Part 34 (2/2)

When people go to heaven, it means they're gone and won't come back.

I know.

She's not coming back?

No.

Why?

She can't.

Is it because of me?

No, sweetie.

Will she come back if she doesn't have to see me?

She's gone now. She can't come back.

But....

His words failed at that point. He could not find the right signs to ask what was on his mind.

Is she mad at me because I'm dumb?

You're not dumb. And she's not mad at you.

I don't understand.

She had an accident and she died. It's not your fault. She wasn't mad at you.

He was quiet for long moments, trying to work this through in his mind.

Are you going to die too? he asked. he asked.

No, I said, lying again. I said, lying again.

I don't understand because I'm stupid.

Don't say that!

It's true, he insisted. I'm stupid! I'm a big big stupid!

You're a little boy. There are many things you don't understand yet, but someday you will when you get older and bigger. When I was young like you, my grandmother died and I didn't understand either. Your Memaw told me she had to go to heaven and talk to Jesus.

Did Jesus take care of her?

Yes, I said. I said. He'll take care of your mother now, too. She won't be sick anymore. He'll make sure she's all right. You don't have to worry about her now. Someday we'll go to heaven too and we'll talk to Jesus and we'll see her again and she'll be fine. He'll take care of your mother now, too. She won't be sick anymore. He'll make sure she's all right. You don't have to worry about her now. Someday we'll go to heaven too and we'll talk to Jesus and we'll see her again and she'll be fine.

His face was full of concentration as he thought about this.

Okay, he said at last. he said at last. But I miss her. But I miss her.

I know.

Does she miss me?

I know she does, sweetie.

I sat on the couch and pulled him close. He rested his head on my shoulder and began to cry softly. His tears quickly became bewildered, full of pain and confusion and hurt.

Better out than in, is my motto, so I let him cry and didn't interfere. Seeing him in such pain, I cried a little too, and that's how my mother found us about forty minutes later when she let herself in the front door to the apartment and offered a worried, anxious look.

She sat down on the recliner and Noah went to her like the little boy that he was, crawling onto her lap and throwing himself at her mercy, burying his face against her bosom.

”You told him?” she asked.

”Of course. I'll fix us something for dinner. When he quiets down, maybe you can give him a bath. He's been playing with Keke all day and he's a bit stinky.”

”You should let him bathe himself.”

”Normally I do,” I said, ”but rather than just telling him you love him and care about him and you'll be there for him during this painful, difficult period of his life, why not show him? Why not just get all kinds of extravagant with your affections and pretend like you really love him?”

The sarcasm in my voice was painfully evident.

”I'm sorry,” she said. ”I promised myself I wasn't going to fight with you.”

”Then don't.”

”The problem is that you're just like me.”

”I doubt that,” I said.

”In many ways, you are,” she said. ”You always know what you want and you don't know how to give in. And of course, you know best.”

I was going to say that wasn't true, but actually it was. I did did know best, and I never gave in. know best, and I never gave in.

”Does this mean you you don't know how to give in?” I asked. don't know how to give in?” I asked.

”I'm learning. You?”

”If I hadn't learned to compromise and give in, y'all would have burned me at the stake a long time ago. I still have to watch my back.”

”Is that how you feel?”

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