Elephant in the Sky

by Heather A. Clark

  Bolting through one of the speediest engagements in history, Pete and I had decided to get married after only six months of dating. With no more than a long weekend available to us, we eloped to the closest warm location that had a minimal waiting time. We were married on our second day at the only dodgy hotel we could afford in the Bahamas, with no one but a rented-by-the-hour minister and a witness from our hotel, whom Pete swears was the same person who brought our room service the next day. We flew home and returned to work on Monday morning.

  Three months after we were married, I found out I was pregnant. Lucky for me, I had one of the easiest pregnancies a girl could hope for, and I breezed through the nine months with very few changes to my lifestyle or crazy workaholic ways.

  Despite my immediate infatuation with our daughter, I fell victim to the pressure to return to work, and took only half of my maternity leave. To my surprise, Pete suggested that he take advantage of the recent changes that allowed fathers to stay at home with their babies, and he temporarily left his job to take paternity leave with Grace. With no family to help take care of Grace, and local daycares that all had mile-long waiting lists, we had limited options for who could stay with our daughter during the day.

  Pete happily fell into the daily routine of babyland, and he and Grace quickly formed a tight-knit bond that, if I was honest with myself, I knew I didn’t have with my daughter. I loved Grace more than life itself, but the monotony of diaper changes and feeding schedules drove me batty. And I wasn’t prepared to return to it for many more years.

  But Pete’s plea for more children grew in frequency as Grace got older and when he returned to work. He’d lost both of his parents when he was in his early twenties, and the only family left was his sister, whom he rarely saw, so he’d become anxious to surround himself with a big family and lots of children.

  I wasn’t so ready to add to our brood. I had recently been promoted, and was thriving at work. I loved the challenges of my job, and wanted to keep climbing the AJ & Emerson creative ladder.

  Pete, on the other hand, seemed more content to ride the slower track at work. But even with him coasting in his career climb, we were still struggling to achieve balance at home. The demands of an advertising agency were intense, and we bounced from job to home at lightning speed with very little room for anything else. I was convinced that adding another child would throw us even more off kilter and unhinge any sense of sanity we’d managed to hold onto.

  But when I couldn’t resist Pete and all of his charm a moment longer, I conceded to his insistent request and we began to try for baby number two. I convinced myself that I’d still have time because it would likely take a while for me to get pregnant again. But almost nine months to the day after I gave in, we welcomed Nate to the family. Grace had a brother, just as Pete wanted, and my husband was reunited with his glory days, and stayed at home with two kids while I went back to work. After a year, he decided he was happier at home and became a freelance writer.

  “Ashley? Do you have anything more to add?” Jack asked abruptly, interrupting my thoughts as he wrapped up the meeting.

  “I’d say we’ve covered everything,” I responded, forcing my brain back into the meeting. I smiled as I stood from my seat and walked around our biggest boardroom, which also boasted impressive views of the city. I shook everyone’s hands. “Thank you so much for coming in today. We’re happy you could see our offices and get a sense of our working environment.”

  Chelsea nodded, quickly smiling before turning back to her smartphone. Using her distraction as my cue that the meeting was officially over, I said a final goodbye and excused myself from the boardroom.

  Running out of the main doors of our building, I hailed the first cab I could find. The stench of body odour mixed with vomit smacked me in the face as I pulled open the door. I paused for half a second, thinking I needed to wait for the next taxi.

  But my promise of getting home for a family dinner trumped the cab stink; I took a final deep breath of clean air before climbing in and giving the greasy-haired cab driver my address.

  I texted Pete to let him know I was on my way home, and received a response back ten minutes later with nothing but a warning to brace myself and come home quickly. “He’s driving me nuts and he’s done it again. Come home quickly, okay? I need help.”

  “Thanks for the details, Pete,” I mumbled under my breath. I knew he was talking about Nate, but I had no idea what had happened. Or just how bad it was.

  I immediately texted Pete back, but got nothing in return. I knew if Nate was in danger Pete would have said otherwise, but I could only imagine what Nate had done this time.

  3

  Sitting in front of my house, I handed the cab driver forty dollars and told him to keep the rest. It had been a long ride home, filled with honking horns and commuter traffic. I didn’t have time to wait for change.

  I grabbed my red Prada laptop bag from the seat beside me, and rid myself of the stench that I had grown too accustomed to during the extended cab ride home. I wondered if I now smelled like it, or if my beautiful bag, a present from Pete the previous Christmas, had absorbed the stink.

  I kicked the door shut with my right foot, and practically ran into the house. In the family room, I found Nate on the sofa wearing nothing but blue underwear and holding four packs of gum. Pete was standing opposite him, with his arms folded and his face the colour of my bag.

  “What’s going on?” I rushed into the room. “And why are you in your underwear, Nate?”

  “I think the bigger question right now is where he got the gum. Or should I say how,” Pete answered, not taking his eyes off our son for one second. Nate looked down and I could see his shoulders slump at what I could only assume was regret mixed with a bit of fear.

  “Nate? Answer my question,” Pete said harshly, trying hard to keep his voice calm.

  We waited, but still Nate said nothing.

