Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [11]
He says, —I love that.
I count twenty-five additional replays until I say, —I think the show on electricity is about to start. Let’s go see the Tesla coil.
When that doesn’t work, I recommend the Nancy Drew computer game with the eerie androids, the Lord of the Rings exhibit, the new butterfly room.
—If we’re really still, the butterflies might come and land on us, I say. —I know you’d love that.
But we are in the ritual and we will be here until he finally looks at me and says, —Can we see Mom now?
This means he’s tired and ready to go home. As I take his hand and we walk back toward the escalator, I tell him people will come by and press the replay button and they will see the most famous person they’ll ever meet, if they’re lucky enough to meet him someday.
Thad likes hearing this and asks me to repeat it a couple of times, which is more like fifteen or sixteen.
Later, when I’m helping him with his seat belt out in the parking garage, I say, —We had fun tonight, didn’t we?
And he says, —We had fun tonight.
Thad is not by nature someone who smiles a lot, but I can tell when he’s content. We take Memorial Drive back, less lights—or a different kind of light in any case—less neon.
—We’re going to go to the stadium tomorrow, I say, looking at Thad in the rearview as we pass MIT. Because suddenly I realize someone better explain things to him.
He says, —Tommy’s fighting.
It’s not like him to remember this kind of thing, even if he’s told it many times over, so I know he has to be worried. I’ve noticed Tommy has been spending more time with him lately.
—Tommy’s going to lose this, he says.
He points with his right hand but I’m trying to keep my eyes on the road, so I don’t get what he’s talking about at first.
—What’s Tommy going to lose?
—This.
When I tell him I still don’t get it, he becomes agitated and then he waves his hand back and forth.
So I wave back at him in the rearview, thinking that’s what he wants.
—His hand, he says.
—Tommy’s going to lose his hand? I say, and stop waving.
—Tommy’s going to lose his hand, he says, letting out a deep breath.
I know the horrible things that happen in the arena, but there’s something about this information coming from Thad. Allison shouldn’t take him to competitions. We’ve had endless fights about that. But she says that’s what she has to do—it’s in the GSA Bylaws—and when she starts talking bylaws, there’s no reasoning with her.
We go past Harvard now, Dunster House, and farther up the fat white trees that line the Drive. The traffic slows and we can hear Friday night sounds from the Square. I have to wonder if my friend Mark is there raising hell with his boys before tomorrow’s fight.
—We’ll be home soon. Maybe you and Tommy can soak in the tubs tonight before Mom tucks you in, I say.
But when I look back, I see Thad has already fallen asleep. Tommy will carry him upstairs when we get home, even though he’s so little and Thad is such a big boy. Allison will make sure his night-light is on. She’ll put a glass of water on his bedside table in case he wakes up thirsty. Then she’ll unfold his green and yellow plaid blanket and tuck this in so he doesn’t wake up cold in the middle of the night. She will look in on him a couple of times before she goes to bed to make sure he hasn’t had a nightmare or kicked his covers off. He can get pretty scared if he wakes up alone. I think he forgets that we’re just down the hall.
CHAPTER
4
I wake up the next day to the sound of the LAWNMOWER. Even though my head is still glued to my dreams, this is way too familiar. I get up and go over to my window seat overlooking the backyard. Tommy’s got that antique mower going again. I worry that he’s going to snap. It happens to Glads sometimes.
I watch him move from the shade into the sunlight and back again. It’s a hot day already and his skin—he’s got this kind of shine, like a horse’s coat when he’s been overworked. I want to rush down there and ask if everything is all right, but he seems oddly content mowing up and back. I decide not to break his concentration.