Heroes Fan Fiction ❯ The Birthday Party ❯ Chapter 1

Author's Notes: Since all I found was speculation on the matter, I had to make some concrete decisions regarding birth dates and lineage. For my intents and purposes, Claire Bennet was born January 16, 1991. The date of the fire is still canon (February 28, 1992, according to a newspaper article), making her thirteen months old at the time of that event. The Bennets officially adopt Claire on July 13, 1992, three months to the day after they become her foster parents.

 

Sandra Bennet's birthday is the same as Ashley Crow's, the actress who portrays her: August 25, 1960. Likewise, Noah Bennet's birthday is the same as Jack Coleman's: February 21, 1958. I figure it's simpler this way.

 

Additionally, for the purpose of this fanfic, Lyle is Noah and Sandra's biological son. While a friend brought it to my attention that a deleted scene on the Season One DVD references Claire and Lyle's adoptions, I still consider it non-canon due to its removal from the series' framework.

 

Standard disclaimers apply; I own none of the characters from the Heroes-verse, but this story is mine.

 

 

 

Today is Saturday, January 16, 1993. It is also Claire Bennet's birthday. She is two years old and adorably precocious. A modest gathering of family and friends has converged at 9 Juniper Lane in Odessa, Texas to celebrate the event, though a blustery cold front has forced what were supposed to be outdoor festivities inside. Ah, yes, the purple Barney-shaped piñata has lived to see another day. Unfortunately.

 

With six little ones under the age of five, the living room has plunged into a state of chaos: the children have upended a large storage tub on its side; its colorful, geometric contents—balls, alphabet blocks, tossing rings, etc.—spill across the carpet like the innards of a slain beast. Behind the couch stands a Sesame Street play tent, occupied by Claire and the 18-month-old fraternal twins, Leslie and Kenny. They're shrieking with hilarity over the light-up toy that plays nursery tunes. Larry and Tony—both four—have strewn upholstery cushions on the floor from the couch to the entertainment center. They jump from one burgundy square to the next, pretending that they're frogs on lily pads, bellowing “ribbit” at the top of their lungs. Over this cacophony, The Little Mermaid is playing in the VCR. The three-year-old, Heather, is singing along with gusto to the calypso-flavored jingle “Under the Sea,” contentedly applying stroke after stroke of wax-bound pigment to the pages of her princess-themed coloring book.

 

On the brick patio beyond the kitchen, the menfolk—Daddy, Pa-Paw, Mister Steve and Mister Randy—stubbornly persist in barbequing hamburgers and hotdogs. Sure, they could have ordered takeout as their wives suggested, but they're manly men. They can handle the frozen temperatures. Plus, all four of them have tacitly acknowledged a desperate need to get the hell away from the children, whom they love unconditionally and would save from a raging fire, mind, but damned if they want to get stuck with potty training or diaper changing duties. So here they stand, hunched around the grill in their hats and jackets, discussing various topics superficially. Among them: the President-elect's inauguration in four days' time (a Democrat in office for the first time in twelve years), gas prices breaking triple digits (paying a dollar for a gallon is just obscene), and Super Bowl XXVII (Mister Steve, in one of his rasher moments, confesses that he wants the Buffalo Bills to beat the Dallas Cowboys).

 

Meanwhile, the womenfolk—Mommy, Mee-Maw, Miss Sally and Miss Jan—are setting up paper plates, plastic utensils, napkins, condiments and side dishes at the dining table. They chatter cheerfully amongst themselves, their eyes flickering back and forth between their task and the children. The occasional admonition is tossed out, such as, “get off the coffee table,” “don't pull your sister's pigtails,” and “use your quiet voice!” When not engaged in their roles as zookeepers, the women gossip, make dates for shopping trips, exchange recipes, and review books they've read and movies they've seen. (Miss Jan moons over Brad Pitt—“He's the sexiest bank robber ever!”—which leads to some very naughty puns about bank vaults, though that is neither here nor there.) Per usual, the conversation topic inevitably turns toward pregnancy.

 

Sandra, as the grown-ups call Mommy, is eight months along. This is not her first pregnancy, but it is her first—pray God—successful pregnancy, at age thirty-two. She has conceived four times previously; each ended in miscarriage, none of them lasting longer than nine weeks. The physical and emotional tolls have shaped this woman. Her face is wearier, her faith is weaker, and her fear is stronger.

