Damage - A. M. Jenkins [45]
You give the brass-bottomed pan a final polish pick up a wet saucepan. “What other things do remember?”
“Well. Let’s see. You were my helper. I never had to worry about you. Becky was the one I had to keep an eye on. Like the time she cut her own hair with the nail scissors.”
“I remember that. It looked like she went after it with a weed eater.”
“I always hid the nail scissors after that. But you were a different story.” Mom’s smiling to herself again. “Do you remember the time you decided you were going to help me by folding the laundry?”
You shake your head no, put down the saucepan, pick up a large glass bowl, wiping it carefully.
“I guess you were about three. It was one of those bad, busy times; I was pregnant with Becky and your dad was in the hospital. Nothing was getting done around the house; the whole place was a disaster. And there was a big old basket of clean clothes in the utility room that needed to be ironed. But you didn’t know it still had to be ironed; you thought you’d just up and take care of it yourself. course, you were just a little guy, littler than the clothes you were trying to fold. So I found you sitting back there in the middle of this big old stack of clothes, wrestling with one of my blouses, frustrated as all get-out. You weren’t making a sound, just working away with little bitty tears rolling down your cheeks. I put the blouse my drawer all wrinkled in a wad,” she adds, her smile twisting, “’cause I couldn’t stand to tell you it wasn’t right. You’ve always been a good kid, Austin. I guess I don’t tell you that often enough.”
The bowl is dry. You set it down, start in on a skillet.
“Time moves so fast,” she says quietly. “You blink and suddenly your kids are almost grown up.” She sighs and starts washing again.
She’s on the last pan. It’s quiet in the kitchen now, except for Mom’s swishing and scrubbing.
You want to hang on to this moment. Just a longer, anyway. “I remember how Dad used to let shave,” you tell her.
She gives you a funny look. “Shave?”
“I mean, like, play shaving. You know, how Dad used to set me on the counter while he shaved? He used to shaving cream on my face and let me shave with a razor.”
“I don’t think you ever had a toy razor.”
“I did. I remember it. It must have gotten lost. I even remember shaving in the bathtub, with bubbles from bubble bath—only I had to use a comb turned around backward, for the razor. I remember it wasn’t the same when Dad helped me.”
“I really don’t think it was Daddy. He was pretty sick, hon. He didn’t even have any hair because of the chemo, and by the time they stopped that, he couldn’t shave himself, much less you.” She rinses the pan. “I’ll bet it was Curtis’s dad you remember. You spent a lot of time over there when Daddy was in the hospital.”
It was Daddy, you think. You realize you’ve been drying the same skillet for a while now. It’s bone dry.
“Are you still using that fancy razor of his?” Mom asks.
You nod, and set the skillet down.
“Better than gathering dust in a cabinet. I’m glad you found it and brought it out. This may sound silly,” she adds, “but it makes me feel like you’ll get to make good use of all the chances he never had.” She glances at you. “You’ve got circles under your eyes. You sure you feel up to school today?” She takes the towel out of your hand. can finish this. You don’t have to be up for another hour or so—why don’t you go back to bed, see if you can get bit more sleep?”
You don’t need more sleep. No, you feel fine. And you’re not going back to bed. Instead, you head straight for the bathroom. Lock the door behind you.
It was not Mr. Hightower. It was your father.
Run the hot water while you take off your T-shirt. Open the cabinet and take out the shaving gel, the razor. Pull the hand towel off the rack and lay it neatly beside the sink. Wait for the water to get hot.
Your crystal-clear memory is not cheap. Or washed out. Or somebody else’s.
After a few minutes you check the water with one finger. It’s ready. You wipe your finger on the hand towel and fill the sink. When