“That was one time.”
“It shouldn’t have been any times.”
“Guys…” Bobby whispers.
But Dad ignores him and stands back up, getting that crazy look in his eyes again. “You think you’re taking my children away from me, you got another thing coming, baby. You fuckin’ try it. I dare you.”
“…guys…”
“Please stop fighting,” I chant, “please stop fighting please stop fighting please—”
Mom takes in the whole situation and does something peculiar. She smirks. “You’re scaring the kids again, dear.”
Dad stops and glares at us all in the tub, seething with rage, then reality hits and he points at Bobby. “What’s wrong with him?”
We all glance down and discover Bobby convulsing in the tub next to us. He’s grabbing his wrist and moaning. We rush on top of him, trying to calm him down.
“It hurts,” he cries, “it hurts it hurts it’s on FIRE I’m on FIRE help me HELP ME…”
“The belt’s making it worse,” Dad says. “You’re fucking killing him.”
“…oh my GOD oh my GOD…”
Frantic, Mom loosens the belt and casts it aside, nearly slapping me in the face with it in the process. Bobby continues moaning. His wrist and hand have gotten extremely swollen and discolored. She hesitates, examining it, clearly out of her element just like the rest of us. She twists the tub faucet to COLD.
“Put it under the water, baby. Come on.”
Bobby scoots up to the flowing water and cautiously extends his arm under the faucet. He cries out and hides his hand against his chest. “IT HURTS IT HURTS EVERYTHING BURNS!”
Mom presses her own hand against his chest, waiting, concentrating, then withdraws. “Oh, god, his heartbeat is way too fast.”
Dad kneels so they’re eye-level. “Bobby, calm the fuck down! You gotta calm the fuck down right now!”
This only makes Bobby cry louder and further freak out.
“That isn’t helping,” Mom says.
“Well what the fuck do you want me to do, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“We have to do something, don’t we?” I wail. “We have to do something.”
Mom soothes her voice down into something replicating calmness. “Okay, baby, take big deep breaths, okay? Real nice and easy now. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay…”
They continue this routine for several minutes and eventually he actually starts to calm down. Mom cradles him in her arms. They’re both dripping with sweat and tears and—judging by the smell—urine.
“Can you tell me, Momma?” Bobby asks, voice soft.
“Tell you what, baby?”
“You know.”
Dad’s sitting on the toilet, next to the upside-down trash can. The snake has stopped moving for the time being. Its rattler no longer makes any noise. Perhaps it’s trying to fool us into believing it’s gone away and that we’re safe. Stupid snake. There’s no way in hell any of us are ever going to entertain such a fantastical delusion again.
Mom holds Bobby tighter, resting her cheek against the back of his head. “Well, we were at Walmart trying to buy a frozen pizza, and you decided you had been in my belly long enough.”
“Your big fat belly,” Bobby whispers, a faint trace of humor lingering in his tone.
Mom nods. “Like a watermelon.”
Bobby lets out a soft laugh.
“And I couldn’t walk any more, it hurt so bad, you were kicking me so much, so I had to sit on the floor right there in the frozen food aisle, and Sissy had to go find someone to help us.”
“Did they call an ambulance?”
“They sure did. So we waited for it to arrive and this very nice, young cashier sat with me holding my hand telling me everything was going to be okay, that I just had to be strong and wait a little bit longer and nothing bad would happen and everything would work out, just like now, baby, just how I’m holding you and telling you the same thing because it’s the truth, baby, you know that, right? It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay.”
A fresh wave of tears stream down Mom’s face as she chokes back sobs and continues.
“And I asked the cashier, the young lady, I asked her how she could know it was going to be okay, and she looked down at me and smiled this wonderful bright smile and do you know what she told me, baby? She told me she knew it was all going to be okay because it had to be. You get it? It was going to be okay because it couldn’t possibly be any other way. That we just had to believe it would be okay and act brave and strong and it would all work out, and you know what, baby? She was right. She helped me act brave and strong and we waited for the ambulance to arrive and they pulled you out of me right there in the frozen food aisle and I saw your beautiful little face in the paramedic’s arms and I knew in that moment that I should have never doubted my love for you and that I would never ever doubt it again and I haven’t, I never have, and that’s why I know you’re going to be okay and Sissy’s going to be okay and everything’s going to be okay so we just have to hang on a little bit longer and someone will come, I know it, someone will come and they’ll move the tree and open the door and everybody will be waiting outside to make sure we’re okay and life will be better, I promise you, sweet beautiful baby, I promise with every ounce of my soul everything is going to be okay, you just have to trust me, okay, baby? You have to trust.”
She cries and rocks Bobby in her arms and his eyes are half-open but he’s no longer breathing, and we all know it, we’ve known it for several minutes now, but that doesn’t stop her from rocking him, from holding him tighter and spitting tears and mucus from her mouth as all of the world’s agony blossoms into its final form.
“Fuck this,” Dad says, and rips open the box of alcohol wipes and shoves several in his mouth. He chews them like gum, sucking up their juices and spitting them out once they’re dry. His face twists with agony but still he throws another handful of wipes in his mouth. Pacing the bathroom. Chewing. Sucking. Spitting. I don’t know if those will actually get him drunk and I doubt he knows, either. But goddammit, he’s going to try.
Bobby hasn’t left the tub. The blanket’s wrapped around his body, hiding his flesh from view. Mom sits on the floor just outside the tub, back leaning against the porcelain, jaw against chest, eyes closed. Once I thought this tub would serve as my own grave. How foolish I had been. Perhaps soon enough, we will all follow my brother into the unknown.
I keep waiting for him to jump up and shout, Gotcha! Anything to confirm he’s pulling some kind of prank. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s pretended to be dead or kidnapped for a laugh. I remember once he said something particularly asshole-ish to me, so I punched him in the stomach and he doubled over and collapsed to the floor. Rolled his eyes back and lolled his tongue out and everything. Got completely still, wouldn’t move or acknowledge our demands for him to knock it off. Finally, after Mom started to really freak out, he sat up and apologized, said he was just trying to scare us.
Well, if that’s all he’s doing now, he’s definitely succeeding.
We’re scared, all right.
We’re fucking terrified.
How can a kid go from making butt jokes one second, then… then… then…
Oh my god. How can this be real?
Dad remains atop the toilet, face buried in his hands, knees on his thighs.