Nightcrawling(80)

I’m by the edge of the mattress now, kneeling on the floor. I lean my torso onto the bed and pinch the edge of the blanket, peeling it slowly from his head. His face is crumpling, everything scrunched up and puffy, tears trying to find their way out of his swollen eyes and getting trapped in creases above his cheeks. He’s shaking his head, his mouth moving without sound.

The boy is collapsing right in front of me, Trevor coming undone. I touch his forehead and it is hot, burning even. Like his body is rejecting itself, turning to flame so he might be able to defend himself against what comes next. It is tearing me apart and I think this must be the hardest thing I’ve done: being the adult for him, the woman who can keep it together as he falls apart because we don’t got another choice.

“I know, baby,” I say, nodding. Maybe I can reverse the hurt, stop the destruction with a smile. “Listen to me.”

His head is still shaking, pupils eclipsing his eyes.

I start humming again, lean so my mouth is right by his ear, loud enough that I know my hum is all he can hear, vibrations all he can feel. Gradually, he stops shaking his head, starts to sniffle. I stop humming.

“I need you to listen to me. Can you do that for me?”

This time, he nods once.

“That lady, she’s the woman that’s gonna bring you to a new house for a little while. She’s real nice and I bet if you ask her to turn on the radio in her fancy car, she will. Your mama ain’t coming home right now and I’m not allowed to keep you here no more, so you’re gonna go somewhere else until I figure it out. Okay? It’s not forever.”

Even as I say it, I know it might be. This might be the last time I see his face and I want to curl up with him, hide away until I’m ready for the goodbye. But I will never be ready to let him go and Mrs. Randall is outside waiting. His already plump, bruised lip jutting farther out and I know he’s trying real hard not to let this flood him.

I smile. “You might even go somewhere with some other kids. Then you can kick they asses in a pickup game, huh? Show them how you can dunk?” I put my hand beneath Trevor’s head and push up, so he knows it’s time to pull his body back into a seated position on the bed.

I grab his cheeks in my hands, just like Mama did for me last night, and stare at him like he’s the only thing that exists in this world. He might as well be the only thing that exists in this world.

“You gonna be just fine.”

I kiss the tip of his nose and pull him into my arms, where he burrows into the crease between my shoulder and neck. If I could stay just like this forever, I would. Holding him. Knowing he’s still intact. That Trevor’s gonna light up and dance again. I can almost feel Mrs. Randall’s heel clicking outside, her patience waning.

I rub the back of Trevor’s head, the only part of his body that hasn’t entirely blown up in the wake of his beating. I reach behind my back where Trevor has locked his arms around my waist. I have to fight myself to not stay still, to untangle him from me like untying a knot even though it’s the last thing I want to do, and he’s heaving by the time I remove myself from him and begin stuffing his clothes into his blue-and-yellow backpack that I got him for his ninth birthday because I couldn’t afford the actual Warriors backpack. I watched him scour it for a logo until he realized it was off-brand and there wasn’t one and then try to mask the sinking feeling in a thank-you. Dee might have failed in most ways, but she taught her baby some manners.

I zip the backpack up and put it on the edge of the bed, returning to Trevor. He’s back in the fetal position, so I grab his hands and pull him up, his head hanging backward and heavy. I have to hoist him off the bed and set him on his feet, but he’s gone limp, won’t lock his knees to hold up his body. I could threaten him or scold him or put on my mama voice, but I can’t bear that being our last moment together. Instead, I crouch and place my other arm under his legs, lifting him up like you carry a small child to bed after they fall asleep on the bus. He’s heavy with blood and tears and too much going on for him to figure out how to walk and breathe. I struggle to open the door, twisting the doorknob so it’s open just enough that Mrs. Randall sees us and pushes it open the rest of the way.

“He won’t walk. I can bring him to your car if you go on and get his backpack from the bed.” I don’t look her in the eyes, just stagger past her in an attempt to get us to the stairs. I take them one step at a time, Mrs. Randall following with Trevor’s backpack in hand. Once we’re down the stairs, she takes the lead, but I tell her she’s gotta take the back door because of the reporters, so I lead her out past the pool and nod my head toward the exit gate. She opens it for Trevor and me and then marches down the street in front of us, toward a black car.

She takes a key out of her pocket and clicks a button. The car beeps and Mrs. Randall holds the back door open. Trevor’s shaking again, my shirt soaking in his tears. I lift him up in one last exertion, laying him across the backseat. His arms are wrapped around my neck and, before I pry them off, I tilt down and kiss his forehead. “I love you,” I whisper. As much as I want to climb into the driver’s seat and take him somewhere I know he’ll be safe, where he won’t have to tremble, I know we don’t have that luxury. The only option is this: him, breaking in the backseat of an unfamiliar car. Me, removing him from my chest and shutting the door so all I can hear are his sobs.