 

As Claire emerges from the play tent with a pink stuffed bunny in her arms, she sees Mommy lowering herself awkwardly into a chair at the table, rubbing her distended stomach with a blank expression. Miss Jan and Miss Sally hover around her, their faces full of sympathy. Mee-Maw gives Mommy a hug around the shoulders and a kiss on the cheek while the younger woman admits in a pain-filled voice that every time the baby goes still inside her, she worries that he's dead. No matter how she chuckles or weeps or rages at this thought, this irrational thought, this paranoid thought, it remains. For what if it's true? “I can't bear it if something goes wrong this time,” she whispers.

 

Sandra's tone and demeanor are quite familiar to the little girl. Claire has seen Mommy act this way a lot, and knows that it has to do with a baby—no, not a baby, the baby—and suddenly her chest feels itchy. Not right, not right. Mommy's always fussing and fretting over this boy-child who will be her little brother, but Claire was first! Dropping the bunny, she trips her way over to the group of women, determined to make this fact known. Slipping between Miss Jan and Miss Sally, the little girl all but launches herself on Mommy's lap. Sandra blinks down at her in bemusement before giving her a soft smile and a hair tousle.

 

“My Mommy!” Claire says emphatically, wrapping her arms as far as they will go around Sandra's tummy, and pressing her face into the lilac-scented knit blouse. Just then, the baby rolls over; Claire feels the gentle movement ripple under her fingers, under her cheek, and her rosy mouth goes slack in surprise. “He-e-e-y,” she breathes, whether in protest or greeting it is impossible to tell. The little girl's reaction elicits gentle mirth from the onlookers. Mommy gives a small hiccupping laugh, and tells her that Lyle is saying “hello” to his big sister.

 

Claire forms the syllables of the baby's name soundlessly on her lips, tasting their color, shape, and flavor. She decides that “Lyle” is fresh-cut summer grass: deep green, spiky, and sharply fragrant. The little girl wonders if he will resemble grass. In her mind's eye, she envisions a boy who blends into the lawn; he is fed and watered, but rarely considered. It is a curiously sad thought and quickly dismissed. Tentatively, Claire's hands pat and press on Mommy's swollen midsection, trying to coax another response from her sibling-to-be. Lyle rewards her efforts with a mighty kick, the toes and heel of a bitty foot visible even through layers of liquid and tissue and fabric. Mommy grunts, her face twisting up in discomfort. “No, Why-oh, be nice!” the little girl scolds, pale brows knitted in dismay.

 

A cool, slim hand strokes her temple. “It's all right, sweetie,” Mommy murmurs. “He didn't mean to hurt me.” As Claire gazes up at loving brown eyes, she vaguely remembers this sort of tenderness from someone else. There was another woman, with eyes the color of earth and bright sunshine hair streaming down her back, whom Claire called Mommy. She smelled like honey and burning candles. She has not seen that woman for a long, long time. The one she now regards as her mother is similar in coloring, but less vibrant.

 

Once or twice, Claire has heard Mommy talk about “the adoption,” but only when Mommy thinks she is out of earshot. Most of it is boring or incomprehensible stuff, but somehow Kermit the Frog is involved, and this never fails to amuse her. Talks about fire and foster care tease the edges of the little girl's mind, ephemeral silver strands promising revelation, but the threads are too tenuous to grasp. Claire also isn't sure what Sandra means when she says, in a voice flavored with the sour-bitter tang of grapefruit, that her husband never feels the ghostly pressure of another father-figure. Yet…

 

In the dimmer recesses of the little girl's mind, shrouded in the dust and cobwebs of things forgotten, lies the memory of a young man with damp golden eyes fringed in dark lashes. He cradles her in his arms, his voice catching while he stumbles through the lyrics of a lullaby. If Claire ever heard his name spoken, or knew his relationship to her, the knowledge is lost. What remains is the feeling, of a careful embrace, of a thrumming heartbeat under her ear, of a kiss pressed into her forehead. Of being loved.

