enough to open it yet, or at least he never had been, but as Barbara looked on, she heard the suck of the seal breaking and watched the door release. Nicholas shot backward, landing on the floor halfway across the room.
Barbara waited for a yowl, but instantly the boy was on his feet again, surging forward with an intent expression on his face.
“Orange juice,” he said decidedly, then leaned his little body inside the refrigerator.
Not the refrigerator. Nicholas had accidentally opened the freezer side.
Barbara stared with a mix of admiration and disbelief. A thought seized her—
what if the door swung shut right now
—followed by a queasy pang. She began pulling on her son, trying to get him out, but he was fighting her, not registering the cold until his little shrimp fingers curled around the metal rim of a shelf and stuck there.
The howls started then.
Barbara left her son and ran for a cup of warm water. She poured the liquid over the frosty shelf, soaking Nicholas’ wrists through his pajamas while his screams climbed in volume. Finally his hold loosened, and she was able to drag him out.
Nicholas’ arms were as strong as cables when Barbara turned them over to check for damage. The flesh on his fingertips had pinkened, but looked intact, nothing peeling away. Something in Barbara’s stomach lurched, and she pressed her hand over her mouth.
She began stroking her son’s hot, wet cheeks, his whole body vibrating against hers as he continued to cry. Barbara got up and pawed through the trash. She found the empty orange juice carton and poured the remnants into a cup, diluting them with water from the tap.
She handed the concoction to Nicholas, who downed it thirstily.
Blessed silence filled the room.
Barbara fisted her hands on her hips and smiled down at her son. “Now. Shall we go to the store for some more?”
Nicholas looked up at her. “Orange juice? In the store?”
“Can you be good in the car?”
He nodded, three rapid jerks of his head. His curls flew. One day, she was going to have to trim them.
Love seized her, warm and glowing. She bent to scoop up the little boy in a hug.
“Why don’t you put that carton in the trash for me,” she suggested, pointing. “While I get us some clothes?”
Nicholas walked in the direction she’d indicated. For just a second, he wasn’t a toddler anymore, but a growing, competent child, completing a task. Barbara bent over, feeling herself grow short of breath, as if she were being compressed in some creature’s great fist. How had no one ever told her what it felt like to be a mother, the way it robbed you of air and light and nourishment, but you didn’t care, didn’t even notice, because in exchange you were given this one consuming focus and it was all you’d ever need again?
Barbara turned and left the room to fetch an outfit for her son and a fresh dress for herself, assuming she could find one. In addition to errands, it was hard to make time to iron and do laundry these days as well.
—
Gordon had purchased a station wagon just before Nicholas was born, which turned out to be a bit of an indulgence given how rarely Barbara ventured out. But she was grateful for the new car now, complete with air-conditioning, which she’d never used. She reached across the generous front seat and buckled Nicholas in. She slipped the shoulder strap behind his back, leaving just the lap belt.
Nicholas started to twist and churn. “No buckle.”
Barbara turned the key in the ignition, speaking lightly as the engine rumbled to life. “Then no orange juice.”
She wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to carry out this threat if Nicholas continued to protest. He could move into the back where you didn’t have to worry about seatbelts. But the little boy settled down, looking out his window.
Barbara rolled hers open. It only got good and hot for a month or so in Cold Kettle, but this was the month. A breeze fanned them both as Barbara drove
Barbara waited for a yowl, but instantly the boy was on his feet again, surging forward with an intent expression on his face.
“Orange juice,” he said decidedly, then leaned his little body inside the refrigerator.
Not the refrigerator. Nicholas had accidentally opened the freezer side.
Barbara stared with a mix of admiration and disbelief. A thought seized her—
what if the door swung shut right now
—followed by a queasy pang. She began pulling on her son, trying to get him out, but he was fighting her, not registering the cold until his little shrimp fingers curled around the metal rim of a shelf and stuck there.
The howls started then.
Barbara left her son and ran for a cup of warm water. She poured the liquid over the frosty shelf, soaking Nicholas’ wrists through his pajamas while his screams climbed in volume. Finally his hold loosened, and she was able to drag him out.
Nicholas’ arms were as strong as cables when Barbara turned them over to check for damage. The flesh on his fingertips had pinkened, but looked intact, nothing peeling away. Something in Barbara’s stomach lurched, and she pressed her hand over her mouth.
She began stroking her son’s hot, wet cheeks, his whole body vibrating against hers as he continued to cry. Barbara got up and pawed through the trash. She found the empty orange juice carton and poured the remnants into a cup, diluting them with water from the tap.
She handed the concoction to Nicholas, who downed it thirstily.
Blessed silence filled the room.
Barbara fisted her hands on her hips and smiled down at her son. “Now. Shall we go to the store for some more?”
Nicholas looked up at her. “Orange juice? In the store?”
“Can you be good in the car?”
He nodded, three rapid jerks of his head. His curls flew. One day, she was going to have to trim them.
Love seized her, warm and glowing. She bent to scoop up the little boy in a hug.
“Why don’t you put that carton in the trash for me,” she suggested, pointing. “While I get us some clothes?”
Nicholas walked in the direction she’d indicated. For just a second, he wasn’t a toddler anymore, but a growing, competent child, completing a task. Barbara bent over, feeling herself grow short of breath, as if she were being compressed in some creature’s great fist. How had no one ever told her what it felt like to be a mother, the way it robbed you of air and light and nourishment, but you didn’t care, didn’t even notice, because in exchange you were given this one consuming focus and it was all you’d ever need again?
Barbara turned and left the room to fetch an outfit for her son and a fresh dress for herself, assuming she could find one. In addition to errands, it was hard to make time to iron and do laundry these days as well.
—
Gordon had purchased a station wagon just before Nicholas was born, which turned out to be a bit of an indulgence given how rarely Barbara ventured out. But she was grateful for the new car now, complete with air-conditioning, which she’d never used. She reached across the generous front seat and buckled Nicholas in. She slipped the shoulder strap behind his back, leaving just the lap belt.
Nicholas started to twist and churn. “No buckle.”
Barbara turned the key in the ignition, speaking lightly as the engine rumbled to life. “Then no orange juice.”
She wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to carry out this threat if Nicholas continued to protest. He could move into the back where you didn’t have to worry about seatbelts. But the little boy settled down, looking out his window.
Barbara rolled hers open. It only got good and hot for a month or so in Cold Kettle, but this was the month. A breeze fanned them both as Barbara drove
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