Sneakers squeaking on polished hardwood mixed with animated announcers’ voices nearly 2,500 miles east were barely audible from my TV speakers over the exuberance of the eight boys in my living room. The Warriors were less than a minute from sweeping the Cavaliers in the 2018 NBA Finals. I increased the volume on the remote, snapped a picture of the young spectators, then sent the image to their parents via a group text with the words, “The picture doesn’t really do the volume in my house justice.”
Dollops of salsa and dip dotted the coffee table. The cutting board had been cleared of its third pizza, but the air was still garlic-scented. Crumbs settled in the bottom of bowls that recently held chips and pretzels, but the crew of boys were restless. The game had been long and boring because the Warriors were so far ahead and clearly going to win. So, at times, the TV blasted the game to no one as the kids shot hoops in the driveway, jumped on the trampoline, or pet the kittens our family was fostering. “When can we have cookies?” my son, one of the 6th graders, asked as a game violation delayed the final score. “As soon as the game is over, everyone can put on their shoes, and on the way outside, people can choose a cookie.”
After the game finished, boys found their shoes. Fulfilling my promise, I retrieved the hefty box of treats, stood on the front porch, and opened the top. Between bites and while waiting for their parents to arrive, the kids dribbled balls in the driveway. One dad arrived. He hadn’t been marked safe or unsafe – I never know who is who – but he was at my house and it is my safest place. I feel slightly more comfortable around people at my own house where they can see my garage door that says Riley lives in our hearts painted in large green letters. Where they can see the heart-shaped notes from Riley’s classmates that are taped to the front windows and all over the front door – these visible reminders of the other son who died, even if his name is never verbalized.
This dad thanked me for having his son over. “As parents, we always wonder what our kids are like when they are out in the wild,” I said, as I stood at the curb watching the boys move around each other. “And I’m pleased to report that your son is very polite. He’s welcome anytime.” After they got into their car and drove away, I watched the remaining boys dribble around each other. The clamor of children’s voices sang to my heart and made me miss my favorite loud voice, my 11-year-old son who should be 15 now.
I could almost see myself, that earlier, happier version of myself standing in this same spot on the sidewalk five years earlier. It was the year we moved into this house and my life felt whole in a way it hadn’t in years. After watching my older son endure heart surgery after heart surgery, then getting a divorce, single parenting, unpredictable rent increases and move after move, things finally felt stable. My boy had been out of the hospital for six years; I’d met a loving dad with two kids of his own; we became a family; we bought this house. I can still picture the kids’ enthusiasm when we told the four of them that we were getting married. Screams of delight burst from their vocal chords while tears of joy streaked all of our faces. They’d become the best of friends while their dad and I fell in love.
We’d moved into this house only a few weeks after getting married. There were two parents, and four kids, and soon a black rescue dog and a coop full of chickens followed. It was loud and messy and wonderful as families are. Another family that we knew vaguely from school and through mutual friends had moved into a house across the street around the same time we moved in. They had two boys the same ages as my two stepchildren. When I was single and I’d seen them around town, I’d always fantasized about being friends with them, just be in their orbit – they were always gleaming with happiness, style, and confidence. They offered something to aspire to. And now we were neighbors and our kids were becoming friends. I envisioned us spending evenings together in each other’s yards as they kids grew. Riley would go to their house to play catch with their older boy, and my stepson became fast friends with their younger son – their friendship was destined to be because of their mutual love of pancakes and cheese.
One summer evening as the sun wearily drifted behind the hill, but before it was getting dark, their dad was riding his longboard down the street. Carter had wandered off to be with the other boys, and Riley watched Brandon with his ball cap pulled low across his forehead whiz past again and again. Brandon had been skating since he was a kid, and the board clung naturally to his sneakers as if an extension of his limbs. “You want to a turn, Riley?” he hollered as he saw my son standing at the edge of the sidewalk, barely able to take his eyes from the fast-moving display of excitement and thrill. My boy didn’t hesitate to respond with an enthusiastic “Yeh!” It surprised me.