 

The contrast between that man and Daddy is staggering. Of course, it is easy to measure dreams against reality and find the latter sorely wanting. The young man is only a dream, too brief a presence in Claire's life to warrant recalling his face beyond the veils of slumber. Daddy is the now, the reality, a solid form with too-neat hair and sun-lined skin. His smiles curve his mouth but never quite engage his eyes. While it would be severe to define his attitude as “cruel,” it is certainly undemonstrative, as evidenced in a thousand stupid ways. Daddy never sings songs for her. He has no silly nicknames for her, like “darling dinky daisy,” as Mee-Maw calls her. He does not hug Claire unless she initiates the contact, and even then, it's awkward. Dialogue between them is rare, though this particular thoughtlessness is common among adults who spend little time in the company of children—the presumption that lack of diction is equivalent to lack of intelligence. He has never tucked her into bed, or blown raspberries on her tummy, or cut the crust off her sandwich, or any of a number of actions that would indicate affection. The little girl internalizes all these behaviors and carries on loving him, in the heart-wrenching way the very young, sweet, and optimistic can.

 

About a quarter past noon, the ruddy-faced men triumphantly haul in the platter of cooked meats. Pa-Paw sets the dish on the table, then kisses all of his girls before slinging his coat onto the chair next to Mommy's. Daddy and Mister Steve, in near-synchronized movements, remove their eyeglasses and wipe the fogged lenses off with the hems of their sweatshirts. Mister Randy, ever in the mood for a good prank, sneaks up behind his spouse and snakes his icy fingers under her sweater. The resulting yelp is quite spectacular, even giving the children in the living room a moment's pause in their activities. Recovering, Miss Jan exacts her revenge by informing her “hunnykins” in a sickly-sweet tone that it's his turn to clean up the twins—oh, and perhaps he should check Leslie first, since she smells particularly malodorous. The tall man groans about the punishment not fitting the crime, but wisely picks up his tiny daughter in one hand and the Care Bear-printed change bag in the other, heading toward the guest bathroom.

 

Claire, still perched on Mommy's lap, watches Miss Sally loudly commend Noah, as the grown-ups call Daddy, for not burning the hot dogs to a grisly blackened crisp. Not that she's pointing fingers at any so-called grilling gurus in her household, no sirree bob. Just a random observation. Reactions to this pronouncement vary from wobbly lips, to tactful “coughing” behind hands, to open snickering. “WOMAN!” Mister Steve roars, and makes a great show of chasing his wife through the house. The children screech with delight at this new game and follow his pursuit. Amazingly, no porcelain vases or crystal figurines suffer fatalities during this exercise, though the umbrella stand just narrowly avoids disaster.

 

Amid breathless laughter and good-natured insults, Mister Steve and Miss Sally call a truce and playtime winds down. “Come, peanuts,” Pa-Paw says in his deep, jovial voice. “Chow time!” With two additional table leafs inserted, the seating capacity is ten—eleven including the high chair. Not enough for everyone, but certainly enough for all the children and a few adults besides. Larry, Tony and Heather are old enough (and stubborn enough) not to need booster seats; they sit side by side by side. Claire, wanting to emulate the big kids, especially Heather, rejects her high chair. Sandra, seeing the little girl's determination, relents and asks Noah to assist their daughter. Unlike the older children, Claire must kneel on a thick yellow phone book in order to see over the table's edge. Not that she cares; she's just thrilled to sit next to her friend. Miss Jan takes advantage of this development and happily commandeers the abandoned high chair for Kenny (the messier of the twins), then sits at the table with Leslie on her lap. Mommy remains seated at the opposite end, with Mee-Maw to her left and Pa-Paw to Mee-Maw's left. Miss Sally and Mister Randy quickly claim the last two seats, jeering at Mister Steve and Daddy for being too slow at musical chairs. The lone-standing men give haughty shrugs and vow that vengeance will be theirs! Just as soon as they eat, that is.

 

With the children situated, the grown-ups begin assembling plates. They exchange wry glances at the dietary habits of their offspring: Claire only wants a cut-up hot dog, a slice of cheese, and several baby dill pickles. Tony asks for a hamburger bun with ketchup, some pretzels, and a small cup of pork'n beans. Heather refuses to eat anything but fruit salad and carrots. Larry is happy with half a hamburger patty, potato chips, and green olives. Surprisingly, the twins are not fussy eaters—they nibble a little bit of everything.

