“Elliot, darling, we’re in the sitting room.” He runs in. He has been to school. He has a picture. A picture he has drawn for my new mommy. She is Lelliot’s mommy, too. She kneels down and hugs him and looks at the picture. It is a house with a mommy and a daddy and a Lelliot and a Christian. Christian is very small in Lelliot’s picture. Lelliot is big. He has a big smile and Christian has a sad face.
Daddy is here, too. He walks toward Mommy. I hold my blankie tight. He kisses New Mommy and New Mommy isn’t frightened. She smiles. She kisses him back. I squeeze my blankie.
“Hello, Christian.” Daddy has a deep soft voice. I like his voice. He is never loud. He does not shout. He does not shout like . . . He reads books to me when I go to bed. He reads about a cat and a hat and green eggs and ham. I have never seen green eggs. Daddy bends down so he is small.
“What did you do today?”
I show him the tree.
“You bought a tree? A Christmas tree?”
I say yes with my head.
“It’s a beautiful tree. You and Mommy chose very well. It’s an important job choosing the right tree.”
He pats my hair, too, and I go very still and hold my blankie tightly. Daddy doesn’t hurt me.
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“Daddy, look at my picture.” Lelliot is mad when Daddy talks to me. Lelliot is mad at me. I smack Lelliot when he is mad at me. New Mommy is mad at me if I do. Lelliot does not smack me. Lelliot is scared of me.
The lights on the tree are pretty.
“Here, let me show you. The hook goes through the little eye, and then you can hang it on the tree.” Mommy puts the red orn-a . . . orn-a-ment on the tree.
“You try with this little bell.”
The little bell rings. I shake it. The sound is a happy sound. I shake it again.
Mommy smiles. A big smile. A special smile for me.
“You like the bell, Christian?”
I say yes with my head and shake the bell once more, and it tinkles happily.
“You have a lovely smile, darling boy.” Mommy blinks and wipes her hand on her eyes. She strokes my hair. “I love to see your smile.” Her hand moves to my shoulder. No. I step back and squeeze my blankie. Mommy looks sad and then happy. She strokes my hair.
“Shall we put the bell on the tree?”
My head says yes.
“Christian, you must tell me when you’re hungry. You can do that. You can take Mommy’s hand and lead Mommy to the kitchen and point.” She points her long finger at me. Her nail is shiny and pink. It is pretty. But I don’t know if my new mommy is mad or not. I have finished all my dinner. Macaroni and cheese. It tastes good.
“I don’t want you to be hungry, darling. Okay? Now would you like some ice cream?”
My head says yes! Mommy smiles at me. I like her smiles. They are better than macaroni and cheese.
527/551
The tree is pretty. I stand and look at it and hug my blankie. The lights twinkle and are all different colors, and the orn-a-ments are all different colors. I like the blue ones. And on the top of the tree is a big star. Daddy held Lelliot up, and Lelliot put the star on the tree. Lelliot likes putting the star on the tree. I want to put the star on the tree . . . but I don’t want Daddy to hold me up high. I don’t want him to hold me. The star is sparkly and bright.
Beside the tree is the piano. My new mommy lets me touch the black and the white on the piano. Black and white. I like the white sounds. The black sound is wrong. But I like the black sound, too. I go white to black. White to black. Black to white. White, white, white, white. Black, black, black, black. I like the sound. I like the sound a lot.
“Do you want me to play for you, Christian?” My new mommy sits down. She touches the white and the black, and the songs come. She presses the pedals underneath. Sometimes it’s loud and sometimes it’s quiet. The song is happy. Lelliot likes Mommy to sing, too. Mommy sings about an ugly duckling. Mommy makes a funny quacking noise. Lelliot makes the funny quacking noise, and he makes his arms like wings and flaps them up and down like a bird. Lelliot is funny.
Mommy laughs. Lelliot laughs. I laugh.
“You like this song, Christian?” And Mommy has her sad-happy face.
I have a stock-ing. It is red and it has a picture of a man with a red hat and a big white beard. He is Santa. Santa brings presents. I have seen pictures of Santa. But Santa never brought me presents before. I was bad. Santa doesn’t bring presents to boys who are bad. Now I am good. My new mommy says I am good, very good.
New Mommy doesn’t know. I must never tell New Mommy . . . but I am bad. I don’t want New Mommy to know that.
Daddy hangs the stock-ing over the fireplace. Lelliot has a stocking, too. Lelliot can read the word on his stock-ing. It says Lelliot. There is a word on my stocking. Christian. New Mommy spells it out. C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N.
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Daddy sits on my bed. He reads to me. I hold my blankie. I have a big room. Sometimes the room is dark and I have bad dreams. Bad dreams about before. My new mommy comes to bed with me when I have the bad dreams. She lies down and she sings soft songs and I go to sleep. She smells of soft and new and lovely.
My new mommy is not cold. Not like . . . not like . . . And my bad dreams go when she is there asleep with me.
Santa has been here. Santa does not know I have been bad. I am glad Santa does not know. I have a train and a plane and a helicopter and a car and a helicopter.
My helicopter can fly. My helicopter is blue. It flies around the Christmas tree. It flies over the piano and lands in the middle of the white. It flies over Mommy and flies over Daddy and flies over Lelliot as he plays with the Lego. The helicopter flies through the house, through the dining room, through the kitchen. He flies past the door to Daddy’s study and upstairs in my bedroom, in Lelliot’s bedroom, Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom. He flies through the house, because it’s my house. My house where I live.
Monday, May 9, 2011
“Tomorrow,” I mutter, dismissing Claude Bastille as he stands on the threshold of my office.
“Golf, this week, Grey.” Bastille grins with easy arrogance, knowing that his victory on the golf course is assured.
530/551
I scowl after him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub salt into my wounds because despite my heroic attempts in the gym this morning, my personal trainer has kicked my ass. Bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he wants another pound of flesh on the golf course. I detest golf, but so much business is done on the fairways I have to endure his lessons there too . . . and though I hate to admit it, Bastille does go some way to improving my game.
As I stare out at the Seattle skyline, the familiar ennui seeps into my consciousness. My mood is as flat and gray as the weather. My days are blending together with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion. I’ve worked all weekend and now, in the continued confines of my office, I’m restless. I shouldn’t feel this way, not after several bouts with Bastille. But I do.
I frown. The sobering truth is that the only thing to capture my interest recently has been my decision to send two freighters of cargo to Sudan. This reminds me—Ros is supposed to come back to me with numbers and logistics.
What the hell is keeping her? Intent on finding out what she’s playing at, I glance at my schedule and reach for the phone.
Oh, Christ! I have to endure an interview with the persistent Miss Kavanagh for the WSU student magazine. Why the fuck did I agree to this? I loathe interviews—inane questions from inane, ill-informed, vacuous idiots. The phone buzzes.
“Yes,” I snap at Andrea as if she’s to blame. At least I can keep this interview short.