All That's Left of Me

by Janis Thomas

  “Ki,” Josh says as we reach the lion pen.

  “Yeah, kids,” Kenneth agrees. “They don’t have a filter.”

  “I’ happeh a’ ah,” Josh says. It happens a lot. “I’ ki’ah hurs m’ feee.” It kind of hurts my feelings.

  Something inside me tears, an aching fissure of regret opens in my chest. My poor son.

  “Well, I’ve got just the thing to cheer you up, Master Josh,” Kenneth says. “How would you like to hold a lion?”

  “Wa?”

  “Really?” Kate asks. “Can I, too?”

  I interject before my kids can get too excited. “I didn’t pay the extra charge for that, Kenneth.”

  “Well, it’s my gift to you. Is that okay, Mom? I’m not talking about a full-grown lion, by the way. Just a cub. What do you say?”

  Josh looks at me expectantly, his lips curled into a grin, the little girl’s cruelty forgotten.

  I nod to Kenneth. Words cannot convey my appreciation. “I say . . . okay.”

  I’m about to learn how quickly a gift can become a disaster.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The lion pen is vast. A large rock formation has been erected on one side. On the other side is a roomy alcove where guests are allowed to play with the cubs. A long, thick slab of glass partitions the alcove from the main pen so that the adult lions can see their offspring.

  We wait just outside the alcove while Kenneth talks to the handlers in the pen. One of the handlers is a large man with mocha-colored skin and a shaved head, the other a shorter balding man with ruddy cheeks. Both of their belts are equipped with walkie-talkies and tranquilizer guns. The sight of the guns gives me pause, but I don’t mention them to my kids, who are shaking with anticipation.

  After a few minutes of conversation, Kenneth approaches. He opens the wide glass gate and gestures for us to move into the alcove. As soon as we’re clear, he closes the gate and locks it behind us. A sudden rush of claustrophobia passes through me.

  “Okay, now, a few instructions. These cubs are about five months old. They’re still nursing, but they’ve started on meat. They’re playful but powerful. Be gentle and be wary. You can pet them, but again, no sudden movements, no loud noises. You don’t want to alarm them or their moms.”

  The handlers are gathering two of the lion cubs. The adult lions are watchful. Although there is a tall, thick sheet of impenetrable material between us and the animals, their proximity is mind-boggling.

  The cubs are the size of Labrador retrievers, covered with taupe fur. The first handler carries his cub, while the second handler leads his cub into the alcove on a makeshift leash. I look down at Josh. He is spellbound. Kate nervously fidgets with her hands.

  The first handler’s name tag reads Maurice. In his huge arms, the cub looks like a house cat—a house cat with a very long tongue and very large teeth.

  “This here is Kimba,” he says, scratching the cub under the chin. His voice is deep and reminds me of an actor’s. “That”—he nods to the cub on the leash—“is Maya. They’re brother and sister. Their mom is the lovely lady over there watching you.”

  We look past Maurice to see the lioness in question. She perches on the nearest rock, muscles tense, ready to pounce, her golden eyes never wavering from her offspring. Behind her, a large male with a dazzling mane feigns indifference.

  Maya is reluctant to enter the alcove and the balding handler tugs on the leash, coaxing her forward. “Come on, girl.” His name is Matt, and he speaks with an Aussie accent. “Here we go, then. That’s it.” As soon as Maya steps into the alcove, Kenneth closes the interior gate and locks it.

  Katie drops to her knees as Matt brings the cub to her.

  “Oh my God, oh my God,” she cries.

  “’O low’ sows,” Josh reminds her quietly. No loud sounds.

  She nods, chagrined, and reaches out to touch the cub. The cub bats at her hand playfully. Matt lowers himself next to my daughter and eases the leash over Maya’s head. The cub rolls over onto her back, and Kate giggles. The cub rights herself, then dashes at Katie. Surprised, Katie falls back onto her butt and Maya immediately hops into her lap, then starts swiping at the air with her paws. My daughter looks up at me, too overcome with emotion to speak.

  “Katie’s going to be a pediatric vet,” I tell Kenneth.

  “She’s clearly got the knack,” he replies.

  Maurice brings the male cub over to Josh.