  “He won’t talk to me. Won’t answer a thing.” Pete shook his head, his fists tightly clenched.

  I looked up to see a pork roast resting beside the stovetop. Grace had finished setting the table and had disappeared somewhere in the house. I grabbed a blanket to wrap around Nate. He was shivering, and still looking down.

  “Will you talk to me, sweetie?” I asked. “Where’d you get the gum?”

  Nate shrugged. His breathing became more rapid, just as it always did when we faced this type of situation with him.

  Pete motioned for me to follow him so we could talk privately, and I was just starting to step away from my son when Nate piped up, “I, uh, I got it at the store. That one where we went for milk last week.” Nate was twitching now, tears streaming down his cheeks. Beside me, Pete softened as he watched our son’s confession.

  “And … how did you pay for it?” Pete asked. I wanted to know the answer, but based on the way Pete asked it, I was also afraid of what it would be.

  Nate shrugged again.

  “Nate?”

  “I … um … well, I … I took it.”

  “You took it?” I asked. My blood began to boil. Nate had done a crazy amount of frustrating things in his short lifetime, but breaking the law wasn’t one of them. I glanced at Pete as he raised an eyebrow at me, and I realized he already knew this.

  Nate nodded, a large tear falling into his lap. I didn’t know whether to yell at him or hug him. “Why Nate? Why would you do something like that? You know stealing is wrong.” I tipped my son’s chin upwards and forced him to look at me.

  Nate begrudgingly met my gaze, his blue eyes even more piercing with their tear-lined lids. “I really wanted gum. I really had to have it. And Noah said I should go.”

  I took a deep breath. I reminded myself that I needed to dig deep and find more patience. “Sweetie, this isn’t about Noah. This is about you. And your actions. What you did. Stealing is wrong. You know that.”
>
  “Why wouldn’t you just ask me to take you to the store, bud?” Pete asked gently. The calm and patient husband whom I typically knew in situations like this had returned.

  “Because … I knew you would say dinner was almost ready … and I really, really wanted it.” Nate was fully crying now, knowing he was about to be punished. “And my thoughts just got all jumbled in my head … and all I could think of is that I really wanted the gum. The pink kind. No, the green. Or maybe the orange. I don’t know. I forget. I just wanted gum. Really bad. I had to have it.”

  “You did not have to have it,” I responded, my voice coming too close to mimicking his. I took another deep breath. “Stealing is wrong, Nate. You can’t just go and take things when you want them.”

  I waited for him to respond, but only silence filled the room.

  “Nate?”

  I glanced at Pete. We were getting nowhere.

  “Nathan William, what do you have to say?” Pete’s voice was even, but firm.

  Nate shrugged.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what you’re going to say, then. Right after you put some clothes on, we’re going back to the store you took the gum from, and you will apologize to the owner and admit what you did.”

  From somewhere deep within Nate’s silence came rage like I’d never seen before. “No! I won’t! You can’t make me. He’s scary and he hates me. He chased me down the street, and if I go back there he’ll lock me up in a jail with no food. Or water. Then I’ll die! Do you want me to die?” Nate’s face was so red it looked purple, and he was punching a pillow with a force unlike any he’d shown before.

  Nate jumped off the couch and stood on the coffee table. If I hadn’t been so angry, I’d probably have been laughing at the sight in front of me: a nine-year-old wearing only what I could now see were two pairs of underwear, jumping all over our wood coffee table like a monkey. And still clutching his four packs of beloved bubble gum.

  “Why are you doing this to me? You hate me, don’t you? I know you do. And I hate myself. So maybe actually I want to go to jail. To starve. And die. Then you’ll be happy. Because you hate me. And YOU want ME to die.”

  “Nate, please don’t talk that way. You know that’s not true. Please, come down from there. You’ll hurt yourself.” Pete’s voice was calm. Somehow soft and composed. It reminded me of how he used to sound when he dealt with the tantrums of a two-year-old.

  Nate kept shrieking, and Pete continued to coax him down from the table. I knew my husband was as alarmed as I was by the whole thing, but his calm and collected approach didn’t falter. We had learned through the years that when Nate got into one of his moods, he often responded best to an even-keeled voice of reason. But not always.

  This time, much to our luck, Nate weakened and eventually he slowly stepped down from the table. He was still shaking.

  With our son now calmed down and sitting in front of us, my emotions turned from fear back to frustration, and I was torn between dishing out the world’s worst punishment for a nine-year-old boy and wrapping him in my arms until he felt better.

  Although the logical side of me was inclined to send him to his room to think about what he had done before coming down hard with the official punishment, my mommy instinct was to try to take away what was hurting my son, because I knew in my gut something bigger was going on.

  And so I did what I had to do: I opened my arms and invited him in. Nate folded into me. Over the top of his tousled brown locks, so silky they tickled my nose, I could see Pete raise an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure this was the right way to handle the situation. But he also didn’t protest. Instead, he grabbed his coat and car keys.

  “I’ll be in the car. Get him dressed and I’ll take him to the store to apologize and pay for the gum,” Pete said. His voice was slightly colder than it had been when he was coaxing Nate down from the table. And I couldn’t help but notice the door shut harder than usual on his way out.

