Cracks - Part 4 (Patreon)

Here's the final part - let me know if you enjoyed it! :)

FOUR

“Bath, then fluffy towel,” Hope corrects him sweetly. “You don’t want to be all wet and drippy, do you?”

Mason shakes his head. “No…but then we gotta- “

Hope lowers him into the bath. The water is the perfect temperature, and the fruity scent of the bubbles feels almost overwhelming to Mason. Not overwhelming his nostrils; overwhelming his sense of time. Because is this after the cracks, or is it before?

For a muddled moment, all Mason can do is stare at the sparkling bubbles that surround him, reach out for the plastic boats that Hope has positioned helpfully between his legs.

The bath train. His favorite. Hope calls them a train even though they go in the bath, because they can hook together. They stack as well, just like Mason’s blocks. And best of all, they pour water. Yes, they’re definitely Mason’s favorite bath toy. Hope always knows what Mason likes the best.

“What colors are the boats, Mason?” Hope asks. “Do you know your colors?”

Mason nods confidently. That’s the first gift the cracks gave him. He clutches one of the boats. “Boo,” he proclaims, not worried now about his lack of diction. He grabs another. “Geen.”

“That’s right!” Hope exclaims. “Such a smart cookie!”

Mason feels his entire body warm, from head to toe. It must be the bathwater, but it’s also the praise. Because isn’t this nice, having a real conversation, finally, after all those months just babbling nonsense.

Determined to add value to the dialog, Mason gathers all the boats, smiling as the plastic toys knock against his thighs and belly. “Got…five boats, Moh…Hope.” He counts determinedly, splashing the water a little with his hand. “Wun…too…fwee…foh…fih!”

He looks up at Hope, eager for more praise, but also anxious for confirmation. Because counting is hard, and he’s not completely convinced that he got it right.

“What a clever boy!” Hope declares, and silly Hope, she can’t resist giving him a hug, and Mason giggles at the sight of her, her sweater now damp with water and decorated with bubbles.

“Counting like such a big boy,” says Hope.

Mason grins proudly. “Gonna tell doctor?” he asks, eager to spread the news of his intelligence. Gonna the doc-tuh?

Hope seems to miss the question; she has something more pressing to talk to Mason about. Or rather, sing about. “We’re still looking for those baby duckies, aren’t we.” She taps her chin, as if considering the issue.

Mason shifts his hips excitedly in the water. Because he knows what’s about to happen. He knows the routine, and yet it’s still exciting.

“Mommy gonna kack-kack-kack!” he shouts, much more loudly than he intended, all sense of appropriate volume leaving his mind, along with any concerns over his infantile diction.

Hope nods obligingly. “Mommy says quack, quack, quack…” She pauses, increasing the tension, because she always does. She always makes Mason wait.

He stares up at her, willing her to do it, his own hands and feet wriggling underwater. He can’t possibly sit still.

Hope takes a deep breath, purses her lips primly, and then shows the fingers and thumb of her right hand.

“Fih mommy!” Mason yells.

Hope nods, and then opens her mouth wide.

“Five baby duckies come waddling back!” And she reaches below the water so they can splash together. “One, two, three, four, five baby duckies!”

Mason shrieks excitedly as the water splashes. The best part of every bath time, the most exciting and perfect of games. But it’s hardly surprising. Mommy always knows the best games.

“Okay, my squeaky-clean boy, let’s get you all cozy and dry.”

Mason knows the drill. He doesn’t whine as Hope lifts him out of the tub and wraps him in the fluffy, Bach Shark towel.

And soon Mason is naked again, lying on the changing mat so Hope can diaper him.

“Snug as a bug,” she says softy, and the excitement of the bath has faded, replaced by the gentle relaxation before Mommy puts Mason down for his nap.

Except, there’s something else. Something that’s supposed to happen before Mason’s nap.

What is it?

Mason ponders the question, a finger creeping to his mouth as he tries to concentrate.

“Look at that face,” Hope says with a giggle. “I always know when you’re thinking hard. Just like when you’re working on a puzzle.” She sighs happily. “I love watching you trying to figure things out, like your blocks. Seeing you put the pieces together, seeing you learn.” She sighs again. “Mommy’s smart little cookie.”

But Mason hasn’t worked out the puzzle. He sucks on his finger, looking down at his hand, cross-eyed with determination to remember what he’s forgotten.

“We don’t need to call the doctor, sweetie.”

Mason’s eyes widen. That’s what he forgot. The doctor! He frowns. But he’s not sick. Isn’t that what the doctor is for? He should ask, Mommy will know, but the words don’t come, and his tongue feels lazy.

His head is sleepy. Because he hasn’t had his nap.

Hope lifts up her baby and cuddles him against her chest. “He already told me exactly what to do if you have any of those nasty cracks. You don’t want cracks, sweetie! They just make you confused and scared. No, the clever doctor told me just how to fill in the cracks, so there’s no more confusion, no more scared.”

She brings him to her bedroom and sits him down on the bed.

“How many duckies, sweetie?” She holds up her fingers.

Mason gazes at them with interest. But the counting has gone. The counting went away, because of the silly games, because of the bubbles and giggles.

And that’s okay. Because Mommy praises him anyway.

“Smart cookie!”

She points at the sleeve of her yellow sweater. “What color, Mason?”

Mason blinks.

“You know your colors, honey? You a big boy, or are you Mommy’s sweet little baby?”

Mason blinks again, sucking on his finger. He smiles as Mommy guides his other hand over the soft material. So fluffy, so almost-tickly, it’s enough to help Mason forget about colors, to forget he’s even been asked a question.

“So soft, isn’t it honey. All you need is softness; all you need is your mommy. No more cracks, no more questions.”

Language and understanding dimming, Mason giggles, and then presents his mother with an open-mouthed smile when she calls him a smart cookie.

Hope pulls off her top and unclasps her bra.

Milkies.

It’s enough to rekindle the vaguest, smallest spark in Mason’s mind.

“Muh…” His snub nose wrinkles in confusion. Milkies are for babies. Milkies aren’t for-

Hope reclines on the bed, places Mason on her stomach and his head at the level of her breasts.

“Mih…mih-kee?”

“That’s right, Mason,” Hope says. “We’re going fill your tummy with milkies, gonna fill in all those naughty cracks.”

“Mihhh.” Mason can only gaze at Hope’s breasts, as if hypnotized.

“That’s right, good boy.” Hope holds the back of Mason’s head, gently guides him to her breast. “That’s Mommy’s good boy.”

Mason sucks on the nipple, his vision filled by Hope’s breast, and his world is complete.

Hope hums gently, stroking her baby’s back. “Doctor says you won’t remember any of those silly cracks, honey. Hungry boy. You make it all gone, Mason, that’s Mommy’s good boy.”

As Mason drinks, his stomach filling with warm milkies, he closes his eyes, his mind matching his body, his awareness centered wholly on the here and now. Mommy’s good baby, drinking his milkies, the sweetest of boys, the smartest of cookies.

“You’re just my little baby duckie, aren’t ya,” Hope says in a sing-song voice. “You went away to play but then Mommy said quack, quack, quack, and you came right back!”

Incognizant of the comparison and with his intelligence further dulled by Hope's tone, Mason contents himself with suckling at his mother’s breast, until he is full, until the nipple slips from his lips and a rivulet of breastmilk dribbles down his chin.

“All done,” says Hope sweetly. “Mommy’s good boy is all done.”

After Mason’s nap, another diaper change, and more play, and then lunch.

And after that?

Nothing for Mason to worry about. Because Mommy will take care of everything.

THE END