  “Maah?” I hear the apprehension in his voice. I move around the wheelchair so that he can see me.

  “I’m right here.”

  Kenneth kneels in front of Josh. He places his hands on Josh’s forearms, which are curled up against his chest, and gently moves them outward, setting them down on the armrests.

  “Maurice is going to place Kimba on your lap, okay, Josh? I’m going to hold your arms here, okay? And then I’ll help you move them, just to keep them steady, so you can pet him. Is that all right with you?”

  Josh nods, then gives me a worried look. My heart pounds, but I keep my expression neutral. If I were to smile cheerfully, Josh would know I was faking it, would sense how fearful I am. But I will not sabotage this experience for my son.

  “It’s okay, Josh. Everyone knows what they’re doing.”

  “Sep’ m’,” he says. Except me.

  “Just do what Kenneth and Maurice tell you to do.”

  A muscle twitches in Josh’s cheek. The slightest motion, the barest flutter, but a portent nonetheless. Suddenly, the voice in my head roars at me to stop this, to keep the cub from my son’s grasp, to escape the alcove while we still can. I open my mouth to speak, but I am too late. Maurice is already setting the young lion down on Josh’s lap.

  Time freezes. All the air rushes from my lungs. I hang, suspended in that ghastly limbo in which I know something awful is about to happen, but I’m powerless to do anything about it.

  And then—nothing happens.

  The cub settles himself on Josh’s lap. Maurice straightens up and takes a small step back but remains close enough to give assistance if needed. Kenneth guides Josh’s hands over Kimba’s fur.

  “I’ sah’ b’ coa’, t’,” Josh says quietly. It’s soft but coarse, too. “I’ tikuh.” It tickles.

  Josh laughs, but with caution so as not to upset the cub. My son is rarely able to control the volume of the sounds that come out of his mouth, so I know how important and special this is to him. I sigh with relief on dual counts—one, that I didn’t stop it, and two, that everything is fine.

  “Aye thi’ th’ i’ th’ be’ moeh a’ m’ eti’ liey,” Josh says. I think this is the best moment of my entire life.

  My eyes fill with tears, not of pain but of joy. The fissure closes a fraction, healing ever so slightly.

  And then. Something happens.

  The cub is small compared with his parents, which weigh hundreds of pounds each, but he is still a sizable creature. He bats at Josh’s hands, and although the action is playful, it causes the cub to shift. He scoots his hindquarters against Josh’s upper thighs, then slaps his paws down on Josh’s knees.

  Suddenly Josh’s eyes go wide with panic. With great effort, he lifts his right hand to his forehead and presses his curled thumb into the space between his eyebrows—his signal to Kenneth that something is wrong. But everything happens too quickly. Josh’s right calf jerks, sending his foot forward off the bottom of the wheelchair. His head spasms backward and a strangled moan erupts from his vocal cords. This is not a seizure. It’s a—

  “Craa!” Josh cries. Cramp. He tries to squelch his actions, but the force of his agony is too great.

  Before anyone can react, Josh’s arms break free of Kenneth’s grasp and fly together, smashing the cub and trapping him against Josh’s chest. The cub snarls and struggles to break free. His claws extended, he swipes at Josh’s legs. Beads of blood appear on Josh’s skin, and he shrieks with surprise. I turn toward the pen to see the lioness poised to strike. I recognize the look in her eyes, t
he primal instinct to protect her offspring that I experienced only moments ago with the little girl. But she is a lion with no civility, no constraints, no ability to control her animal urges. She springs from the rock and lopes toward the alcove, and her frenzied attack alerts the male. He too charges the alcove.

  The glass barrier deflects both lions, but their aggression is petrifying. They raise themselves on their powerful haunches and smash their weight against the gate. The gate vibrates. Hollers of alarm rise throughout the convention center, and in my peripheral vision, I see people both hurrying toward and rushing away from the lion pen. Matt is yelling into his walkie-talkie, eyeing the adult lions, one hand on his gun. Katie has shrunk into the corner of the alcove, her back pressed against the glass. Impossibly, she manages to keep Maya calm.

  Maurice and Kenneth flank Josh, battling him to free the lion. Josh writhes, his arms and legs spasm violently, and his chair tips precariously to the left. Kenneth makes a grab for it, but misses. The next instant, the wheelchair tumbles over backward, taking my son and the cub with it.

