“For God’s sakes Michael Junior,” I bark, “what the hell are you doing out of bed, young man?”
His big eyes grow even wider, and he begins to cry. I realize I’m still holding the knife in my hand, I’m swaying from drinking far too much today, and I imagine that I must be quite the frightening sight for the child to behold. I push his face into my belly, gently, while extending my arm and dropping the knife onto the table. My belly is tight, but the adrenalin mixing with the alcohol in my blood has dulled the pain. For now.
After a time, Mike pulls away, looks up at me.
“Your heart is beating so fast, Mom,” he says. “It sounds like a drum.”
“You startled me,” I say. “So what are you doing up?”
“I was cold,” he says. “The window is open too much.”
My eyes squint and my brow furrows.
