The Wake Up

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

  “Just . . . I have things I need to figure out in my life.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like . . . feelings. Feelings are hard for me.”

  “You can’t feel them?”

  “I didn’t used to be able to. Now I feel them too much.”

  Aiden glanced over to see Milo staring at him, eyes wide.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Yeah. A lot of the time it does.”

  “Oh,” Milo said.

  Aiden thought the boy would say more. He never did.

  Aiden wrapped one arm around the boy’s shoulder as he guided him into the tile and linoleum shop. Carefully, so as not to knock him over. Then he pulled the arm back because he could tell Milo minded.

  “Hey, Greg,” Aiden said.

  The older man looked up from some kind of catalogue. “Aiden. What brings you my way? And who’s this young fella?”

  “This is Gwen’s son. Milo. Sort of my stepson, I guess you could say. Almost.”

  Greg walked out from behind the corner and offered Milo his hand to shake. It startled the boy. Aiden could see it and feel it, both. Milo backed up so fast on his crutches that he tipped himself over. Aiden had to catch him before he landed on the shop floor on his butt.

  “Milo gets to know people in his own time,” Aiden said, setting the boy back on his feet. Well, foot. And crutches.

  “That’s all right. What can I do for you two?”

  “Milo is an artist,” Aiden said. He felt the boy’s swell of pride at the words. “He does really beautiful mosaic projects.”

  “Say no more. I’ve had the request before. Nothing quite as good as broken tiles for a mosaic project. Follow me out back. I’ll get a couple empty cartons and you can go through my dumpster.”

  “Hmm,” Aiden said. “Wish there was some way I could get you in here to see for yourself.”

  Aiden had climbed into the dumpster and was standing ankle-deep in broken tile and a few linoleum scraps. He moved the linoleum into one corner as best he could.

  Milo strained to see over the edge of the dumpster, but he was just too small.

  “Maybe you can lift me in.”

  “I don’t know about that, Milo. It’d be kind of hard to keep your balance in here. Tell you what. I’ll hold up some tile scraps. And you just say yes or no. Grab one of those cartons, and hold it close to the edge of the dumpster if you can. If you say yes, I’ll drop them in.”

  It worked fine for about six double handfuls. Milo held the box with both hands, leaned it against the side of the dumpster, and leaned on the edge of the box. But it soon became clear that the word “no” was unlikely to come out of Milo’s mouth anytime soon. He wanted it all. And the box quickly grew too heavy for the boy to hold, balanced on one leg as he was.

  “Okay, new plan,” Aiden said. “I just box up all the scrap tile he’s got. And we put it in the back of the truck and take it home.”

  “Yes, please. But we need to stop at that furniture place like you said.”

  “Won’t work on a glass coffee table?”

  “I don’t know yet. I can’t figure that out. But I was thinking of . . . like . . . a really nice wood tray. Like the kind of tray people eat breakfast in bed on. My mom likes breakfast in bed. So I thought I could put a mosaic on that and give it to her as a present.”

  “We’ll get one, then,” Aiden said. “We’ll get one if we have to go all over the damn county to find it.”

  Aiden sat in Hannah’s office, listening to the clock tick. He wanted to say, “Tell me everything about Milo. Every word he’s said to you. Every tic of his body language.” But he knew he couldn’t ask that. So he said nothing at all.

  “How’s it going with you two?” he asked, when staring out the window grew too heavy to sustain.

  “Reasonably well, given that it’s only been three sessions. But it takes time. I know I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “I guess there’s not much you can tell me about how it’s going. What you’re finding out. I know there’s that confidentiality thing. I mean . . . is there? Or is it different with children?”

  “That’s a bit of a complex issue,” she said.

  She rose from her chair. For a strange moment, Aiden thought she was going to walk out of the room entirely. That he had offended her beyond repair. Instead she just poured more boiling water into her teacup from a hot pot on her desk in the corner of the room.

  “It’s most complex with adolescents,” she said. “With a ten-year-old child like Milo it’s a bit clearer, though not without its thorns.” She stirred honey into her tea as she spoke. “Under the law, Milo is too young to consent to treatment. So it’s actually his mother who entered into this verbal contract with me to treat him. And the law allows that she has a right to know something of the content of that treatment. But there’s definitely a trust bond being formed between psychiatrist and child, and I burst that bubble at my own peril, as well as Milo’s. And, just so you know, Gwen hasn’t asked. She’s letting it be between him and me.”

  She sat back down and stared openly into his face, and Aiden looked away, feeling as though he’d been caught doing something illegal. Or at the very least inadvisable.

  “I’m sorry if I was wrong to ask,” he said.

  “You don’t have to be. Just don’t blame me for playing my cards close to the vest. I understand you have a huge investment in this, but you’re not his parent in the eyes of the law. But I can and will tell you one thing, because it doesn’t involve repeating anything he’s said to me in the sessions. He needs your support. He needs you to believe in him.”

  “I know he does. I know.”

  Then they listened to the clock tick for half a minute or more.

  “I just want to ask your opinion about something,” Aiden said. “If it’s something you’re able to say. If Milo had . . . an . . . animal. And it was his. His very own. Do you think he’d take care of that animal? Or do you think he’d hurt it?”

