In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • Are You Ready to Go
  • Debbie Urbanski (bio)

I used to dream my son was killing me. Though I don't think it was actually him. It only looked like him. I don't know where my actual son had gone. This other version of Luke was stuck under a gate that was lowering down in my dream. The gate had spikes and Luke kept calling out, using my son's voice, "Mom, help me. Help me!" My husband, Tom, waited in the shade. He asked, "So you're OK just standing there and watching our kid die?" If I moved to save our son, I knew what would happen to me. That's why I wasn't moving. I don't know why Tom didn't save our child himself. It was a dream. "So you're going to stand there and watch him die?" Tom asked again. He repeated himself until that question broke me. I ran toward the gate and felt my rib break first, and then my shoulder blade, then something in my hand, each bone snapping until it no longer mattered what happened to me. I have always loved my son the best I could, despite what certain people have suggested. From beneath the spikes I dragged Luke out before any harm came to him, then his face turned gray, like I knew all along it would. His face cracked open with multiple crevices as he clawed at my cheeks. His hands were like hot ash. I don't know why Tom didn't save me either.

Out of dreams like this I awoke sweaty and exhausted. I would turn on my lamp and spend the remainder of the night skimming through the books stacked upon my bedside table about my son's condition. The books are still there. I was not even halfway through the pile when Luke went away. I flip through them from time to time, though not with the same urgency. My favorite books dealt with how to improve the minutiae of the day, instructing the parent on what toothbrush to use for their special child, or how to whip up a batch of edible clay in the long afternoons. There are books concerning the management of one's own anger and how to live in the moment. Supposedly, not all moments can have pain in them. One of the books has a poorly taped spine. The spine ripped after my husband tried, one evening, to yank the book from my hands. He yanked hard enough to tear the book in two. It was a book written by a mother who cured her son. I asked [End Page 317] Tom whether he thought this mother cured her son by spending her evenings in bed fucking her husband. At the bottom of the pile is a book of Raymond Carver's poetry. He wears, in the book jacket photo, a collared shirt, as if he is this civilized man. His fingernails are meticulously clean, cleaner than mine, for sure. I wanted to read some of Carver's poems after I heard rumors about how he hit his first wife and wanted his son dead.

I do not think I look like a terrible person. If you were to see me today on the street, most likely walking alone and in the opposite direction, you might think there goes a competent librarian, or someone who, in the very least, likes her books. My acquaintances will tell you I don't seem the type to lose my temper, or raise my voice, or, God forbid, to repeatedly strike my child. I make donations every December to three charities, the same charities my husband and I used to support when we lived together, Greenpeace, Doctors Without Borders, and Aid for Starving Children. In return, I receive a personalized holiday card from each organization, signed by their respective presidents. "Honestly, honey, you are the calmest person I know," my old hairdresser used to say, and in return I had to explain to him how my son was special, that he had special needs, or whatever you wanted to call it, special abilities, and really, I was...

pdf

Share