 

The atmosphere is light, conversation is chipper. The grown-ups discuss playing pinochle after cake and presents. (“Which kind, the card game or thumb-wrestling?” deadpans Mister Steve.) Mommy catches Claire's eyes once or twice and winks at her. Twenty minutes lapse by peaceably before Heather, in the blunt manner of little ones, demands to know when they'll eat cake and ice cream because she wants some now. Miss Sally fixes a gimlet eye on her daughter and says that maybe Mister Noah and Miss Sandra will oblige her if she asks them politely. The girl's pigtails swing as she turns her head to Mommy and Daddy. Claire cannot see her face, but Heather's voice emerges soft and small as she carefully phrases her request with the words “may” and “please.” Noah, who is standing beside Sandra's chair, gravely replies that yes, they will serve dessert in just a moment. Claire's guts flutter when she sees Daddy's lips quirk ever-so-slightly in genuine amusement. Not fair, not fair…

 

The creak and scrape of Mommy's chair pushing back quickly diverts her attention. Sandra rises with her husband's aid and they walk over to the fridge in the kitchen. At the table, Mister Randy and Miss Jan clear away condiments and a package of hot dog buns, leaving a small space in front of Claire. With a firm nudge from Mee-Maw, Pa-Paw excuses himself to retrieve their camera. Mister Steve, taking a non-verbal cue from Daddy, dims the chandelier over the dining table. A golden glow catches Claire's eye, and she turns her head to see Mommy carefully walk toward the table, carrying a tray. Sandra sets the tray in the space before her daughter; the little girl's eyes are enormous as she takes in a most marvelous treat: a blonde fashion doll dressed in a cake-and-frosting ball gown! Two chocolate cupcakes, decorated to resemble flower pots bursting with blooms, flank the belle. From their centers rise lit lemon-yellow spiral candles, flames lazily swaying on the wicks.

 

Reaction to the elaborate dessert varies among the room's occupants. The boys are not repulsed, exactly (after all, cake is cake), but nor are they waxing ecstatic. The menfolk offer half-hearted compliments, earning undignified—albeit justified—gestures from the womenfolk, who lavishly praise Sandra's talent. The most gratifying response comes from Miss Jan, a doll collector and lover of period dramas and all things frilly. She coos over the clever use of candied flowers and silver balls to effect appliqué and pearls on the bodice, not to mention the doily-textured ruffled skirt. Mommy, her voice reflecting her pleasure, promises to teach the younger mother how make the cake for Leslie's birthday. Heather, meanwhile, exclaims over the doll-topper, leaning ever closer toward it; Miss Sally, clearly reading her daughter's intent to grab the “toy” out of its confectionary confines, warns her not to touch the cake, or else. Heather pouts but obeys. Pa-Paw, who lost his seat to the smug and preening (and shamelessly-flirting-with-Mee-Maw) Mister Steve, snaps a candid of the group. Years later, when they haul out the slim violet photo album to peruse pictures commemorating this event, the kids relentlessly tease Leslie for picking her nose in that shot.

 

After Daddy places a carton of vanilla ice cream on the table, he gamely announces that it's time to sing the birthday song. Mister Steve and Mister Randy, incorrigible hams that they are, melodramatically clear their throats before practicing the scales. The twins chortle merrily at the men's antics. Tony, Larry, and Heather surround Claire's chair; more than singing, they're eager to assist the birthday girl in blowing out the candles! Larry tugs on Claire's sleeve to get her attention and reminds her to make a wish, because he made a wish on his birthday and got his radio-controlled truck. Miss Jan and Sandra overhear the little boy's advice and grin. “All right, everyone!” Mee-Maw proclaims. “Let's start in three, two, one…” Voices rise to croon the well-known tune; though a few people are out of key, they make up for their lack of musical prowess with lots of enthusiasm. Upon the last note's warbling, Claire huffs and puffs and—with some not-so-discreet aid from the older children—blows out her birthday candles to raucous applause.

 

Dessert time, finally! Miss Jan and Mister Randy, both chocolate lovers, call dibs on the cupcakes. Cutting the cake turns out to be something of an ordeal, for while Claire wants to eat it, she doesn't want the ball gown ruined and fusses every time the serving knife nears it. Miss Sally, ever practical and just a bit sneaky, distracts the toddler long enough so Sandra can make the first cut. The little girl initially reacts poorly to the deception, but when she sees the fat slice of cake on the paper plate before her, she squeals with gluttonous glee. With great efficiency, the doll topper is removed, and the cake divvied up among eleven people with some leftovers besides. Noah scoops out ice cream for those who want some, while Mee-Maw refills the children's drinks.

