Four Stories

Chloey was flying my model airplanes again.  But that’s okay.  They’re Styrofoam.  When the wings fall off, or the nose pancakes, you use extra glue.  We stood at the top of the hill.  In front of us, a downward slope of dirt and grass gave the airplanes more room to crash.  I threw:  she crashed.  My watch counted the seconds before the next mad death spiral.  Longest so far, ten seconds.  I watched her face.  I wondered whether she enjoyed crashing.  Her lips contorted, suggesting concentration, not pleasure.  Maybe you can’t teach a five year old these things.

A flash of white foam zinged past my head.  I ducked late; felt the sting.  “Ouch,” I said, cupping my ear.  “Sorry,” Chloey said.  “Can we go home now?”

Chloey, who colored all over the couch?

Oh…I don’t know…but I forgot to remind you, we need more paper.

She wanted to help wash the car.  The one that still had the new car smell and the plastic wrap on the door sills.    We rubbed bubbles of soap deep into shiny blue paint.  I showed her the “top down” method:  wash the top first, bottom last, avoiding scratches.  She rubbed the wheels.  Then she sprayed the car with the hose.  Then sprayed the house with the hose.  Then the dog.

“Okay, time for wax,” I said.

Grabbing the hose, I shot a mist of water on her face, making her giggle.  Next, I dipped my finger in the wax and drew looping circles on the car door.

“Clouds,” I said.

She smiled, then drew a bird on the hood.

“It’s going to poop on your car,” she said, breaking into laughter.

“Funny,” I said.

I stepped back and threw little gobs of wax onto the hood under the bird.

“Poop,” I said.

She laughed harder.

“I’ll get it,” she said.

I rubbed the wax into the car until white turned to blue again.  When I looked up, Chloey was holding a rock over her shoulder-a big one that tilted her body to one side.

“I’ll get the bird,” she said, and threw the rock onto the hood.

Look Dad, I found your keys in my cash register!

You found my keys in your cash register?

Yeah, you should have put them in a safer spot.

We had this big deal at work.  I was asked to bring a visual aid.  Something tangible.  Show the client how our networking products would make their company grow.  So I bought a board from Office Depot and all these magnets, which I made stickers for, to show information flow, and how the company was supposed to benefit from these little magnets moving faster than before.  Two days before the presentation, I tucked the board away in the office closet.

The next day, I found Chloey upstairs in the office.  She had the scissors.  The board was broken into impossibly small pieces.  Magnets and bits of board floated in little puddles of water on the carpet.  Her ponies were lined up, ready to walk across the water on my magnets.  I shouted.

“It’s an optical course,” she squealed.

“A what?”

“Opticals!” she said.

I took the ponies and put them in a garbage bag in the garage.  I asked her how it feels to have something you care about taken away.  She cried and ran into the bathroom and shut the door.

Beethoven was death, you know.

Oh yeah?  What does that mean?

You know…dead.  Died.  Dead.  You’d know these things if you knew more about Beethoven.

You never think your kid’s going to get sick.  I mean, not really sick, especially when you’re an adult and you’ve been healthy all your life.  And your wife’s always been healthy.

The nurse called the day after Chloey went in for a checkup-shots, blood, the usual stuff.  My wife took the call.  I remember her face.  It was like a physical stain of anxiety and pain.  Chloey needed “tests” for something “troubling in her blood.”  What was it?  The possibilities were disturbing.  They wouldn’t give us specifics now.  We drove Chloey to the hospital.  We told her it was a quick trip, and there’d be ice cream later.  We joked with her through all the waiting, tried to keep her smiling.  But I think she sensed it-your kids learn to read you.

They kept her overnight.  We took shifts.  Driving home and back to the hospital.  The roads were empty and every light was green.

The doctor came in the next morning with a chart.  I couldn’t decipher his face.  But I knew what it meant when he led us to a different room.

“In all likelihood your daughter is going to be okay,” he said.  “We’ve ruled out the more serious possibilities.”  He paused and flipped pages.

“It’s CPS deficiency,” he said.  “We’ll monitor it closely and she’ll do fine.”

He explained:  Carbamyl Phosphate Synthetase Deficiency. I couldn’t even pronounce it.  Something about the urea cycle.  Too much protein was bad.  Too little was bad too.  There were red flags to watch for.  Pills.  Ongoing evaluation.  And more questions than answers.

Driving home, Chloey colored.  My wife wanted to have a conversation about Carbamyl Phosphate Synthetase Deficiency.  But there were few words.  We exchanged looks.  It wasn’t in our vocabulary.            I carried Chloey into the living room.  She saw all her ponies out of the garage and lined up on the coffee table.  I’d bought more magnets.  She clapped wildly.