Where the God of Love Hangs Out - Amy Bloom [45]
“How can it be so easy for you to send me away? Don’t you love me at all?”
I jumped up, glad to have a reason to move. “Not love you? It’s because I love you, because I want you to have a happy, normal life. I owe it to you and I owe it to your father.”
He folded his arms. “You don’t owe Pop anything…. He had everything he wanted, he had everything.” The words rained down like little blades.
I ignored what he said. “It can’t be, honey. You can’t stay.”
“I could if you wanted me to.”
He was right. Who would know? I could take my two boys to the movies, away for weekends, play tennis with my step son. I would be the object of a little pity and some admiration. Who would know? Who would have such monstrous thoughts, except Ruth, and she would never allow them to surface. I saw us together and saw it unfolding, leaves of shame and pity and anger, neither of us getting what we wanted. I wanted to hug him, console him for his loss.
“No, honey.”
I reached across the table but he shrugged me off, grabbing my keys and heading out the door.
I sat for a long time, sipping, watching the sunlight move around the kitchen. When it was almost five, I took the keys from Lionel’s side of the dresser and drove his van to soccer camp. Buster felt like being quiet, so we just held hands and listened to the radio. I offered to take him to Burger King, hoping the automated monkeys and video games would be a good substitute for a fully present and competent mother. He was happy, and we killed an hour and a half there. Three hours to bedtime.
We watched some TV, sitting on the couch, his feet in my lap. Every few minutes, I’d look at the clock on the mantel and then promise myself I wouldn’t look until the next commercial. Every time I started to move, I’d get tears in my eyes, so I concentrated on sitting very still, waiting for time to pass. Finally, I got Buster through his nightly routine and into bed, kissing his cupcake face, fluffing his Dr. J pillow.
“Where’s Lion? He said he’d kiss me good night.”
“Honey, he’s out. He’ll come in and kiss you while you’re sleeping.”
“Where is he?”
I dug my nails into my palms; with Buster, this could go on for half an hour. “He’s out with some friends, Bus. I promise he’ll kiss you in your sleep.”
“Okay. I’m glad he’s home, Mama.”
How had I managed to do so much harm so fast? “I know. Go to sleep, Gabriel Tyner Sampson.”
“G’night, Mama. Say my full name again.”
“Gabriel Tyner Sampson, beautiful name for a beautiful boy. ’Night.”
And I thought about the morning we named him, holding him in the delivery room, his boneless brown body covered with white goop and clots of blood, and Lionel tearing off his green mask to kiss me and then to kiss the baby, rubbing his face all over Gabriel’s little body.
I got into my kimono and sat in the rocking chair, waiting for Lion. I watched the guests on the talk shows, none of whom seemed like people I’d want to know. After a while, I turned off the sound but kept the picture on for company. I watered my plants, then realized I had just done it yesterday and watched as the water cascaded out of the pots onto the wood floor, drops bouncing onto the wall, streaking the white paint. I thought about giving away the plants, or maybe moving somewhere where people didn’t keep plants. Around here, it’s like a law. The mopping up took me about eight minutes, and I tried to think of something else to do. I looked for a dish to break.
Stupid, inconsiderate boy. Around now, his father would have been pacing, threatening to beat him senseless when he walked in, and I would have been calming Lionel down, trying to get him to come to bed.
At about three, when I was thinking of calling the hospital, I heard my car coming up the street slowly. I looked out the kitchen window and saw him pull into the drive, minus the right front fender.
He came inside quietly, pale gray around his mouth and eyes. There was blood on his shirt, but he was walking okay. I grabbed him by the shoulders and he winced and I dug my hands into him in the dark of the hallway.
“What is