 

Keeping small ones (and the area around them) clean as they eat sticky or wet sweetmeats is a near-impossible task, requiring dozens of napkins and saintly patience. Miss Jan helps Leslie hold her toddler-sized spoon as she consumes ice cream, while Mister Randy thwarts Kenny from mashing his portion of cake into frosting-coated crumbs. They are exceedingly grateful that their eldest son can wield utensils on his own, even if Larry occasionally drips food onto his clothes… like just now. Miss Sally cuts her children's slices of cake into smaller pieces for ease of chewing; she hovers behind their chairs, ready to swoop in and tidy up as needed. For her part, Mommy is trying to keep Claire's golden ringlets pulled away from her face as she blissfully gobbles up fistfuls of strawberry cake and butter-cream icing. Throughout this commotion, Pa-Paw moves around the table as he holds the camera to his face. He depresses the shutter button, then winds the film to its next frame. He repeats this action several times, amusement crinkling the corners of his kind green eyes. Mee-Maw, Mister Steve, and Daddy have defected to the kitchen, eating their dessert in relative peace. Oh, yes, they concur, it is far better to observe the chaos from a distance.

 

Afterward, when the children have eaten their fill and their parents have neatened them up, Mommy declares it time to move on to the next phase of the party: presents! The older children once again clamor around the birthday girl, eager to see what treasures she's received. (The twins don't quite have the concept of opening gifts, but they watch the goings-on from their parents' laps.) First are some new clothes sets from Mee-Maw and Pa-Paw: a long-sleeved Princess Jasmine t-shirt with matching pair of turquoise corduroy pants; a red plaid jumper with white blouse and tights; and, finally, a hand-knitted pink dress with short puff sleeves and a honeycomb design on the bodice. Heather, a fashionista in the making, ooh's and ahh's at each article. Leslie giggles at the other girl's sounds. Tony and Larry are highly unimpressed. Kenny is even less so, dozing off in Mister Randy's embrace. Claire, for her part, is more interested in the multi-colored tissue paper from the boxes the outfits came in, though she dutifully murmurs thanks when Mommy prompts her.

 

A package wrapped in last Sunday's comic strips follows; Mee-Maw carefully removes the tape so she can read Dilbert (“I had a boss like that once…”) and Garfield (“Same for the cat—although Midas preferred egg yolks to lasagna!”). It is a collection of Mister Men and Little Miss books by Roger Hargreaves. The thin, square volumes garner favorable attention from Larry, who is learning to read. Claire and Heather flip the pages of Little Miss Chatterbox, perusing the bright, clean illustrations. Tony sits and fidgets, impatiently watching Pa-Paw lift the lid off of a sturdy pink polka-dot box. Inside is a stuffed Eeyore and Piglet, Claire's favorite characters from Winnie the Pooh. Tony, another fan of Eeyore, grabs the toy donkey and cuddles it.

 

And so goes the procession of gift opening.

 

Six boxes, four gift bags, and five money-enclosed birthday cards later, the children (sans Kenny, who is down for a nap in the guest bedroom) are back in the living room. Full of sugar-induced vigor, they shout and sing and hop and jump and laugh. Heather plays “Ring Around the Rosie” with Claire and Leslie several times, and then declares tea time, avidly eyeing the pretty new set of plastic dishes. Tony and Larry, being boys, pretend they're Michelangelo and Leonardo from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, kicking and hand-chopping each other like their reptilian idols—that is, until they knock Heather's glass of fruit punch off the coffee table. While Mister Steve and Mister Randy discipline their errant sons, Miss Sally and Miss Jan, armed with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of stain remover, rush over to clean up the bright red splotches soaking into the cream-colored carpet. Mommy assures the women only too cheerfully that it's all right, really; she's had visions of wood flooring, and what better way to facilitate getting it than ruining that hideous Berber?

 

Daddy shakes his head and teasingly calls Mommy a…wrench? A witch? It's similar to those words but not quite right. Just as he is about to take the trash out to the receptacle in the garage, the door bell peals. “I'll get it,” he says to no one in particular, putting down the bag. Claire watches him stride to the entry, tumble the bolt, and open the front door. Through the glass pane of the storm door, she can see a smiling man in a brown uniform holding a clipboard. Daddy unlatches the storm door and steps onto the porch. A moment later, he comes back inside, teeth lightly chattering from the chill; he is carrying a large box over to the dining table.

