album. Can you forgive me?â
âTheyâre just some stupid baseball cards, Mom.â
My motherâs eyes got all shiny. She puther arm around my shoulder and pulled me in tight next to her. Then she pointed to a photograph in the book that lay open on her lap. âThis is Bobby Smith right after he was born,â she said quietly.
âMan, what a weird-looking baby. Whyâs he all blotchy like that?â I asked.
âAllergies. The poor little thing was splotchy and red from the minute he drew his first breath,â my mother said.
âWhatâs with the hair?â I asked.
âSome babies are born with a full head of dark hair like thatâusually it falls out later.â
âDid I have hair like that?â I asked.
âYou were bald as a cue ball. Youâve seen pictures of yourself, Guy,â she said gently.
âOh, yeah,â I said.
âYou were sweet and round and pink and bald and the most beautiful baby Iâd ever laid eyes on,â my mother said, and she had a tiny little catch in her voice like maybe she was going to cry.
âDid you see me right away? Becausemaybe Bob-o and I got mixed up when they took us away to clean us up or something,â I said.
âI held you in my arms and your dad cut the cord, Guy.â
âGross,â I said.
âI nursed you for the first time right there on the delivery tableââ
âYech, Mom, too much information,â I protested.
âGuy, I didnât let you out of my sight the entire time I was in the hospital. Poor little Bobby Smith was coming and going all the time for treatments and ointments and what not, while you just lay in my arms staring up at me like a little angel. I felt sorry for Marie. I still do.â
âWhat do you mean?â I asked.
âGuy, Bobby is, well, letâs just say he hasnât had an easy time of it. Heâs always been kind of an odd duck. Marie and John are perfectly nice people, but they donât have a clue when it comes to helping that boy.â
âWhat do you think they should be doing?â
âPaying attention to him. Listening to him. Right from the get-go they refused to really look at him. Now their kid is walking around talking to himself and stuffing his pockets full of rolled-up tuna fish, and theyâre sitting around with their noses stuck inââ
ââmagazines.â I finished the sentence for her. âWhy does he have tuna fish in his pockets, anyway?â I asked.
âI asked him that. He told me he hates tuna fish, but every day his mother packs him a tuna fish sandwich for lunch. He wads up the tuna and eats the bread.â
âWhy doesnât he just throw it out?â I asked. âThatâs what I do with the raw hot dogs.â
âYou do? Why didnât you tell me not to pack them?â
âI did,â I said quietly.
We sat for a minute on the step not saying anything. Finally I got up the nerve to ask,âHow come you said âit didnât workâ when Bob-o walked in, before?â
âHe was picking his nose,â she said.
âSo?â I said.
âI tried to hypnotize him out of that habit,â my mother said. âBut it didnât work.â
âOh, thatâs what you meant?â
âUh huh. What did you think I meant?â
âI thought you had tried to kill him, Mom.â
âWhat?!â
âHe was green, and Dad said he was dead to the world. I heard him.â
âThatâs just an expression. I tried to hypnotize him to stop him from picking his nose, Guy. Obviously I havenât mastered the technique yet, but Iâm starting to get the hang of it. Iâll show you when we get home.â
Home . I let the word wash over me like a warm wave, but only for a minute. I still had more questions.
âWhy did you put Bob-oâs hands in plastic bags?â I asked.
âI put an herbal salve
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