Together

I’m seven years old, I’m in bed, and my parents are upstairs laughing at Newhart. I long to be in on the joke, so I slide out of bed and sneak up the stairs as quietly as I can, like a cat in my padded slippers, like a robber, like Santa himself, who never gets caught. At the top I lie on my stomach and peek around the corner as another round of canned laughter bursts from the TV. Dad murmurs something and Mom laughs her response as she crochets an afghan. Or maybe she’s folding laundry. I stay there for a while, my face in my hands, watching the backs of their heads and trying to figure out what’s so funny. But the jokes aren’t jokes to me, and my eyelids are scratchy, so I pad back to my bed and drift off to the sheltering sound of my parents’ contentment.

I’m three. It’s time to brush my teeth for bed, but the bathroom is so far away. Dad’s long legs walk over and stop right in front of me. His soft tenor voice floats down from above.

“Hop on, I’ll give you a ride.”

I clap my hands and plop myself down on his sled of a foot, curling my legs around his ankle and hugging his calf as he starts to drag me down the hall. My brother runs over and hitches a ride on the other foot, and the three of us make our lumbering, giggling way toward the bathroom and Mom, who smiles in the doorway, awaiting our arrival.

I’m ten. I’ve been hosting a pre-dawn coloring party in my bedroom for the last hour, but to wait any longer would be agony. I push my parents’ door open and walk to their bed, stomach almost sick with excitement. Dad’s voice floats through the darkness, feigning confusion.

“You’re all up? You’d think it was Christmas morning or something.”

We jump and we tease as the grownups stagger and shuffle. Finally we all make our traditional trek down the stairs to the sheet that has been pinned up as a barrier between our prying eyes and the living room of Christmas wonders. As usual, Dad goes in first.

“Oooh, wow, I don’t believe my eyes!” he calls, and we moan and shake where we stand while he plugs  in the tree lights and maybe starts a fire in the wood-burning stove. Only when he deems the room magical enough does Mom pull aside the sheet and usher us into the happiest day of the year.

I’m eight. Michael and I are in our beds in the basement room that we share during this year in the duplex. Dad comes in to talk to us about Something Important. He clears his throat. He fumbles for words. I shrink into my pillow and look at anything but him. He talks about Mom (who has been away in the hospital but it’s okay because she’s back now). He speaks with such care and strained optimism it’s painful. This is the first time I’ve ever heard the word. Cancer.

My brother asks if people die from it. Dad’s voice catches. “They do, they can, sometimes, but lots of times they don’t.”

My turn for a question. “Is it catchy?”

Mom comes in a few minutes later for goodnight hugs. She sits on my bed and I know it’s not catchy. I know. But still our hug feels different and her eyes are red. Maybe she heard my question and it made her sad. I hug her again, better.

I’m eleven and I’m pretending to be asleep. I hear a car outside and know they are back from the few days’ stay at the hospital. The front door opens and my heart pounds. My ears strain to extract words from the low hum of Grandma’s questions, the rumble of Dad’s weary answers, the quiet snatches of Mom’s soft voice. Grandma leaves, and it sounds like they’re settling down in the living room for now. I want to stay where I am, to not be awake, but I have to see. I have to know. I peek my head around the corner and look down the stairs to the back of her dark head resting on the couch. She still has her hair. Satisfied, I crawl back into bed and fall asleep in the silent house.

Twelve. A baby’s cries seep into my dreams as my dad struggles alone through a night of my new brother’s sleeplessness. He walks and he coaxes, maybe he pleads as the dark presses in and the baby won’t calm and both beds lie abandoned. Then despair rises up and he hurls the bottle away, denting the door as the baby jumps and the rest of us sleep on in this world that isn’t right.

I’m four years old. Michael and I have been put to bed, but this time there’s a treat. Dad brings in his guitar and tunes it up, plucks out a few chords written on a paper on the floor. Mom sits next to him and leans against the wall, and together they work out a few lullabies, their cautious harmonies gaining strength as they go. If they had a hammer, they’d hammer in the mo-or-ning, they’d hammer in the evening, all over this la-and. I snuggle under my blanket and try to understand about hammers and magic dragons and little streams that say “give.” And blossoms that cling to the vine. Their two voices blend together and their song washes over me, goes inside me, takes hold.

I can’t be contented with yesterday’s glories,

I can’t live on promises winter to spring.

Today is my moment, now is my story.

I’ll laugh and I’ll cry and I’ll sing.

Today, while the blossoms still cling to the vine,

I’ll taste your strawberries, I’ll drink your sweet wine.

A million tomorrows shall all pass away

Ere I forget all the joy that is mine

Today.