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Part 1 — The Hallway
Bennett wrapped his arms around my waist before I reached my keys.
He held on the way he held on when I had been gone long enough that he needed to confirm I was solid.
Four days.
Long enough to miss his bedtime stories. Long enough to feel the guilt every time he asked when I was coming home.
I had landed early and had decided not to call because I wanted to see his face when I walked through the door.
I had seen his face.
It was not what I expected.
His smile faded the moment he looked up at me.
He said: Mom. Please don’t go into my room.
I laughed because I assumed he had drawn on the walls again — this had happened once, when he was five, with a purple marker and a very optimistic theory about where art was allowed to happen.
He shook his head hard enough that tears filled his eyes.
He said: I promised I wouldn’t let anyone in.
I said: promised who?
He didn’t answer.
My sister Lauren had been staying with him.
I called her name.
Silence.
I checked the kitchen. The backyard. Her car was still in the driveway.
The house was the specific quiet of a house where people are trying to be very quiet.
I said: Bennett, where’s Aunt Lauren?
He stared at the floor.
He said: I don’t know.
There was light under his bedroom door.
I had turned everything off before I left.
A low whisper from inside.
The sound of something being dragged carefully across the floor.
Bennett grabbed my sleeve.
His fingers were shaking.
He said: Mom, please.
He said: they said you’d be angry if you found out.
I looked at his face.
My seven-year-old son with his worried eyes and his shaking hands and his carefully kept promise.
I put my hand on the doorknob.
I pushed.
Part 2 — What Was In The Room
The first thing I saw was the ceiling.
It had stars on it.
Not star stickers — although there were those too, along the edges. Painted stars. A whole sky of them, in the deep blue-black of a clear night, with a yellow moon in the corner that had Bennett’s handwriting beside it: MOM’S MOON because she always points at the moon.
I had always pointed at the moon.
Every bedtime for seven years.
I pushed the door all the way open.
Lauren was standing on a step stool in the corner, still holding a paintbrush, her hair pulled up and her oldest sweatshirt covered in what appeared to be a significant portion of the universe.
She said: you’re early.
I said: your car is in the driveway.
She said: I know, I moved it so you’d think I left.
I couldn’t respond to that because I was looking at the walls.
The walls were covered in drawings.
Not random drawings — specific ones.
Our trip to the Oregon coast when Bennett was four, rendered in crayon and watercolor in the way that a child draws important memories: the waves enormous, the people small and stick-figured and joyful. My own figure had two different colored dots for eyes — brown and green — which was not accurate but which was how Bennett had always drawn me, because he thought my eyes were the most interesting thing about my face.
Below that: the time I had come home from a work trip when he was six and we had built a blanket fort in the living room and watched three movies in a row because I had felt so guilty about being away that I had thrown every scheduled thing out the window. He had drawn the fort with meticulous attention to the specific way we had anchored the blankets to the bookshelf.
The window wall had our Sunday mornings — pancakes in our pajamas, me with coffee, him with orange juice, the specific ritual of two people who have learned to be a family of two and who have made that into something whole.
Every wall was covered.
Every surface.
Four days of work, at least.
Maybe more.
I understood now what the dragging sound had been.
Bennett had moved his bookshelf to paint behind it.
He had moved his bed.
He had moved everything in his room to turn it into something that was not a room anymore.
It was a record.
Of us.
Part 3 — Bennett
He was in the doorway behind me.
I turned around.
He was watching my face with the specific anxious attention of someone who has worked very hard on something and is not yet certain whether the work was welcome.
He said: are you angry?
I said: no.
He said: you’re making a face.
I said: I’m trying not to cry.
His shoulders dropped with relief.
He said: Aunt Lauren said you would probably cry but she didn’t know if it would be the good kind.
I said: the good kind.
He said: I couldn’t reach the ceiling part. Aunt Lauren did the ceiling.
I said: I noticed.
He said: I did the moon though.
I said: I saw your handwriting.
He said: Mom’s moon because you always point at it.
I said: yes.
He said: I ran out of room on some parts. The Oregon coast one got squished because the waves were bigger than I planned.
I said: the waves were very accurate.
He said: I had to look at photos.
He said all of this with the specific seriousness of an artist explaining his process to someone who he hopes will appreciate the decisions he made.
I sat down on the floor.
Not dramatically.
My legs simply decided that the floor was the appropriate place to be.
Bennett came and sat beside me.
He said: do you like it?
