Cracks - Part 3

THREE

That’s better.

The cracks are clearer, now Mason is clean and dry.

He can remember the time before today, he can remember the time before his regression.

Funny, how those two periods hold equal weight in his mind.

Thirty years of normal life, a regular childhood (no more bruised and confused than anyone else’s) and time spent as an adult that wasn’t spectacular (job, house, marriage) but certainly wasn’t a failure.

Mason imagines holding up three decades in one of his little hands, and then holding the last six months in the other.

Why do they seem so finely balanced?

Because those days were so consistent, perhaps. So dominated by routine. Waking up, milkies, diaper change, breakfast, playtime, snack, diaper change, nap and so on. For each and every step, Mason depended on Mommy. The only thing he was in charge of was his dreams, and that was a swampy mess of the day before.

“Feeling better?” Hope asks. She looks down at Mason, who lies on the changing mat, naked.

“Yeah.” Although it was Hope who was feeling bad before, wasn’t it? She’s the one who cried. She’s the one who was confused, asking about the cracks, about Mason’s mental recovery.

“Can you call the doctor now?” Mason asks, before he’s even wearing a fresh diaper.

Hope holds the diaper between her fingers, and there’s a funny look on her face, an almost absent-minded expression, before she blinks and smiles.

“Of course, sweetie,” she says. “But how about you have a bath and get dressed properly. Going to be a big day, talking to the doctor. He’ll probably want you to come in and see him.”

Mason wants to say, It’s not bath-time yet. Bath time’s at night, bath time’s before bedtime. He considers the little boats he plays with in the tub. He thinks about the Baby Shark towel Hope dries him with afterwards.

But those objects, and that timetable, belong squarely in the past.

He says, “Sure. Clean is good.”

Hope beams at him. “Clean is good!” She kisses his nose. “Soon have you squeaky clean!”

Which is what Hope always says before bath time.

She leaves him on the changing mat and goes through to the bathroom.

Mason sits up, crawls onto the rug, which feels soft and comforting to his bare skin. Ticklish, in fact, because he is so sensitive, he is so close to being brand new.

He hears the sounds of running bathwater, of Hope’s faint singing.

“Five little ducks went out one day, over the hill and far away.”

The same song she always sings at bath time.
“Mommy duck said, ‘Quack, quack, quack’, but only four little ducks came waddling back.”

Mason smiles. He knows how it goes, he knows there’s a happy ending.

His smile widens. A splashyending.

But he’ll have to say goodbye to silly games like that. Once he visits the doctor, surely it will be an end to living like a toddler. Even if they can’t get his adult age back, if he has to grow up the usual way, Mason can’t spend the next few years as a child. Now with everything that’s now in his head.

The bathwater quietens, and Hope’s singing is clearer.

“Three little ducks went out one day, over the hill and far away.”

“Mommy duck said, ‘Quack, quack, quack’, but only two little ducks came waddling back.”

Mason blinks. He can imagine Hope holding up three fingers, and then two fingers. Because that’s counting. That’s showing how many. He holds up his own left hand, peers at his splayed fingers. He can count them, he can count fingers. He strokes the rug’s soft fibers with his other hand.

He smiles complacently. He’s a good counter.

Hope returns to the nursery and scoops Mason up.

She sings, ““One little duck went out one day, over the hill and far away.”

She walks out of the nursery and asks with her regular tone, as if this was a perfectly ordinary question, like she’s inquiring about the weather. “What did Mommy duck say?”

Mason giggles, squirming self-consciously in Hope’s arms. He doesn’t want to say. The song is so babyish, so silly.

Hope giggles too. “Don’t be shy! You know! She kisses his cheek and says brightly, “You’re my smart cookie. What does the Mommy duck say?”

Mason buries his face in Hope’s long hair and mumbles, “Quack, quack, quack,” his face reddening with each repetition. What a silly game they’re playing.

“That’s right!” Hope exclaims, as if Mason has delivered new information, a stunning newsflash. And then her voice changes, taking on a theatrically sad quality.

“But no little ducks came waddling back.” She moans as if grief-stricken. “Oh dear! Where’d those duckies go, Mason? Mommy needs her baby duckies!”

Mason ponders the question. Hope doesn’t normally wait for an actual answer. Because normally, Mason doesn’t speak. Normally, Mason doesn’t really understand.

But he’s not really a baby. Mason considers the question of the missing duckies, and then he says, “They goed…they went play…they went playing someplace?” He frowns at his struggle to express himself; he’s feeling tired, after all the excitement – usually by now, he’s having his nap – but Hope doesn’t comment on his poor grammar. Instead, she praises him.

“Good boy,” says Hope, jiggling Mason lightly as she walks along the hall and into the bathroom. “My bestest boy. Gonna get you all squeaky clean, aren’t we. Gonna make you smell all sweet and good.”

“Bath, then doctor,” says Mason, because he knows very well what they’ve agreed, but when he looks down and spots the toys in the tub, he wonders if Hope remembers.

Silly Hope.