Page 77 of Forever Christmas
Except.
She didn’t protect me.
She was my mother, and she let my father do all those things.
Corabelle would not do that. If I turned into an asshole and started cuffing my boy, she’d rise up. She’d kick me out. I’d be done.
Mom had not.
An intersectionof halls forces me to stop and determine which way to go. I look around. A sign on the wall says “Nursery” with an arrow.
They’ll be there. I can bet on it. They don’t know premature babies have a different room. It’s not something they’ve experienced.
Because of me. I didn’t let them experience it last time.
They never saw Finn until he was in his coffin.
I start walking until I spot theregular nursery.
The hall is long and a window runs along it just like at the NICU.
Despite the hour, more than one family is standing there. Babies are born around the clock.
I pass the first group, Indian women in saris holding up cell phones to snap pictures of a curly haired baby being held up to the glass.
And then there they are.
My parents.
Dad is leaning against a pillar betweenthe panes, his face close to the window, as if he can will his grandson to show up.
Mom stands a little behind, her skirt almost to her ankles, hair up high, arms folded across her belly. She holds a tissue and looks like she’s been crying.
Why didn’t she stop my father all those years?
My feet stop without my telling them to. I’m rooted to the floor.
Mom turns and sees me. She lifts the tissueto her face. She doesn’t alert my father, but watches me like I’m something to be afraid of.
Maybe I look tough. My feet are wide, arms crossed on my chest. I feel like a wall no one can get through to see my son. And I’ll be that if I have to.
One cuff on the head to my little boy, and my father is done for. I’ll smash him into the pavement.
No, he won’t ever get that close. Starting today.
Mom stands a little straighter. She walks toward me. Dad notices and looks where she’s going. He sees me and pushes from the wall.
Here we go.
“Gavin!” my mom cries. “How is the baby?”
I wait for them both to approach. Mom doesn’t come in close, sensing I’m not up for a hug.
“He’s fine,” I say, my voice clipped.
My dad tries to be jovial and pound me on the shoulder, but I turn sharply toavoid him. His hand misses and falls to slap his own thigh.
“What’s stuck in your craw?” he asks.
