Cracks - Part 2 (Patreon)

TWO

Hope takes Mason upstairs to the nursery.

Does he want to sit on her lap?

No. Definitely not.

How about just sitting on the rug beside the crib?

Fine. Whatever.

But they have to talk.

Hope answers the first question. “About six months go.” She puts a finger to her chin. “Yes, must be…and so you’re fifteen months old now.” She has answered Mason’s second question without him asking.

Mason considers the data. There is critical thinking required. Do the numbers hold up to closer scrutiny? He laughs out loud – a snort through his nose, nothing like the giggle he usually produces. Seeing a funny face. Tickles on his feet. Bounces on his butt. He laughs at the idea that he can make any sense of the recent past.

He feels clear in his mind now – relatively, kinda-sorta – but what came before? It’s a mess of feedings, soft play, silly stories, diaper changes, bath-time, muddled dreams and then a repeat of the cycle. Maybe it’s been six months, maybe six years.

He looks at Hope, who is massive compared to him, who could squash him like a bug, and yet he can feel the residual trust, the certainty that she would never hurt him. Mommy would never hurt him.

But what about his wife?

“So I’m getting older, then,” he says.

“Of course,” Hope replies, and she looks surprised. As if it’s a funny question. As if all of this is normal.

Good news, if it’s true. (And Mommy doesn’t lie. Mommy knows best. That conviction holds fast in Mason’s head. Except, Hope isn’t supposed to be Mommy. Hope is supposed to be his wife.)

Good news if Mason can learn and grow. Learning his way out of diapers, growing his way out of babyish outfits. Out of baby sharks.

Out of bubble baths? Out of milkies? Mason wrinkles his nose.

“What’s wrong?” asks Hope, reaching for him. For her baby.

She can pull him onto her lap, for lovely cuddles. She can get him out of that soggy diaper. She can kiss his face and tickles his belly, she can make him forget everything but his love for her.

Mason scoots back, away from those caring, soft hands. “Nothing’s wrong.” And then he produces his snorting laugh again. Like a pig. Peppa Pig. Silly little piggy. A smile tries to form on his lips, and he pouts it away.

It’s not Mason’s fault that he thinks piggies are funny. It’s not his fault that he loves milkies.

He looks at Hope. So who’s fault is it?

He should ask. But can he handle the answer? He’s spent six months being started by loud noises, he’s woken up alone in his crib, wet and needing comfort. He’s cried for his mommy, he’s wanted nothing else.

So perhaps he shouldn’t ask. Perhaps he should just toddle back into Mommy’s lap, let her stroke his head and kiss his boo-boos.

Because if he asks, if he straight out accuses, there will be trouble. There will be tears before bedtime. Because Mommy’s in charge. Mommy’s the boss.

“Do you remember when it happened?” Hope asks softly. Her hands are folded in her lap; they are not weapons, she looks suddenly defenseless.

Mason shakes his head. He barely remembers his life before all this, when he was full-grown, when he was Hope’s husband.

“It was overnight,” she says. “I woke up and…you were beside me in bed, still asleep.” She smiles. “I remember looking at you and feeling amazed, and thinking for a second, ‘Who left this beautiful baby here?’” She shakes her head, still smiling. “But it was only for a second. I could tell…when I looked at your face, and then when I held you. I knew it was you.”

She’s answering without Mason having to ask. Emboldened, he says, “So how’d it happen?”

Hope shakes her head again. “No one knows.” She sighs. “You weren’t the only one. Thousands, adults regressing back to babies. Men and woman, young and old.” She looks down at her hands, her shoulders tighten, and Mason wonders if his wife is about to start crying.

Well, it’s surely her turn.

“No one knew what to do,” says Hope, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I…well, I’d lost my husband. And I was…oh, it sounds so silly!”

“What?”

“Well…I guess I was angry at you.” She keeps her head down, face hidden by her hair. “I’d lost my husband and now I had a baby to care for. I was completely on my own.”

“I’m sorry,” Mason says, unsure what he’s apologizing for.

Hope lifts her head, showing tear-filled eyes. “No,” she says. “Nothing to be sorry for. I’m glad it happened. Because I fell in love with you all over again. But as your mother this time. And now it’s perfect.”

She holds out her hands, and seriously, what is Mason supposed to do? Ignore her? Reject her?

He could crawl over, but instead he gets to his feet, wobbly but determined to do this on two legs.

Four steps and he’s in her arms.

“Mmm,” Hope says. “That’s better.”

And it is better. It feels like home, cuddled by Hope. She bends her legs and Mason rests his back against her knees, looking up at her. They hold hands, or something like it, and Mason wonders what would happen if Hope starts to play patty-cake with him.

“What do we do now?” he asks.

“Do?”

“I’m not a baby anymore,” he says. “Not exactly.” He waves towards the nursery window. “What about the others?”

Hope smiles. “It’s so funny, hearing you talk.”

Mason frowns. “I can’t help it, I’ve hardly got any teeth.”

“No, I don’t mean funny like that. I just mean…it’s been a while.” She smiles. “I missed you.” She laughs. “I know you could understand a bunch of words, but you were only saying, Mommy, more, ni-nigh.” She nods. “Milkies.”

Mason feels the blush rise in his cheeks. Time is a slippery concept in his head, but minutes…just a matter of hours since Hope took him from the crib to her own bed – their marriage bed – and fed him.

“But I knew you were smart,” Hope says, as if she didn’t notice Mason’s embarrassment. “Smart as a button.” She shakes her head and laughs. “I’d say, where’s your nose, where’s your ears, where’s your mouth? And you’d point.” She taps his nose gently. “Smart cookie.”

Mason smiles. “I remember.” Like it was yesterday. Because it was, right? His delight in playing with her, his joy in being touched and talked to. Mommy plays the best games. Funny Mommy.

Hope grins. “How’d you do it, huh? How’d you get all those big boy thoughts back?”

There’s something in Hope’s tone that makes Mason want to smile and giggle.

“It was really sudden,” he says quickly, eager to answer, keen to be a star witness. “it’s just like I was doing baby stuff and then there were cracks, kind of. And the memories came back in.”

“Cracks,” Hope says softly. “Isn’t that funny.” And she does sound amused. She’s going to tell him something wonderfully silly, she’s going to make a face and tickle his sides.

And then he remembers his question. “What about the others?”

Hope tilts her head. “Others?”

“Other babies,” Mason says. “Maybe they remember too.”

Hope shakes her head. “I doubt it. You’re not like the others, you’re my Mason. You’re special.” She beams at him and says sweetly, “You’re just such a smart cookie!”

“Hope,” Mason says, frustration making his face warm again. “Don’t…” Don’t talk to me like that. Don’t forget what I am. I can’t go back, I can’t be a dumb, helpless baby again.

“Don’t what?”

Mason says, “I just…we need to work out what’s next. I need to see a doctor. I need…we need to talk about what we no next.” He manages a smile. “I can’t go back to playing with blocks.”

Hope nods. “I know.” And then her eyes widen. “Oh, honey!”
“What?” Mason asks, alarmed by her change in tone.

“I forgot all about your diaper. You must be soaked!”

Mason groans. “Yeah, it’s kinda damp.”

“So let me clean you up,” says Hope brightly. “Get you all nice and dry, and then we’ll talk about what comes next.” She raises her eyebrows. “Okay, Mason?”

He nods. Because dry is better. Nice and dry. And then they can talk.