 

Sandra, who is sealing the dish of fruit salad with some plastic wrap, wonders if it's the baby bouncer she ordered from Sears. It isn't. “Why, my sweetie shorty silly, it's another gift for you!” Mee-Maw calls to the little girl in her heavy Alabaman drawl. Claire giggles at the way the endearment slides off her grandmother's tongue. She abandons her tea party to investigate. Heather follows. Leslie stays by the carefully laid-out dishes; her focus is on the boys, who are playing a game of Sorry with no semblance of rules or reason.

 

With Pa-Paw's help, Claire scampers up onto her chair. Standing up on the seat, she peers into the unassuming mailing box as Mee-Maw pulls out a package from the sea of Styrofoam peanuts. Wrapped in an exquisite pink-and-yellow-blossom-print paper and bound in a thick cream-colored satin bow, the last present has a little envelope attached to it. Sandra pulls out the card and reads it aloud: “To the Little Moonbeam, from Nana Angela.” Her brows pucker in consternation at this missive. Mee-Maw is the only grandmother Claire has ever known… Isn't she? Traces of the old anxiety lurk behind her eyes. It is a common (and certainly well-founded) fear among adoptive parents that their child's biological family may try to reclaim what they surrendered.

 

Though she knows that Meredith Gordon is deceased and without living relation, the identity of Claire's father is a mystery. Ice shoots through Sandra's veins as theories to whom this “Nana Angela” really is pass through her mind. Noah plucks the card out of his wife's hand, his expression opaque. Almost opaque; Claire notices the pinch of disapproval around his mouth and eyes—he's given her that look often, right before he senses her regard and smoothes it over. With seeming nonchalance, he explains that Angela works with the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services. Liar, liar, pants on fire. The grown-ups exchange significant glances, the kind that usually suggests further discussion later on. Claire wonders if they'll talk about Kermit the Frog again and softly giggles to herself. Heather looks askance at the younger girl.

 

The tension lingers as the bow is untied and the wrapping paper discarded. A glossy white chipboard box sporting an elaborate jade-colored knotwork logo emerges. With a deft slice of the scissors through the packaging tape, Mommy opens the box, revealing its contents. Carefully wedged in two dense pieces of shipping foam is a nightstand lamp of incomparable craftsmanship. The collector's certificate, issued by the Debussy Fellowship, is made of handmade cold-press watercolor paper; fairies and floral scrollwork frame the delicate calligraphy that details the lamp's origins. Titled Claire de Lune, the matte copper lamp resembles a tree trunk, with engraved bark texture and small branches. The circular base has seven enameled figures—fairies and woodland animals—set in a narrow track. The bell-shaped shade is made of hand-painted silk; it graduates from a deep violet at the top, to varying hues of blue in the middle, to a forest green at the bottom. Embellished with tiny white crystals and leaf-patterned embroidery and trimmed in dark green fringe, the effect is that of a canopy of leaves in the night.

 

Sandra sucks in an audible breath and states that a custom piece such as this must have cost a small fortune to commission. A neutral comment, to be sure; however, it is the words between the words that hang heavy in the air, namely: How could a public servant possibly afford this, and why would she gift it to MY child? Noah disingenuously remarks that he is not an expert in these matters (meaning the lamp itself; he deliberately avoids the unvoiced question about the meaning of the lamp) and therefore cannot speculate. This earns him a scorching look from his wife and milder expressions of rebuke from the other grown-ups. Forcibly attempting to alter the mood, Pa-Paw asks Mommy if there are any bulbs in the utility closet. At her nod, he leaves the eating area and wanders down the hallway. With stiff but efficient movements, Mommy removes the lamp base and shade from their confines, carefully setting the shade on the harp. Miss Jan discovers the finial—an enameled crescent moon—and screws it on top.

 

Pa-Paw returns with a bulb, which he twists into the socket. Making sure the device is plugged in to the wall (and it is, again thanks to Miss Jan), he runs his weathered thumb over the switch with a soft click, and the lamp comes to life. It is a marvel to behold, a subtle play of shimmer and shadows and motion. Yes, motion, for the enameled figures begin their endless circuit around the tree. In spite of her own misgivings, Sandra smiles at the little girls' positive response to the enchanting display. Claire and Heather loudly declare how “purdy” it looks, and they admire the lamp at length.

