The Push(37)

We bought them a pair of tiny lions at the souvenir shop, and Violet threw hers out the window of the car on our way home. I was angry, looking back at the highway, wondering if the plastic toy had hit someone’s windshield. You yelled and told her it was dangerous.

“Well, I didn’t want the mom lion. I hate my mom.”

I looked over at you and took a deep breath and turned the other way. Let it go. And then Sam started to cry, so Violet reached for Benny, which he’d dropped from his car seat, and tossed it back to him. She hushed him nicely and you said to her, “Good girl, Violet.”

Her nose was sunburned—I hadn’t thought of sunscreen in February. I squeezed aloe from an old tube and dabbed it on her nose with my finger. I counted the freckles on her face, wanting to hold her in that rare moment when I was allowed to touch her. She stared at me as though she had never heard anyone count before. I wondered if she might hug me and my muscles tightened, bracing for what she would feel like against me—it had been so long. But she looked away.

She watched as I bathed Sam before bed and then she sat with me on the floor and rubbed his tummy and said, “He’s a good baby, isn’t he?” She handed him Benny and he chewed on one of the ears while she watched him quietly. I let her put his pajamas on, an exercise in patience for us both, because she so rarely asked to do it. As she was pulling up the second leg, she said, “I don’t want Sammy anymore.” I clicked my tongue at her and wiggled his belly. He smiled at Violet and kicked his chunky legs. She gave him a kiss anyway, and then sat on the closed lid of the toilet and watched us as I rubbed a facecloth on his gums.

“He’s teething again,” I told her. “Before we know it, he’ll have more teeth than you, if yours keep falling out.”

She shrugged her shoulders and skipped away to find you.

You were kind that night. You were affectionate with me. We snuck into their rooms together before we went to bed and stared at their soft, gorgeous heads.





44





We left earlier than I’d planned for some reason. It was just one of those rare smooth days when nobody made a mess of their clothes at breakfast, and Violet let me brush her hair without a fuss. So I didn’t have to yell things you aren’t supposed to yell. Hurry up! I’m out of patience! The morning was distinctly peaceful.

The three of us were rarely alone together on a weekday, but Violet’s school was closed for the day. I wanted to stop for tea on the way to the park. The owner of the coffee shop, Joe, talked to Violet like he always did while I stirred honey into my tea. He helped me get the stroller down the two big steps before he waved good-bye, and we walked to the corner, the fresh winter wind on our faces.

We stood at the intersection we crossed almost every day. I knew every crack in the sidewalk. I could close my eyes and see the graffiti tags on the redbrick building on the northwest side.

We waited for the light to change, Sam in his stroller watching for buses, Violet and I standing quietly. I reached for her hand, ready for our usual tug-of-war, but today there seemed no reason to argue.

“Careful near the road,” I’d said instead, one hand resting on the stroller. Sam’s arms reached toward Violet. He wanted out. I picked up my tea from the cup holder and brought it to my lips. Still too hot to sip, but the steam warmed my face. Violet looked up at me while we waited, and I thought she might ask me a question. When can we cross? Can I go back for a doughnut? I blew on my tea again as she watched me. I put it back in the holder, and then I touched Sam’s head in the stroller, a little reminder that I was there, behind him, that I knew he wanted out. I looked down at Violet. And then I lifted the cup to my lips again.

Her pink mittens left her pockets and they reached for me. She yanked my elbow with both of her hands. So swiftly, so forcibly, that the hot liquid scalded my face. I dropped the cup and gasped as I looked down. And then I screamed: “Violet! Look what you did!”

As those words were coming out of my mouth, as I was clutching my burning skin with both hands, Sam’s stroller rolled onto the road.

I will never forget her eyes in that moment—I couldn’t look away from them. But I knew what happened as soon as I heard it.



* * *



? ? ?

The stroller was twisted by the impact.

Sam was still strapped into the seat when he died.

There was no time for him to think of me, or to wonder where I was.

I thought right away of the navy-striped overalls I’d dressed him in that morning. That Benny was in the stroller, too. That I would have to take Benny home without him. And then I wondered how I would get Benny out of the mess, out of that stroller, because Sam would need him that night to fall asleep.

I stared in disbelief at the curb in the middle of the chaos around me—the slight slope of cement and then a groove where the sidewalk met the asphalt—how had it not stopped him? The ice had melted in the warmth of the day before. The sidewalk was dry. Why hadn’t the wheels slowed when they hit the groove? I usually had to shove it over the curb when we crossed, didn’t I? Didn’t I usually have to shove it?

I couldn’t breathe. I stared at Violet. I had seen her pink mittens reach for the stroller when I let go. I had seen her mittens on the handle before the stroller hit the road. I closed my eyes. Pink wool, black rubber handle. I shook my head vigorously at the thought.