  The lions are snarling, hissing, pounding against the glass. Thud, thwack, thud, thwack. Josh lies on the ground, his limbs flailing in every direction, his head wrenching back and forth. Maurice grabs Kimba and scoots away from him. I rush to Josh and drop to the ground. Tears pour from his eyes, rivers of snot stream from his nostrils, spittle flies from his mouth as he gasps and wheezes, laboring to breathe. His eyes roll back and forth in their sockets.

  “Josh. Josh! I’m right here.” I try to grab his arm, but he is thrashing too much for me to get a hold of it.

  “Maah,” he screams. “Maah! Aye ca’ d’ thi! Aye hae’ thi. Aye hae m’se.” Mom! I can’t do this! I hate this. I hate myself.

  The fissure cracks open, a wide, dark crevasse of heartache. I no longer stand on the ledge. I am falling in.

  Josh starts to seize; his entire body convulses.

  “Katie! I need the stick.”

  Matt takes Maya from Katie, and she scrambles over to me with my purse. I dig for the tongue depressor I keep in the side pocket. I withdraw it. It’s covered with tissue scraps and chewing gum. Kenneth is beside me, doing his best to hold Josh down.

  My shoulders rise and fall with my own sobs and I can barely see through the tears gushing from my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Josh,” I tell him, choking on the words. “This is my fault. This isn’t your fault. This is mine. Stay with me, honey.”

  I manage to get the stick between his teeth, to keep him from biting or swallowing his tongue.

  “I’m calling nine-one-one,” Katie says. My brave daughter; there is no tremor in her voice, but she grips her cell phone so tightly her knuckles look like they are about to burst through her skin.

  Josh rolls his head back and forth and wails, a high-pitched keening sound that echoes through the great hall.

  Maah. I hate myself.

  The wish slams into me like a sledgehammer. I will. No, I can’t. You can. You must.

  Suddenly, Josh goes still. His eyes meet mine. The world around us goes dark; the safari, the great hall, the guides and handlers, the animals—they disappear as though they no longer exist. Only my son. Only Josh. And me.

  “What, honey?”

  Something in his expression tells me he knows.

  “Maah,” he murmurs. I don’t know whether this single whispered word is an entreaty for me to go forward with what I am about to do or a plea against it. I’ll never know. It doesn’t matter. The world slams back into focus around me as Josh begins to convulse. His eyes roll back in their sockets until only the whites are showing. I hold the stick between his teeth with one hand and place my other hand on his chest, over his heart. The beat is erratic.

  My own heart slams against my rib cage. My pulse is a deafening roar in my ears. I close my eyes.

  I wish that thing never happened.

  THIRTY

  Monday, August 8

  I bolt upright in my bed. Predawn darkness surrounds me. That not-right feeling is a living thing, lurking in the shadows.

  My bedroom is quiet. But not quiet in the way that marks the absence of a barking dog next door. Deathly silent.

  Josh isn’t breathing.

  I spring from the bed and rush to the hallway, where the darkness swallows me. The night-light from Josh’s room has gone out. I feel my way down the hall, and my hands slide across my son’s closed door. Odd. His bedroom door is never closed. Perhaps I’m still asleep and this is a dream.

  I turn the knob and push the door open, and the yellow glow of the night-light in the far corner of Josh’s room greets me. I pad across the floor to the bed.

  Josh is curled in a fetal position facing the wall. I can’t see his face, only the back of his head. He doesn’t move, doesn’t snore. My breath catches in my throat, and my body stills. Seconds pass.

  Then. Josh shifts in his sleep and emits a low wheeze.

  I let out my breath, reach down and gently run my fingers through his hair. I turn and walk back to the hall, back to the bedroom, and climb into bed. Colin’s side is empty. I absently wonder where my husband could be at four o’clock in the morning, then sleep overtakes me.

  The next time I open my eyes, the sun is up and shining into the bedroom.

  I glance at the bedside clock and see that I’ve overslept. I’ll have to hurry if I want to get to work on time.

  As I move to the bathroom, snippets of images come to mind from my predawn awakening. The darkness in the hall, Josh’s closed door, his quiet slumber. I stop before I reach the sink.