I said: Bennett.
He said: yes.
I said: this is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me.
He looked around the room.
He said: I was going to do the closet too but I ran out of time.
I said: you don’t have to do the closet.
He said: maybe for your birthday.
I put my arm around him.
He leaned against me.
He smelled like paint and the specific smell of a seven-year-old who has been working hard all day and has not been reminded about washing his hands.
We sat on the floor of his room and looked at our life on the walls.
Part 4 — Lauren
She had quietly stepped out during the moment with Bennett.
I found her in the kitchen making tea with the calm efficiency of someone who has completed a significant project and is now in the decompression phase.
She said: well?
I said: when did he plan this?
She said: he called me two weeks ago. Before you even left.
I said: he called you.
She said: he used your phone while you were in the shower. He said he wanted to do something for when you got back because you always felt bad about going away and he wanted you to stop feeling bad.
She said: he had a list.
I said: a list.
She said: crayon memories, that was his phrase. He wanted to put all the crayon memories on the walls. He had written down seventeen of them.
She said: we didn’t get to all seventeen because some of them were very large conceptually.
I said: the closet for my birthday.
She said: he mentioned that.
She handed me a mug.
She said: Maya.
I said: yes.
She said: you raised a very good person.
I said: I know.
She said: I mean it specifically. He was worried the whole time that you’d be upset about the walls. But he decided that if you were upset he would explain that the memories were more important than the paint and that you could always paint over them but you couldn’t paint them in the first place without doing it now.
She said: he had a whole argument prepared.
I said: he’s been preparing arguments since he was four.
She said: he said the same thing about you.
I drank my tea.
Outside, the late afternoon light was doing what late afternoon light does in October — going golden and specific, making ordinary things look significant.
I had been gone for four days.
I had landed early to surprise him.
He had surprised me instead.
Part 5 — The Moon
That night I did the bedtime routine in his room for the first time since before the trip.
He had put his bookshelf back but it was slightly crooked and he had decided this was acceptable.
He climbed into bed and I pulled the blanket up and I looked at the ceiling.
The stars were exactly right.
Not astronomically accurate — the constellations were approximate — but right in the way that mattered, which was that they were the stars you’d see if you were looking at a sky that someone loved.
The moon was in the corner with his handwriting beside it.
I said: you know I look at you from the road.
He said: I know.
I said: when I’m in a car going somewhere and it’s nighttime. I look at the moon.
He said: that’s why I wrote it.
I said: yes.
He said: Mom.
I said: yes.
He said: you don’t have to feel bad about going away.
I said: I know you want me not to feel bad.
He said: no, I mean you actually don’t have to. Because when you’re away I just think about when you come back. And then you come back. And it’s the same.
He said: the away part is just the part before the coming back part.
I looked at the ceiling.
I said: that is the wisest thing anyone has ever said to me.
He said: Aunt Lauren helped me figure out how to say it.
I said: I thought it sounded a little polished.
He said: she said the ‘away part is the part before the coming back part’ was better than what I had.
I said: what did you have?
He said: going away is okay because coming back is gooder.
I said: that’s also very good.
He said: it’s not a word.
I said: gooder is absolutely a word.
He said: it isn’t.
I said: I’m your mother. I decide which words are words.
He said: that’s not how it works.
I said: goodnight, Bennett.
He said: goodnight, Mom.
I turned off the light.
The painted stars were faint in the dark but they were there — he had used glow-in-the-dark paint on some of them, I realized, because the ones that were faintly visible were arranged in the shape of something that took me a moment to identify.
The Big Dipper.
Which we had found together in the backyard last summer when I had come home from a trip and he had been awake past his bedtime and instead of making him go back to sleep I had carried him outside and we had sat on the porch and found the Big Dipper and then the Little Dipper and then made up names for every other cluster we could see.
He had painted that.
He had remembered that.
He had put it on his ceiling so it would be there every night.
I sat in the doorway of his room for a while.
The away part is just the part before the coming back part.
Yes.
Yes it is.
Some seven-year-olds call their aunts from their mother’s phone while she’s in the shower.
Some bedrooms become records of the important things.
Some ceilings have the Big Dipper on them because a boy wanted his mother to stop feeling guilty about going away.
Come home early when you can.
Let them surprise you.
Sit on the floor and look at the walls.
And when the glow-in-the-dark stars come out at night — find the Big Dipper.
You found it together once.
It’s still there.
It’s always been there.
