At Last, He Speaks

I've been trying to get Jacob to talk to me about the loss of his sister for the last year.  Despite every open-ended question I've tried (what do you think about?  how did you feel when?  can you tell me more about that?), he has kept me at an internal arm's length.  I've had to try some out of the box approaches to get him to open up at all.

 The first time I got anything out of him was in the car.  He, being one of those males who would just as soon leave the room than talk about their feelings, could only bear doing it when he didn't have to see my face straight on, and basically had no method of escape.  So, I in my driver's seat, and he in the back, sang a made up song, just like we used to with Cory.  Usually, we'd sing about the pets, or each other, or make up goofy rhymes, with the goal to be as ridiculous as possible. 

This time, though, we sang the blues.  I would go first, and to some forlorn tune, would offer up one thing I missed doing with Cory or something I remembered about her.  I was so happy that he played along when I said, "Your turn."  A few rounds was all he could handle, and that was more than enough.  I just wanted him to know that it is okay to be sad...really, really sad.  And, that it is okay to talk about it with others...even comforting, at times. 

This call and response method has worked pretty well.  I have also urged him to come draw with me, paint with me...just play.  He has declined every offer.

Until last night.

Last night, when we were eating dinner together, just the two of us, this past Sunday's newspaper, propped against a shelf caught his eye.  He turned  to me, and said quietly. "Mom, I really like that headline."

What's this?  A voluntary reference to Cory, to the accident, to grief?

I smiled.  "You do?  What do you like about it?" 

He furrowed his little brow, and half turned from me, "Your writing is really good."

I thanked him, and asked, "What did you like about the headline?"

He looked equal parts miserable to be on the spot, and desperate to get something out.  You could see the battle played out on his face- those eyes of his, so solemn, so old, and so cautious.  He is not eager to give too much of himself away.  He watches, and he waits, needing to know he has chosen a safe audience, and most importantly that he will not undo himself.

"Well, the healing part."  he said, and stopped short.

"Oh, was there something you liked about that?"  I countered.  Boy, these open-ended questions are exhausting. 

He considered me.  "I'm glad you're feeling better." he said, and with one look said the rest of his sentence..cause I've really missed my mom.

"Was it scary when I wasn't feeling good?"  I asked, knowing the answer full well.

"Yeah."  he confirmed, and looked down at his hands, which was a gesture so much like having a serious conversation with his father that I nearly felt Tim had simply shrunk, and somehow regained his smooth, unlined pre-puberty baby face.

Knowing the conversation was closed, for now, I reached over to hug and kiss him. 

After dinner, I put in some laundry, and settled down at the dining room table to paint.  Who should come walking in to draw with me, but my boy?

I happily gave him paper, let him choose a pencil, and asked him if he knew what he'd like to draw.  "Well, one of me and Cory, and then some of Violet."  he answered.  This was his compromise:  one that might hurt and several of his new kitten that he adores beyond all reason.

Trying not to jump up and down in my seat, I turned calmly back to my own work.  I don't like to be watched when I'm making something, and assumed Jake would feel the same way. 

I was surprised to hear him say shyly, "You can watch me, if you want.  I'd like you to."

So, there we sat; I watched as he swirled his pencil lightly around his paper, both of us thinking about Cory as we talked about contour and blind contour drawings.

When he'd finished, he turned it to face me.  "We sort of have giraffe necks." he commented.

"I think the giraffe necks are very charming.  I see you both have big smiles.  What were you doing in this picture?"  I asked.

"Hmmm, I don't know.  I wasn't really thinking about it."  he said.

"Well, if you want to, you can think of a time that you felt that way with Cory, and even write it  down at the bottom of the paper...if you want."  I offered.

He put a little hand to his temple, like he was figuring out mortgage rates, or how to flip an investment, and then wrote in his tiny, bold, somewhat messy script at the bottom of the page, "Making brownies."

I should have known all along.

He will never forget his big sister, and all that they shared.  Whether, he says it out loud or not, he is thinking of her all the time.
And most of the time, the pain of having lost her is unspeakable.