The Wave by Kristen Crusoe (smallest ebook reader txt) 📕

‘Let’s take a break,’ she called out to the crews. ‘We’ll resume in an hour. It’s lunchtime.’

Adam bounded up onto the stage, feeling his muscles twinge from their work in the woods and on the beach yesterday. A good reminder of his new resolve.

‘The set’s looking good,’ he said, walking around the stage. ‘It will be a great performance.’ He turned to face her. ‘I’m sorry I won’t be there, Claudia. I need to take a leave.’

* * *

Two long hours later, he was locking the door to his office, not certain if or when he would return. He had been granted official family medical leave of absence, MLOA, for an indeterminate time, to care for his wife. As department chair, Claudia had to sign off on it. She had argued, offered him all the informal time he needed, and pleaded with him to remain on schedule. She just wanted, needed to know he was there, and that she could be with him, from time to time. Claudia had cried. Adam was appalled that he had brought this on. Easing his way out as best he could, he finally obtained her signature on the forms he had picked up at human resources. He felt like a prick. But that was that. It was done and now, he was free to be with Clair, if she would have him. No, he corrected himself. There was to be no if, he would be there, period.

The house was cold when he entered, smelling like old ashes. He opened windows, letting in sunlight and warmth. As he stood at the kitchen window, looking out on a rare spring-like day in late fall, the river running briskly through the fields next to the house, he could hear the neighbor’s sheep calling out, and geese flying overhead. A deer and her fawns stood still, watchful for an intruder, then in a few majestic leaps, bounded the riverbank, disappearing into the forest.

Their home, he thought. Our home.

After cleaning out the fireplace, he laid a fresh fire. He wouldn’t light it now, he decided. I’ll wait until Clair is here. We’ll light it together. It had been a favorite of Devon’s, and he would lay the fire just so, mouth tight with concentration, tiny pink tongue poking through his rosebud mouth. First paper, rolled up in tight sticks, and crisscrossed over the grate. Then the kindling, cedar and pine. He would smell the cedar, closing his eyes, and saying, ‘Smells like the forest, Daddy.’ Finally, the thick fir logs, piled high. At first, Adam was fearful of Devon striking a match. But his son persisted. Not whining, but using reason to muster his points.

‘The matches are long, see,’ he said, holding the long, thin matchstick in front of him. ‘My hands are big. I’ll hold the very tail end. I won’t look at the flame so smoke won’t get in my eyes. I won’t get hurt, Daddy.’

Looking over his shoulder to make sure Clair wasn’t watching, he held Devon’s tiny hands in his, helping him strike the match, put it to the paper, and then together, laughing, they jumped back as the flames took hold. Devon jumped up and down, so excited at his accomplishment.

‘I made a fire, I made a fire,’ he sang, leaping around the living room in his red cape. I’m the fire man.’

Clair had come in to see what the racket was all about, clapping her hands at Devon’s joy.

‘Let’s get some marshmallows,’ she said, hurrying back to the kitchen.

That had been one of their happier times, after the diagnosis. A time when they could forget for a while, roasting marshmallows on long straightened clothes hangers, that their beautiful boy was injured, that his brain was not normal, never would be, and that his life would be forever clouded by social expectations and barriers. But he and Clair had been together then. Parents devoted to the well-being of their son, unwilling to accept the limitations science and society placed on children with neurological disorders. Some of his new-found joy seeped out of him at this recollection, so he quickly stood, and began cleaning the house, vacuuming, dusting, clearing out the hungry ghosts of the past. He turned on music, playing his favorite arias from Puccini, singing along, gesticulating and posturing with dramatic flair.

The kitchen clean, living room orderly in the simple, elegant style Clair favored. Soft, welcoming couch and chairs, fluffy blankets available wherever one chose to sit, throw rugs and pillows scattered about, creating patterns of vibrant colors against the cool natural fibers. Everything accessible, nothing that was so dear a small child couldn’t be at home on or in. Adam stood for a moment, reliving those hectic times, remembering how he would disappear, out to the deck, or leaving all together to drive to town. He shook his head, casting out the memory. Don’t go back, he chanted to himself. We only go forward now.

Moving down the hall, he stopped outside Devon’s room, the door closed. The outside had been painted bright red, with the small boy’s handprints sculpted into the drying paint. Specks scattered along the walls had left marks like spattered blood. He had ranted at this when he had come home, decrying the mess, demanding clean-up now, before it all dried. Devon had held up sticky fingers, smiled his gap-toothed grin, and told him that it was OK, Daddy, he would use his sharpest tool and scrape off every single speck of paint when he was done with his art activity. Clair had looked at him with a quizzical look, challenging him to respond to this logic. He had dropped onto his knees, hugging Devon to him, saying, ‘That’s great, buddy, let me help.’

He turned the door handle, slowly pushing it open. The cold air hit him like a force. His first reaction was that Devon would be freezing. Then thought took over. He swung the door wide open, feeling the warmer air from