Page 5 of Rather: The Therapist

One by one, we removed our shoes, using our toes to slide them off the heels of our feet. We took the stairs to the second floor and straight to my son’s bedroom. There, I kneeled before him, removing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.

I pushed the tailored jacket down his arms and hung it on the hanger dangling from the wardrobe rack where his dirty clothes were housed. Next was his shirt, and then finally, the Hermès belt and slacks. Stripped down to his boxers, he stood with Woody nestled against his chest.

I pulled back his sheets and patted the bed, wishing I could suggest a bath but he had associated the task with daylight and there wasn’t any convincing him of anything else.

Routines. I reminded myself.

He lived by them. He functioned with them in place. It was part of the reason he was as bright as he was and as collected on a daily basis.

“Here, son.”

Nodding, he skipped toward the bed with his eyes low and his head hung.

Please, my boy.

Before he leaped into bed, I stopped him in his tracks and took both of his hands into mine.

“Hey. Hey.”

I lifted my head, becoming the example he needed. I’d lifted his head with my fingers far too many times before. He had the strength to do it himself. We were working on the confidence to keep it there and maintain eye contact.

“Up, up.”

With a shake of the head, he pierced my heart.

“No?”

He shook his head again. His inability to maintain eye contact wasn’t the case here. It was his unwillingness. He was exercising his right of expression in our home, though words weren’t a part of his display.

“Talk to me, son. Is something bothering you?”

Silence.

“Something hurting?”

He nodded.

“What’s hurting?”

He placed a hand on his chest. I swallowed the lump in my throat and pulled my legs around me to sit down. I closed the gap between us by scooting closer to Princeton. This time, I struggled with words.

“I– I apologize, son. For anything I’ve said or done to hur–”

He shook his head slowly, halting me.

“Then, what’s the matter?”

Learning I wasn’t the culprit saved me a year’s worth of heartache.

He spread his fingers, reopening the wound in my chest. When he lifted his right hand, I tried closing my lids. My brain, however, didn’t send the signal. By the time his thumb hit his chin, signaling the only verbal attempt he’d ever made since his first birthday.

Mom. He signed.

Mom.

Mom.

Mom.

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