“Hold my hand,” Joan says, though she knows he won’t. He never does. She grabs Micah’s forearm before he can dart in front of a car. He tries to wriggle loose, but she grips him tight until they’re across the drive-thru lane.
Inside, he slips from her grasp and runs to the play area, a castle with a ball pit for a moat. It has tunnels and ladders and a turret at the very top, every bit of it covered in snot and spit. Joan doesn’t care, needs somewhere to take him on winter weekends when she solo parents. She doesn’t even try to spend their days at home. He won’t play with her, calls for daddy when she crouches on the floor with his favorite cars, throws crayons across the room when she pulls out the coloring books. If this were a phase, Joan wouldn’t mind, but he’s never wanted her. As a baby, he only took a bottle from her husband. Learning to walk, he fell rather than reach for her hand. When other moms complain their toddlers need them for everything, Joan stays quiet. She would pay money for Micah to demand an afternoon snack or scream for her attention. Instead, he deflates at the very sight of her, turns away when she enters the three-year-old room at daycare.
She buys a small fry and joins him in the play area. Micah already sits in the turret, his favorite place, watching two older boys who stand below him. Joan settles into one of the small booths, pulls out a magazine, will stay here until Edwin is off work.
“It’s our turn,” one of the older kids says and tosses a ball from the pit into the turret.
It hits the wall beside Micah’s head. He flinches but says, “You can come up.” He looks hopeful, cajoles his older cousins into playing, makes friends with everyone at the playground. He isn’t meant to be an only child, should have a house full of siblings. Joan planned for at least three but won’t take the chance of being rejected again.
“It’s my castle,” the other boy says and throws another ball. It hits Micah in the chest. “No babies allowed.”
“I’m not a baby,” Micah says, but he suddenly looks like one: chin trembling, tears perched on lower lids.
Her husband would go to him, pull him from the turret, buy him an ice cream. Joan knows better. She turns the page in her magazine.
Then, “Ow.” And louder, “That hurts.” It’s Micah, standing now, backed into the corner of the turret. The two boys have boxed him in, are pinching him, grabbing his arm and twisting. Micah’s face is red. He tries to get away but has nowhere to go
The magazine is on the floor. Joan is up the ladder. Micah is in her arms. The boys back away, hands up. Joan opens her mouth, growls. She reaches out, swipes at them with a furred paw, threatens them with jagged claws. They stumble down the ladder, half falling, crying for their moms. Micah clings to her, sinks his face into her pelt.
***
Micah is riding her like a horsey, hands clutching fur, when Edwin yells, “I’m home.”
Except for the first time ever, Micah doesn’t run from her. Instead, he yells, “Faster, faster!”
She goes faster, galloping through the house with a giggling boy on her back. Joan pants as she carries him from room to room. She roars occasionally. Micah laughs, nervous and excited.
Edwin rounds the corner and stops, makes a noise that’s halfway between a squeak and a scream. Micah grins, yells, “Mommy bear!” and giggles. Edwin doesn’t move.
Joan shrugs, says, “Don’t ask me.” Her voice has a growl that wasn’t there this morning, a hint of depth and danger.
Her husband moves to the kitchen, watches them, doesn’t join their game. He eyes them, says, “This is unexpected,” then lapses into silence.
When Micah is too tired to hold on any longer, Joan cradles him against her chest. He snuggles into her, twists his fingers in her fur. She should put him to bed, but his nuzzle is too intoxicating. She sits in the recliner, leans back, revels in her boy’s touch.
Her husband approaches, reaches for the boy, but she shakes her head. “He wants me.
“He wants a giant teddy bear,” he says.
“He loves me.” She makes circles on his back with her paw.
***
Micah falls asleep on her for a full week before Edwin puts his foot down, says the boy needs to learn to self-sooth. She knows he’s right, but she’s also seen him watching them, looking as hurt as Joan has felt these past few years. It takes a promise of morning bear rides and ten minutes petting her chest before Joan can slip out of Micah’s room.
Edwin waits in the hallway, arms crossed. “I don’t think this is good for our marriage.”
“What?” she asks.
He gestures at her body. “This.”
Joan crosses her arms, backs away from him. “It’s okay if you’re jealous.”
He opens his mouth, waves his hand around, says nothing. Joan walks toward the kitchen, understands his hurt. She will encourage Micah to spend more time with his dad, remind him of games they play together. Edwin follows her, struggles with words. She starts loading the dishwasher, quiet.
“You’re planning on staying like that?” he finally asks.
“Like what?” She struggles with the silverware, has trouble getting it into the tiny slots.
Edwin grabs the forks, slides them in with ease. “You have to admit it makes life more difficult.”
“Some things,” she says.
He waits for her to go on.
She rinses the plates, doesn’t look at him.
“You’re not the woman I married,” he says.
“I’ve changed,” she says.
“But into this?” He waves at her fur, her claws.
“People change,” she says. Then, because there’s nothing more to say, “People change.”
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