – and we’d had a great, messy, time.
I stare and stare at the picture. We were so happy together. Such big smiles. Tears come to my eyes.
A small sticky note is attached to the bottom of the picture, half covering the pumpkin. Words in my handwriting fill the little yellow paper. I go very still. Something flutters in my chest.
If I can just show this to Colin . . .
The time slips by, and before I know it bedtime has come and gone. I’ve told the girls I love them again and I’m back in the hallway outside Colin’s door. He’s playing with his toys again.
I enter his room. “Hey buddy.”
He ignores me, but I can tell by the slight pause in his actions that he heard me.
“You’ve got to listen to me, okay? I need to tell you . . .”
He looks up at me with his big blue eyes. Tears stream down his face. But why?
“You left me.” His little voice trembles.
“No, no. I didn’t leave.” I shake my head. “I’d never leave you.”
More tears course down his cheeks, and I don’t know what to do.
The picture! I need to show him the picture. I need to get him to the basement.
“Will you come with me?”
He bites his lip and looks down at the train car in his hands.
“Please?” I’m almost panicking, and I crouch in front of him and reach a hand toward him.
He scrambles back, knocking over the block bridge he built last night.
“I won’t touch you.” I pull my hand back to my chest. “But please come with me. Okay?”
He nods but doesn’t follow me until I cross the room to the door.
We move through the house, nice and quiet. My husband’s watching TV in the living room and doesn’t notice when we slip down the stairs to the basement. I lead Colin to the storage room and stop at the box.
“Look.” I point to the picture.
He approaches carefully, keeping the box between him and me. His eyes widen when he sees the picture. He grabs it up with a raw desperation I’ve never seen. He’s still crying, lips wobbling, snot dripping from his nose.
Something tries to pull me away.
I resist, forcing myself to focus on Colin. Right now.
“Do you know what the note says?”
He nods and reads, “Colin and me – this is why I work so hard!”
“I love you, Colin.” I put every ounce of feeling and truth I can into the words.
He looks up at me again, holding the picture to his chest. The tears are still coming, but there’s a beautiful smile underneath them.
“I love you too, Mommy.”
“I’ll always love you.” I hope he finally understands. “Keep the picture close so I’ll always be with you.”
He nods.
That strange pulling is stronger now, inevitable, and there’s nothing I can do to resist it.
But I’m not worried anymore, because I told him just how much I love him. Always and forever.
I reach out a hand and he finally leans toward me.
But I still can’t touch him. My fingers are incorporeal, insubstantial.
Just like me.
“I love you,” I say, one last time.
“I love you, too,” he whispers.
And then I’m gone.