  He had hoped she would think about the question for a moment. Instead she immediately shook her head.

  “I wouldn’t even venture a guess, Aiden. I know you’d be a lot more comfortable with some kind of guarantee. But there are no guarantees to be had in this situation, and I think you know it. Why? Were you thinking of getting him a pet?”

  Now it was Aiden’s turn to shake his head without even thinking.

  “Probably not. No. Forget I even mentioned it. It was just a stupid idea.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Born

  It was three days later when Aiden experienced the flip side of the pain of the wake up. It had never happened before, and he had not seen it coming. It had never occurred to him that he might be the recipient of an animal’s joy.

  He was mucking out stalls in the barn, starting with the brood mare, Misty, who was gigantic and ungainly with foal. He looked up from his shoveling to see Penny stick her head over the door of the stall across the aisle to look at him. Maybe even to tell him something.

  She was happy. Not just not unhappy. Hugely, quantifiably happy.

  He set down his pitchfork and shovel and crossed the barn aisle to her, and held out his palm, and she nuzzled it with her nose.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “Every good horse should have a little girl, don’t you think?”

  That was the moment when Aiden realized he had been guilty of an error in his thinking. He would have to be more aggressive about selling his horses. He saw that now. He had been holding back out of fear. Fear that the new owners would mistreat them. Or, even if it was the best new owner possible, fear of the terrifying unfamiliarity a horse has to weather after they’ve been sold.

  But that wasn’t fair to his horses, he now knew. He was protecting them from everything, including a successful bond like the one Penny had found. In trying to shield them from any pain, he was also shielding them from potential great happiness.

  And he needed money, so it was a relief to mak
e the decision. But the money was secondary, if a consideration at all.

  Penny lifted her head and whinnied, and Aiden turned to see Elizabeth standing in the barn aisle behind him holding the mare’s bridle.

  “How long should I keep her in the barn?” the girl asked.

  “How long? I’m not sure I understand the question. Leave her in here as long as you like.”

  “But you had her out in pasture. Is it better for her out in pasture?”

  “There’s really no better or worse about it. They’re just different. In the pasture they have more room to move. They can run if they feel like running. In the barn they have more protection from the elements, and from each other. If you keep a horse in a stall, you have to take them out regularly and ride them. Or turn them out, or work them in some way, like when I turn Dusty out in the roping pen and let him run. Otherwise it’s just cruel to pen them up so tightly. But you ride this mare every day. So the barn is fine for her.”

  “Oh. Okay. Good.”

  “I was just noticing how happy this little mare is, now that she has you.”

  Elizabeth stopped moving. She had been swinging the stall door wide, but she froze. She looked up into Aiden’s face with wide, unguarded eyes.

  “Really? You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “How do you know?”

  Aiden ran the options through his mind quickly. Or maybe they ran through all on their own.

  “Remember when I told you animals learn to read us when they have to live with us?”

  “I remember.”

  “You asked why we don’t learn to sense what they’re feeling. I didn’t tell you at the time, because I didn’t know you as well as I know you now. But I’m one of some rare people who seem to have extra senses. Or just extrastrong senses. I can sometimes feel what the animals are feeling. Stronger they feel it, the more likely I am to feel it, too. Usually it’s a curse. But this morning when I saw how happy Penny was . . . this was the first time I felt like it was a good thing to have.”

  Elizabeth was staring at him, and he was keeping his eyes slightly averted. She didn’t seem to be judging him. Just leaning in to know more.

  “What about people? Does it work with people?”

  “Sometimes. Some people.”

  “Did you learn it from being around so many animals for so long?”

  “No. I think I was born with it. Just more sensitivity than most people. Then I blocked it out for most of my life. And then I couldn’t block it out anymore.”

  “Wow,” she said, and her hands began to move again. Began to bridle her mare. “That helps a lot of stuff make sense when I think back on it. Like why you got so freaked out about the rabbits. And Buddy. You know. Getting hurt. Not that anybody wouldn’t. But, you know. You were really freaked out.”

  “Yeah,” Aiden said. “That’s why.”

  “Can you tell when Misty’s going to have her foal?”

  “No. It’s not like seeing into the future. I might know when she knows. If she goes into labor I might feel her pain from the house. I can tell you right now it’s going to be soon, but not because of any special senses. I just know because I’ve watched a lot of mares go through the process.”

  Elizabeth led her horse out into the barn aisle. She stopped, looked at the enormous Misty, then back at Aiden. “Why is that a bad thing?”

  “Why is what a bad thing?”

  “Misty foaling.”

  “It’s not.”

  “But your face got really dark when you talked about it.”

  “Oh,” Aiden said. “Right. I just have a decision I have to make by the time she foals, and I’m having trouble with it. Maybe you can help.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. You. You have good judgment. And you know your brother. If Milo had an animal and it was his very own . . . do you think he’d take care of it? Or do you think he’d hurt it?”

  Elizabeth stood beside her horse for several long seconds, stroking the mare’s face. Other than that one petting hand, no part of the girl moved.

  “What kind of animal?”

