A Bedtime Story
“This excerpt comes from one of the first stories I ever shared. It’s tender, a little eerie, and still brings a tear to my eye. I hope it finds its way into your heart, too.”
This story won an Honorable Mention in the Writer’s Digest 93d 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.