 

Eventually, Heather grows restless; she can't play with it, after all, and Miss Sally has often remarked that she's a tactile creature. Furthermore, Leslie needs to learn the finer points of tea party etiquette—like not chewing and drooling all over the dishes. However, Claire is disinclined to resume playtime, focused on the lamp to the exclusion of everything else. Scowling, the three-year-old girl stomps back to the living room alone. Sandra notices this byplay, and contemplates telling her child to socialize, but Mee-Maw distracts her with a question about the latest episode of Cheers. Perhaps Heather should have volubly and vigorously insisted her friend follow her. Perhaps Mee-Maw could have waited to make her trivial inquiry, for perhaps Sandra would have then turned off the lamp.

 

Perhaps; regrets are borne on perhaps, but foresight is wretchedly dim whereas hindsight is dreadfully clear. And if there is but one thing all grown-ups know, for they were not always grown, it is this: children are fearless by nature. Their naïveté in matters of pain—physical and otherwise—contribute to an ill-conceived sense of invincibility. Parents since time immemorial have sought to instill in their children respect for the objects and environs around them. Knives can cut you, don't touch; fire-ants will bite you, don't run barefoot in the yard; chocolate brownies could be poisonous, let mommy have a nibble first… Some hurts are unavoidable and thus allowed, such as the bruised knees that result from learning to walk. Other hurts, however… Well, it seems that, regardless of how watchful grown-ups are, children have a knack for sustaining injury.

 

No one realizes that Claire's fascination with the nightstand lamp is less the dancing figures revolving around the base, and more the glowing source of illumination. It mesmerizes her, the way colored spots leap before her eyes the longer she stares, the way it radiates heat—it reminds her of her other Mommy, that light. No one knows what is going through the little girl's mind; thus, no one is fast enough to prevent Claire from wrapping her tiny fist around the 65-watt bulb. Sandra's startled gasp fills the room, drawing all eyes to the table. There is a moment, an eye-blink, of appalled silence, where mother and daughter lock gazes over the brim of the lampshade. Then the little girl begins to scream.

 

Time snaps forward. Discordance swells the voices of concerned adults and alarmed children. Claire's world narrows to the wild purple agony radiating through her hand, up her arm, out her throat. The little girl has never experienced such intense pain before. She can't hear beyond the roaring of her accelerated heartbeat, can't see through the blinding stream of tears that slither down her burning cheeks. Unfortunately, she can still smell: an acrid odor wafts through her nostrils, souring the traces of vanilla ice cream that linger in her mouth. Three seconds or three hours later (the former feels as long as the latter), Mommy's soft, strong hands scoop Claire up and carry her briskly through the house to the guest bathroom.

 

The woman's calm exterior belies the frantic pulse beating at her throat as she instructs Mee-Maw, who entered the bathroom ahead of her daughter and grandchild, where to find the first-aid kit. Transferring Claire to her left hip, Sandra twists the cold water tap; with a grunt from the pipes, chilly rivulets pour from the faucet. Gently-but-firmly, she makes the little girl uncurl her injured appendage and place it under the water. Mee-Maw, locating the rectangular plastic box of medicinal articles in the linen closet, sets it on the vanity. When the little girl's keening subsides to pitiful moans, Sandra turns the water off and nods for her mother to dry and dress the wound. Examining Claire's hand, she blinks hard in an effort not to cry herself. The tender skin is a raw, angry red, and blisters are forming on the fingers and palm. Why, baby? Why did you do that? The words dance on her tongue, hum through her teeth, but she can't give voice to them. She doubts the little girl could articulate her reason, anyway; how often had she herself done something ludicrous and, when asked for a motive, said, “I don't know”? Lost in thought and full of worry, Sandra doesn't hear her husband approach.

 

Claire, however, sees a shadow at the periphery of her vision and looks up… then wishes she hadn't.