  “Horse.”

  “He’d be too afraid of a horse to get near enough to hurt it.”

  “Brand-new baby foal.”

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said, drawing the word out, quiet and long, as the situation came clear to her. “I get it. Well, here’s what I think. I think if he found a baby foal by the side of the road or something, well . . . I’m not sure. I think he’d be less likely to hurt it than he would have been back when he first met you. He was really scared of you then, and so he was acting out a lot. But I’m not positive enough. You know. If he just found it and it wasn’t anybody’s. But if you gave him a baby foal? I don’t think he’d hurt it. I think he’d be all impressed because it was from you, and I think he wouldn’t want to disappoint you. Thing is, I can’t . . . you know . . . give you like an actual guarantee or anything.”

  “I know you can’t. Nobody can. But thanks for your thoughts anyway. Oh. One more thing I wanted to ask you. When you guys came over that first night, I asked Milo if he liked horses, and he said no. Is that really true, do you think? I mean, he might not be interested at all.”

  Aiden tried not to sound hopeful. It probably didn’t work.

  “No. I don’t think it’s true. I think he’s scared of them, and I think anything you said you liked he would have said he didn’t like. But I think if he wasn’t interested in having a horse at all, well . . . why would he have gotten so upset when you gave me one?”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  Elizabeth nodded, and led her horse to the open barn doors. Out into the sun. Then she stopped and turned back to Aiden.

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  “I just keep thinking that when that new little life pops out into the world, it’s my responsibility. I have a duty to make sure I don’t put that foal in harm’s way.”

  “I get it,” she said.

  But she sounded disappointed. Which was hard on Aiden, who never wanted to disappoint her.

  When the sun went down that night, Aiden dug his camp cot out of the shed and set it up in Misty’s stall.

  Then he walked back into the house to find Gwen.

  She was in the kitchen, doing up the last of the dinner dishes. He moved up behind her and swept her hair aside and kissed the nape of her neck.

  “I might not be in tonight,” he said.

  “Really? Where will you be?”

  “Out in the barn with Misty. I really think it’s going to be tonight or tomorrow. Or maybe tomorrow night. I just want to be there in case anything goes wrong. Or in case she needs my help.”

  Gwen turned to face him. She almost put her arms around him. She started to. But her hands were wet and covered with suds. She looked at them for a moment, then smiled wryly and wiped them off on Aiden’s shirt.

  “Hey!” he said, jumping back.

  But then they both laughed.

  “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. I think you’re sweet to care so much about that mare. About all your horses.”

  “What would you think about . . .”

  But then he trailed off and couldn’t seem to finish.

  “What? Go ahead.”

  “I was thinking maybe I’d take Milo out there with me. So he can see a foal being born. It’s kind of an amazing thing to witness.”

  “Are you going to . . .” Then it was Gwen’s turn to be unable to finish.

  “Probably not. I don’t know yet. I still can’t decide. But I just thought it would be something he’d want to see.”

  “What about Elizabeth? She’d love to see it.”

  “Yeah,” Aiden said. “She’d love it. But not this time. We have lots of births here, and we’re about to have a lot more. And you’re right, she should see this. But right now we have that ‘Milo deficit’ thing going on. He thinks Elizabeth gets much more of me. So this
time I think it should be just me and Milo.”

  Gwen wiped her hands off on a dish towel, seemingly lost in thought. Then she nodded. “Okay. I’ll explain to Elizabeth. I think she’ll understand.”

  “Why do I have to do this?” Milo asked in his nasal whine. He had been moving over the rough ground between house and barn on his crutches, but he stopped and leaned. And complained. “I just want to go to bed.”

  Aiden raised his battery-powered lantern to better see the boy. “I have a cot set up in Misty’s stall,” he said. “If you get sleepy, you can fall asleep in there, and I’ll wake you when the foal comes.”

  “I don’t want to sleep in the barn. I want to sleep in my room.”

  “It’s just this one night. Do this for me, Milo. It’s an amazing experience to watch a new baby come into the world. It changed my life when I was a kid. Just try this with me, okay?”

  Milo sighed, and slumped farther down over his crutches. “It’s too hard for me to walk. The ground is all bumpy, and it’s dark.”

  “Okay,” Aiden said. He sank to one knee beside the boy. “Put one hand on my shoulder to steady yourself. And now I’m going to take your crutches.” Aiden got both of them in his left hand, then turned so his back was facing Milo. “Okay. Hop on.”

  For a long moment, nothing. No movement. No words.

  It was asking a lot of Milo, who did not care to be touched in any way. But if Aiden didn’t push them into new territory, how were they ever going to get there?

  A moment later Aiden felt Milo’s spindly arms wrap around his neck. He stood, lifting the boy with him. Milo wrapped his good leg around Aiden’s waist.

  Together they moved to the barn for the night.

  “What if we just sit here all night, and she never gets birthed to anything?” Milo asked.

  He was lying on the cot in the corner of Misty’s stall, too aware of the massive animal to relax much. Aiden was sitting with his back up against the stall partition, watching the mare and feeling whatever he could feel from her. He was sure she was close—that he could feel the pain of early labor.