Riley padded his way to the top of the hill where Brandon waited, the board at attention by his side. There were no helmets or knee pads. Cotton fabric was the only protective layer between my son and the asphalt. But I didn’t intervene. I just watched as my boy with half a heart balanced on the board between Brandon’s legs. Brandon looped one of his long, muscular arms around Riley’s slim torso and kept the other arm free for balancing.
With a push, the wheels began rolling as they picked up speed down the divided suburban street. It felt as though I were watching a movie. Golden lighting made everything dreamy while time slowed down to prolong this magical moment when my boy was just a boy on a skateboard and not a boy who would need more heart surgery and struggled with having enough energy to walk around his middle school. My cautious son beamed as his blond mop flopped in the wind. His delight rang through the neighborhood in one long “Aaaaaahhhhhhhh!!”
It was probably one of the few moments in his life where he felt really alive, invincible, doing something extraordinary and exhilarating. He led a cautious life, and I'm sure that was partially because his dad and I were nervous about his physical capabilities and limitations starting from when he was a newborn. It was probably also because he simply didn't have the energy or the no-fear attitude that enables those kinds of experiences. He learned early on that physically adventurous things took a lot of energy, energy he just didn't have. He also learned that being adventurous can make you fall down. And falling down hurts, especially if you're recovering from long hospitalizations where every limb was compromised and your sternum is held in place with metal. But for those few moments, he wasn’t the kid with half a heart who’d had five open-heart surgeries. For those few moments, he was just a normal kid. There weren’t enough of those moments in his short life.
My daydream from that evening four years earlier ended when another parent pulled up in front of the house to retrieve her son from the Warriors party. “It’s so nice that you do this,” she said, leaning toward the open window on the passenger side of her minivan, referring to these kid parties. Only two weeks earlier Carter had had a group of friends over for pizza and board games. “I guess I like being around the kids,” I said, thinking fondly of the chaos and noise of my four kids when all four of my kids were alive.
A few minutes later, after the last kid was buckled into his seatbelt, I shuffled my living son upstairs to get ready for bed.
Once Carter settled into the top bunk with his assortment of stuffed animals, I leaned into Riley’s room to say goodnight to his animals, then headed toward the explosion of flour and cheese on my kitchen countertop. Pictures of Riley surrounded us as I wiped bits of mozzarella and onion skin into the compost bin and my husband loaded plates and cups into the dishwasher. Riley’s image is taped to the microwave. It’s taped to the wall next to the sink. I can see his framed picture in the nearby hallway, taken the day my husband and I got married, when we blended his kids and my kids into a Brady Bunch of sorts – Riley sporting a pale blue dress shirt and gray vest, while a proud expression spreads across his young face. His likeness is everywhere, while his body, his voice is nowhere.
I wiped my hands on the towel hanging from the oven door. Opening my phone, I studied the picture I’d snapped earlier. One boy held up two fingers into a peace sign. Another raised his arm in a celebratory fist pump. One proudly pointed to his Warriors jersey. Two others were glancing at the pages of the school yearbook that had been distributed earlier that day. My snapshot is a picture of what is and what was. Eleven year old boys – the same age Riley was when he died. With summer approaching, Carter would soon turn 12, somehow making my older son the youngest child in the house.
“I know it’s a bit crazy,” I said as my husband picked up the full compost bin. “But eleven is such a great age….” As the words fell from my tongue, my voice trailed off as it all sank in. I was 41 when Riley died. There had been three pregnancies and three miscarriages since then; it had become clear that there would never be any more 11-year-olds in this house. These boys, these parties, these fleeting weeks were my last chance at 11. Without thinking, my legs took me to Riley’s image in our wedding-day photo. I stared into his eyes, then kissed the glass before heading up to bed.
Welcome to the fourteenth issue of Six Hens.
