Read Online Shelter Us: A Novel by Laura Nicole Diamond - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Nicole Diamond
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next, his voice breaking as he got to the heart of the matter.
My mind searched for magic words that would set his fears at rest, that would let him go back to thinking about dinosaurs and geckos, things a little boy should be thinking about. What could I say? How do you tell your child he’s going to live a long long long long time; that he’s going to be a big boy, then a teenager, a grown-up, a daddy, a grandpa, a great-grandpa? How do you promise him a long life when you and he both know the truth: maybe—and maybe not?
His fears used to flare at bedtime. Every night after I turned off the light, he cried, “I don’t want to die.” The sudden darkness of the room erased all the beautiful images I’d just poured into his mind with the pile of books on his bedside table—little blue trains and hungry caterpillars and a mischievous cat in a striped hat. I wished that I could lie and tell him he wasn’t going to die. I tried out the sound of those words in my mind but couldn’t bring myself to speak them. It was the truest thing: someday he would die. Instead I held him, stroked his hair while he pondered a world without him, his pillow damp with tears. Eventually he’d roll onto his tummy and command, “Hold myhand.” I’d reach my hand out, and he’d grip it in both of his. Sometimes I would sing what my mom sang to me when I went to bed, a prayer for safety: “
Shelter us beneath your wings, oh Lord on high. Guard us from all harmful things, oh Lord on high. Keep us safe throughout the night, till we wake with morning’s light
.” It was hard for me to utter the last part, after what had happened, but it was my deepest, most fervent prayer, and it ushered him into sleep.
When Izzy was born and joined Oliver in the bedroom, Oliver’s anxiety began to taper off. I don’t know if he stopped worrying about dying or simply stopped talking about it. I wondered if Izzy’s presence in the crib a few feet away brought him peace of mind. Now at bedtime we talk about planets, going to the toy store, who threw sand that day and why. We talk about the moon and sun and what’s ten plus ten. But our ritual remains: when he’s ready to sleep, he takes my hand. It is our shorthand for comfort and safety, for me as much as for him. We hold on until he is fast asleep.
After he’s been asleep a few minutes, I extricate my fingers, roll ever so gingerly away to keep the mattress from springing up, tiptoe to the door, and I’m clear. Day is done.
I pause and turn around to take in the peacefulness of my boys at rest. A picture frame on the dresser reflects the light from the hall. I walk toward it and lean down to study it for the thousandth time. It is a photo taken the day Izzy was born. We are all in the hospital room, our faces silhouetted from the light coming through the window behind us. A sturdy labor nurse held the camera. Robert stands next to me looking down at Izzy, who is cradled in my arms in his blue-and-pink, standard-issue newborn hat. Bibi stands next to him, smiling at the camera. Oliver stands in front of them, high on his toes, stretching his neck to see the new baby, his expression a blend of wonder, worry and hope.
14
R obert’s side of the bed is empty when I wake up. His voice reaches me from downstairs. “Oliver, come eat your cereal before it gets soggy. Izzy, come on, up you go, into your high chair. That’s it. Eat your cereal.”
I stretch and yawn as I listen to the sounds of life going on without me. My mind slides into thoughts like
They would be fine on their own
and
Robert could handle them
, which I have to slap away. Right after Ella died I fantasized about dying. Not killing myself, just death. Maybe an accident or a quick disease that would end the wrenching physical pain and let me follow her, take care of her. But my death wish tapered off. It wasn’t something to play with. I had Oliver to protect. I wish I could protect that little baby downtown. What chance does he
My mind searched for magic words that would set his fears at rest, that would let him go back to thinking about dinosaurs and geckos, things a little boy should be thinking about. What could I say? How do you tell your child he’s going to live a long long long long time; that he’s going to be a big boy, then a teenager, a grown-up, a daddy, a grandpa, a great-grandpa? How do you promise him a long life when you and he both know the truth: maybe—and maybe not?
His fears used to flare at bedtime. Every night after I turned off the light, he cried, “I don’t want to die.” The sudden darkness of the room erased all the beautiful images I’d just poured into his mind with the pile of books on his bedside table—little blue trains and hungry caterpillars and a mischievous cat in a striped hat. I wished that I could lie and tell him he wasn’t going to die. I tried out the sound of those words in my mind but couldn’t bring myself to speak them. It was the truest thing: someday he would die. Instead I held him, stroked his hair while he pondered a world without him, his pillow damp with tears. Eventually he’d roll onto his tummy and command, “Hold myhand.” I’d reach my hand out, and he’d grip it in both of his. Sometimes I would sing what my mom sang to me when I went to bed, a prayer for safety: “
Shelter us beneath your wings, oh Lord on high. Guard us from all harmful things, oh Lord on high. Keep us safe throughout the night, till we wake with morning’s light
.” It was hard for me to utter the last part, after what had happened, but it was my deepest, most fervent prayer, and it ushered him into sleep.
When Izzy was born and joined Oliver in the bedroom, Oliver’s anxiety began to taper off. I don’t know if he stopped worrying about dying or simply stopped talking about it. I wondered if Izzy’s presence in the crib a few feet away brought him peace of mind. Now at bedtime we talk about planets, going to the toy store, who threw sand that day and why. We talk about the moon and sun and what’s ten plus ten. But our ritual remains: when he’s ready to sleep, he takes my hand. It is our shorthand for comfort and safety, for me as much as for him. We hold on until he is fast asleep.
After he’s been asleep a few minutes, I extricate my fingers, roll ever so gingerly away to keep the mattress from springing up, tiptoe to the door, and I’m clear. Day is done.
I pause and turn around to take in the peacefulness of my boys at rest. A picture frame on the dresser reflects the light from the hall. I walk toward it and lean down to study it for the thousandth time. It is a photo taken the day Izzy was born. We are all in the hospital room, our faces silhouetted from the light coming through the window behind us. A sturdy labor nurse held the camera. Robert stands next to me looking down at Izzy, who is cradled in my arms in his blue-and-pink, standard-issue newborn hat. Bibi stands next to him, smiling at the camera. Oliver stands in front of them, high on his toes, stretching his neck to see the new baby, his expression a blend of wonder, worry and hope.
14
R obert’s side of the bed is empty when I wake up. His voice reaches me from downstairs. “Oliver, come eat your cereal before it gets soggy. Izzy, come on, up you go, into your high chair. That’s it. Eat your cereal.”
I stretch and yawn as I listen to the sounds of life going on without me. My mind slides into thoughts like
They would be fine on their own
and
Robert could handle them
, which I have to slap away. Right after Ella died I fantasized about dying. Not killing myself, just death. Maybe an accident or a quick disease that would end the wrenching physical pain and let me follow her, take care of her. But my death wish tapered off. It wasn’t something to play with. I had Oliver to protect. I wish I could protect that little baby downtown. What chance does he
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