Chapter 9 - Toy Trains on the Rug
We stayed on the couch because the floor didn't feel safe yet.
My husband had eased me up off the carpet and walked me the five steps over with one hand under my good elbow and the other hovering near my back, like I might tip. The boys came glued to my legs. When I sat, they climbed up on either side of me without asking. The cushions dipped. My bandaged arm throbbed when I tried to settle it across my lap, so I propped it up on the armrest with the throw pillow underneath. It looked pale against the dark fabric.
The lamps were low now. He'd turned off the big ceiling light on the way past, and the room went back to what it should have been at night. Warm pool from the table lamp on the left. The little glow from the wall sconce over the bookshelf. Blue still sitting in the windows. My eyes had adjusted enough that I could see the blood spot on the carpet from where I sat. Small and dark. I looked away from it.
The older boy leaned his head against my good shoulder. The younger one sat forward with his feet on the edge of the couch, staring at the rug.
For a while nobody talked. The house ticked. The fridge hummed somewhere down the hall. I could hear my husband breathing by the doorway where the security guys had been. They were gone now. It was just us and the mess of toys.
Then I heard the plastic wheels.
The younger boy had slid down to the floor without letting go of my pant leg with one hand. With the other, he reached for the little train. The red and blue choo-choo. He didn't lift it or make the sound he'd made earlier. He just pushed it forward a few inches on the rug and pulled it back. Forward. Back. His mouth was pressed tight.
I watched his hand. It shook a little on the pull-back.
"You've got your engineer," I said quietly.
He didn't look up, but his hand paused.
I shifted so I could see the rug better without moving my bad arm. "Let's check who's still here," I said. It was what I did at cleanup time, when they were wired and I needed their eyes to land somewhere. Name it and it stays still.
I pointed with my chin because I didn't want to jostle the pillow. "Blue engine. That's yours."
The younger boy pushed it forward one inch.
"Red caboose behind it," I said. "See it by the block?"
His brother lifted his head from my shoulder and looked. "That's mine," he whispered.
"That's right," I said. "And the wooden toy's still up on the shelf. Dad put it there. And the green block. And the dinosaur with the chewed tail."
The older boy gave a small breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "He chews it."
"I know he does," I said. My voice stayed low. "Can you find the yellow car? The one with the missing wheel?"
They both scanned. The younger boy's eyes moved while his hand stayed on the engine. The older boy spotted it first, half under the bookshelf edge.
"There," he said, and pointed.
"Good eyes," I said. "Leave it there for tonight. It can sleep there."
The younger boy pushed the choo-choo forward again, a little farther this time. Back. The rhythm evened out. He wasn't playing, exactly. He was checking that it still moved the same way.
My husband crossed the room while I talked. He didn't interrupt. He went to the bookshelf and crouched beside it, testing the side with his palm. The wood creaked. I felt both boys tense against me.
"It's all right," I said, before they could ask. "Dad's just making sure."
He glanced back at us. "I felt it rock earlier," he said. "When I bumped it."
He stood and went to the front closet. I heard hangers shift. He came back with a folded moving pad and a rubber door wedge from the hall door. He knelt again and worked the wedge under the front left foot of the bookshelf with his thumb, tapping it in until the wobble stopped. Then he folded the pad into a square and braced it between the side of the shelf and the wall.
He tested it again. No sway.
"Better," he said, mostly to himself.
Then he reached up to the middle shelf where the small wooden toy sat — the carved truck his father had made, paint worn at the corners. He lifted it down, looked at it for a second, and set it on the top shelf, way back against the wall where little hands couldn't reach without a chair.
"Up high for tonight," he told the boys. "So it doesn't fall. I'll fix the shelf right tomorrow."
The older boy nodded. The younger boy watched the truck go up and then looked back at his train. He pushed it forward and back once more, slower.
My husband came and sat on the coffee table facing us, knees close to the couch. The lamplight caught the stubble on his jaw and the silver of his watch when he rested his hands on his knees.
"You guys did good staying with Mom," he said.
Neither boy answered. The older one leaned back into me. The younger one climbed up again and fit himself under my good arm, careful around the pillow on the other side. His hair smelled like shampoo and carpet dust. His eyelids were heavy. He fought it, blinking hard at the rug.
"Don't want to go to bed," he mumbled into my sweater.
"I know," I said. "You don't have to. You can stay right here."
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The older boy's breathing slowed against my shoulder. The younger boy's hand loosened on my sleeve but didn't let go. The train sat where he'd left it on the rug, engine pointed toward the couch like it had driven home.
Across the room the bookshelf stood still. The blood spot stayed where it was on the carpet. We didn't touch either one. For now it was enough that the shelf didn't move and the boys were drowsy and still with me, and the night lamps burned low around us.
