Push

This is the story I don’t want to tell, the one I think you remember. The story that goes something like this:

We are getting ready to go to Mallory’s house. She is your best friend, another four-year-old with bright blond pigtails and a constant runny nose. You will spend a few hours scattering pieces of Candyland and Mousetrap throughout the house and building blanket forts for her stuffed animal collection. I will sit at the kitchen table with her mother, who will show me fabric swatches for her living room sofa, while I drink weak coffee and try to stifle my yawns. I have 42 composition papers to grade by tomorrow afternoon and a headache beginning in the back of my skull. I don’t want to go. But you do. Very much.

The wind is picking up outside, and it whistles through the crack in the front storm door. It has started to rain. The water forms rivulets on the window, blurring the world outside our front steps.

“Gaia, are you ready to go to Mallory’s?”

No answer.

“Gaia, coat and boots! Come on, sweetie, it’s time to get going.”

Your head pokes around the corner, and you jump—two large leaps—into the hallway. Your purple raincoat is on inside out, and a smear of peanut butter runs down the left side of your face. You look up and smile broadly, holding out blue sneakers with an image of Winnie the Pooh stitched across the sides. I smile and shake my head.

“No, you need to wear your boots. It’s raining, see? Go get your yellow boots, honey—they’re in the kitchen, by the back door.”

You look at me. Your eyes grow round. Mine narrow.

“No, Momma. I want to wear my Pooh shoes.”

“No. It is raining. Your shoes will get too wet. You have to wear boots today.”

You look at me silently. Your eyes are a pale blue, steady and unwavering. You do not blink. Still looking at me, you turn your head slowly, first left, then right.

“No.”

I turn quickly and walk into the kitchen. I am breathing hard. I grab the boots and walk back into the hallway.

You are standing by the door, your small silhouette framed by the light. Your head is down as you look at the sneakers clutched in your hands. I can see the curve of your neck, pale and exposed. I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my head. I kneel in front of you, boots in hand.

“Put these on.”

You look into my eyes once again. A long silence stretches between us.

“No.”

I put my hand into the middle of your chest. I feel the slippery plastic of the raincoat, the thin stitches against my palm. I push. You fall backward, stumbling once, then falling on your bottom, legs splayed in front of you.

Do you remember the sharp intake of my breath as I rushed to kneel next to you and cradle your body against mine? Do you remember the rush of words, telling you how sorry I was, that I never meant to hurt you, that I was sorry, so sorry, that I would never, ever do that again? Do you remember how I cried with you as I told you it was not your fault, would never be your fault, and that I loved you so very much?

I hope you remember this. Perhaps your memory has taken pity on you and rewoven its threads to create a happy ending. 

Because I remember I said nothing.

I remember I listened to the sound of your breath catching as you tried to stifle your sobs. I remember watching your thin shoulders lift and fall as you cried, and when I couldn’t watch you anymore, I remember that I turned my gaze to the window, watching the rain splash against the glass panes.

I don’t know how long it took for me to unroot my feet and walk to your side. You had stopped crying by the time I lifted your left foot and slid it into the boot. I did the same with the right foot, but you kept your head down, tucked into your chest.

“Are you alright?”

You nodded, your eyes firmly locked on the ground.

“Hey, you okay?” I gently lifted your chin to look into your face. Your eyes were still the same blue, but your pale eyebrows were knitted together on your forehead. 

“Yes. You okay, Momma?”