 

Standing in the threshold of the bathroom, Daddy watches her hard—and it's not the way she's seen Mister Randy frown at his children when they're in bad humors, either. Concerned, yes, but not in a paternal construct. No, his expression is almost sinister, almost… frightened. And Daddy just stares and stares, as if he's waiting for something, a bad something. Or maybe… maybe he thinks she's the bad something. For the first time, she's afraid of him. A whimper that has nothing to do with the aching discomfort of her hand rises in her throat. Claire instinctively clings tighter to Mommy's blouse and buries her face in the fragrant warmth of her shoulder. She can feel his eyes on her, so cold they burn, searing a hole through her skin, trying to divulge—what? Does it matter? Leave me alone! Shivers chase through Claire's body; Mommy, thinking it's due to Mee-Maw's application of the antiseptic, kisses her daughter's head and croons reassurances. It's not enough. A terrible pressure builds inside the little girl, the desperate need to escape Daddy's penetrating glare. Go away go away go away goawaygoawayGOAWAY—“GO AWAY!” Claire's sobbing shriek rattles the grown-ups.

 

Sandra turns her head to see Noah in the doorway, and starts at the expression on his face. She can't describe it, refuses to analyze it, but one thing is certain: he's the cause of her child's upset, and that's intolerable. “What is wrong with you?” she cries. “Our daughter is hurt, but you're looking at her like she's going to burn the house down!” Before he can formulate a response, Sandra shuts the door in his face and locks it. Hugging Claire tightly, she mumbles apologies to the quaking toddler and exchanges bewildered glances with her mother. It isn't until much later, when she's laying in bed and tucking a pillow behind her strained back, that Sandra realizes what she said to Noah, and freezes mid-action at her Freudian slip.

 

In the meantime, the little girl, Mommy, and Mee-Maw spend a good quarter-hour in the bathroom; by the time they emerge, Claire is bandaged and swallowing chewed-up bits of Children's Tylenol. Her hand still feels ouchy, but she returns to the living room, showing off her wrapped hand to the group of children. Heather makes “oh, dear!” noises, while Tony and Larry, no strangers to the occasional scrape, are very impressed. Soon playtime resumes, and normalcy is restored—as normal as anything ever is.

 

After the excitement of the day, Mommy lays a sleepy Claire on her junior bed, its sturdy wooden frame painted white and hand-stenciled with hearts and flowers. Pulling a well-worn copy of Angus and the Cat off the tall bookshelf, Mommy sinks down onto the padded rocking chair situated near the headboard. She begins reciting the classic children's story, reading the words in a low, sing-song voice. The effect is soporific; the little girl continually yawns and rubs her eyes. Minutes blend one into the other, and before she knows it, the story is finished. Tucking the Mother Goose-themed quilt under the little girl's chin, Mommy lightly kisses her eyelids, cheeks, nose and mouth. “Sleep tight, adorable miss,” Sandra whispers fondly, completing their nighttime ritual. She flicks off the light switch exits, leaving the door open a crack.

 

The hallway light is still on, and Claire, teetering on the precipice of dreams and waking, hears Daddy's heavy footsteps sound outside her door. He does not come in; instead, the digital beep-beep-beep of numbers dialed on a handheld phone drifts through the doorway. Though she will only remember this event in nonsensical auditory flashbacks—for she is so very tired and cannot understand what he means anyway—Claire listens to Noah's side of a tense conversation. His voice rumbles and hisses, reminding her of the next-door neighbor's cat when it was cornered by a stray dog. Daddy heavily references a girl—no, not a girl, the girl—in his talk, as well as his wife and his son. She hears other words, curious words, such as “manifest,” “pyrokinesis,” “hazard,” and “eliminate.” An abrupt silence ensues, followed by a sharp exhalation and a muttering of assent. Another beep signals the end of the call; Daddy walks away, and then the hallway goes dark.

 

Before succumbing to sleep, Claire wonders what being a company man has to do with anything.

____________________________

Footnotes: My friend Tasha advised me to mention the naming conventions featured in this story. In the Southern U.S., it is often customary for a child to address an adult family friend with an honorific (i.e. Miss or Mister), followed by his/her given name (i.e. Sally or Steve). A child referring to an adult woman as “Miss Sally” instead of “Mrs. Ramey” simultaneously confers familiarity and respect. Additionally, “Pa-Paw” and “Mee-Maw” are regional terms for “Grandpa” and “Grandma.” I am not making them up, I promise!

 

Also, in some parts of the U.S. (such as Texas), “pinochle” is another word for thumb-wrestling, hence Mister Steve's question.