  “Come on, bud. Let’s go get you dressed,” I whispered into my son’s ear. I gave him what I thought was a final squeeze, but Nate didn’t let go. He held on tight, as if deathly scared of something.

  I hugged him back, trying to reassure him that he would be okay. Cradled in my arms the way he was, Nate reminded me of when he was a newborn, and I was immediately taken back to a time that had happened long before …

  Always sleep-deprived, I would become increasingly frustrated by the son Pete and I had dubbed “the baby unlike others.” From the moment he was born, Nate seemed feistier in everything he did. He was punchier in his cries than any newborn I had ever met. More sensitive to needing a diaper change. Angrier when he was hungry. And all-around more demanding.

  Early one morning, when Nate was about eight months old, after I’d been up all night walking back and forth in our downstairs hall in an attempt to soothe him before he woke up anyone sleeping upstairs, he suddenly just stopped crying. I didn’t know what I had done differently, but something had seemed to work. Perhaps his relentless cries, which sounded more like screams from someone hurting him, had simply exhausted him.

  Whatever the reason, Nate had swiftly abandoned the angry, back-rearing screams that made his face resemble a squished tomato all night long, and collapsed into my arms. Yet he didn’t fall asleep as I had been convinced he would. He simply buried himself into me, gazing at the wall.

  An onlooker might have thought he was finally content, but something about the way he gripped at me with his little fingers made me think they would have been mistaken. There was something almost haunting about the way he stared at the wall. It was as though, even at eight months old, he was sad for no reason.

  Deep down, I knew there was something going on with him.

  Exhausted, I took my precious baby to his room, and curled up in the well-loved rocking chair that I had used so often. I fell asleep before he did, worn out from my night with him. When I woke up he was still awake. Still gazing into nowhere — just like he was doing now, eight years later.

  I knew Pete, waiting in the car, would be furious that we were taking so long, but I couldn’t let go. I knew Nate needed me, and my devotion prevented me from tearing myself away from him. My instinct told me to stay right where I was. To keep hugging him. To be there for him, just as I had always done, and as I’d always do. No matter what.

  4

  Nate

  I can’t sleep. I feel tired. I want to sleep. But I can’t.

  I don’t know what time it is. I used to know. But the red glow on my clock freaked me out. So I unplugged it.

  That was forever ago. Now I don’t know what time it is.

  Oh, I know! I will play my Wii. I’m ready to play tennis now. I love tennis. And gum.

  But then I remember that Mom and Dad punished me by taking my Wii.

  Shit.

  Oh, crap. I’m not allowed to say shit. And I don’t want to get into any more trouble. Mom and Dad were really mad. Madder than I have ever seen them.

  I lie back down. I’m hot. I kick off my covers. It’s still hot.

  I look under my pyjamas. I’m wearing Spider-Man underwear. The ones I covered up with my blue ones to go get gum. I want that gum. I didn’t even get to eat one piece. Dad made me give it all back to the mean man after I said sorry.

  My heart feels like it is pounding really fast. I know it is because I want to play my Wii so bad. Mom calls it being anxious. She tells me I feel that way a lot.

  Mom wouldn’t want me to feel this way. And playing my Wii will make me feel better. I think she would let me play it so that I will feel better.

  I quietly open my bedroom door. I tiptoe down the hall. I try to be quiet. I don’t want to make the floors creak. I do not want Mom or Dad or Grace hear me.

  I go down the stairs. I will look in the kitchen first. That is where Mom usually hides things. So I know it must be there.

&n
bsp; 5

  Ashley

  On Friday morning, just as I was wrapping up a creative brainstorming session for Pepsi, one of our longest-standing clients, Jack walked into the room.

  “Can I speak to you, Ash?” He nodded his head towards the door, motioning for me to follow him. I looked at the mess around us, a team of about ten, who had spent the past two hours coming up with new ideas for Pepsi’s winter campaign.

  “I can clean up here,” Alex, one of our youngest, yet most promising, new hires piped up. I flashed him a smile to show my thanks.

  “Great work, you guys. I think we came up with some solid stuff. Lilly, if you could write all of this up into notes and distribute to the team, that would be really helpful. Juliette, can you please follow up with Pepsi and book the creative presentation meeting? Gabriela, why don’t you brief the art department so they can turn these sketches into mocks?” All three nodded their heads in response, taking down their respective action items before I followed Jack out the door and to his office.

  “Great work at the pitch presentation the other day. As always, you were our shining star.” Jack sank into his leather chair at his oversized desk, his back to floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the best views of the city. He smiled. “We nailed it.”

  “We got the business?” I was ecstatic to confirm the news I already suspected.

  “Yeah, we got it. Chelsea’s exact words were that it was ‘the tight-knit integration between the creative and the strategy’ that really impressed her. Like I said … we nailed it.”

  I smothered my impulse to point out that the “we” included the entire creative team, but not Jack. He certainly cheered on the hard work from afar, but Jack was too busy travelling and schmoozing with clients to see how late the nights truly went. Other than popping into working sessions on occasion during the day, and learning everything he needed to know at the rehearsal meeting, Jack hadn’t contributed at all.