  There was no bed rail on his bed.

  No. There had to be.

  But it wasn’t there.

  I take a few steps back and gaze disbelievingly at my dresser.

  The baby monitor is gone.

  Wearing only my nightshirt, I race from the bedroom and down the hall to Josh’s room. His bed is empty, the bedding a deformed lump shoved next to the wall.

  There is no bed rail.

  I back away from the open door, then stagger to the top of the stairs. I blink a couple of times. My jaw goes slack.

  The wheelchair lift has disappeared.

  Lions and cubs and a wish.

  I take the stairs two at a time, lose my balance halfway down and bump-slide on my ass until my bare feet hit the tile landing. My chest feels as though an anvil sits upon it, and I gulp at the air, desperate for oxygen. Bright spots skew my vision and I realize I’m hyperventilating, but I can’t slow down, can’t stop, must keep moving until I get there.

  I reach the kitchen. The sight before me is more than my fragile mind can handle.

  Josh stands at the counter holding a cell phone to his ear while he takes a huge bite out of a shiny golden delicious apple. He looks up at me and grins.

  “Hi, Mom. Nice ensemble.”

  H’ Maah. Ice’ ahsahb.

  I stand frozen, watching as he finishes his mouthful and returns his attention to his call. He speaks animatedly into the cell phone. He’s talking, his lips are moving, but the words aren’t registering. I can’t understand him because he is speaking normally, not in the Josh language I know.

  “Morning, Mom,” Katie says. She sits at the kitchen table, a half-eaten English muffin on a plate in front of her. She looks up at me, her brow furrowed. “Are you okay?”

  I swallow. I can’t form words. I can’t move. I can only stare at Josh. My son. Who is standing on his own two feet, feeding himself—an apple, no less, holding a cell phone with his own hand, talking to someone.

  I remember my wish, of course I do. But all the wishes I’ve made before now seem insignificant by comparison, even the extradition from the world of my former boss. When I made the wish on the floor of the alcove of the lion pen, as Josh sputtered and flailed and howled with anguish, I didn’t really believe it would come true. It was too big to come true. But it has.

  Pain explodes in my head as a flood of (new) memories assaults my brain. Josh rolling over in his crib
, Josh crawling, Josh taking his first step, Josh pumping his legs on a swing, reaching higher and higher until I thought he would take off.

  I press my hands against my temples, hoping to bring a stop to the onslaught of images. They are false. But more importantly, they are the past. Right here, right now, my son is normal. I hate myself for having that thought, but it’s the truth, and I want to stay in the present. I still don’t know how this wish business works. There might be a time limit. Like Cinderella, if the clock runs out, the pumpkin and the wheelchair might return.

  I have an excruciating impulse to run to him and throw my arms around him and caress and kiss every formerly useless limb.

  I remain where I am.

  “Don’t you have to get ready for work? Mom?”

  I turn to Katie. “Yes. I do. I just . . .”

  “Okay, so I’ll see you in twenty.”

  My head snaps back toward Josh. As he walks around the counter and approaches me, I look down at his legs. Even encased in thick denim, I can see how strong and muscular they are. His feet, wrapped in Nike sneakers, are long, like twin boats. This is the first time I’ve ever heard the soles of his feet slap against the tile floor. The sound is like a symphony. I close my eyes and listen until the sound stops. When I open my eyes, Josh stands in front of me, less than two feet away. He is much taller than me, and I have to look up to see his face. Without the usual tension and strain of his facial muscles, he is handsome. Truly handsome, not just a mother’s projection. His jaw is strong and square, his nose aquiline, his eyes a deep blue, his hair dark brown, wavy and thick and longer than it used to be.

  “Yo, Mom. Morning.”

  “Good morning, my guy,” I say. The floodgates crash open. I’m crying and laughing as I pull him in for a hug.

  “Whoa,” he says, patting me on the back. “Heavy dose of emotion this a.m., huh?”

  “Typical,” I hear Katie say. “I don’t even get so much as a hello and you get hugs and good morning, my guy.” This last is said with sarcastic malice.

  I pull away from Josh, even though it pains me to do so, and turn to Kate. “Sorry, honey. Good morning, my girl.”