MiddleLand

MiddleLand

Roland’s lifeless body cradles in my arms. He wasn’t always like this. My precious little boy, my only child, used to be so full of life and energy, brimming with charm and charisma.

I once taught him how to determine a storm’s distance as it travels away. When lightning flashes, you count one-one thousand, two-one thousand until you hear thunder, then divide by five. The quotient is the number of miles between you and the danger.

What’s left of this neighborhood lies beneath a sinister gloom, beaten and battered as if punished by Mother Nature. The power is out, the unlit street lamps loom overhead, and the pitch-black clouds hide the moon and stars.

Tragedy spares me of immediate recollection, and the last several minutes draw a blank. I forget they happened. I deny them. Even if I wanted to, I can’t look back. All I can do is keep moving forward as everything unwinds from slow motion.

(Three, one thousand.)

A row of flares lines the street and guides the way with their lucent pink glow. Men wearing reflective vests and hard hats sprint past me. Sirens wail from the next block and fade as fire engines arrive. The police block the road with patrol cars, shouting at onlookers to stay back.

For reasons unknown, this reminds me I have a meeting tomorrow at work—a conference with the board of directors. Talking to myself, I say, “Or is it with the company president? No, it’s not the president. Whomever it is, don’t forget you have a meeting.”

(Four, one thousand.)

I once taught Roland how to establish a storm’s weakness. When lightning is no longer powerful enough to connect with the ground, it spiders from cloud to cloud with lusterless bolts.

Without conscious effort, I plod through a landscape of scattered debris: torn branches and twigs, broken roof shingles, a litter of contents spilled from nearby garbage cans, even some unlucky family’s deflated kiddie pool wedged between the splintered pickets of a wooden fence.

A gentle drizzle of rain smacks my face as I carry my son toward an obscure, distant display of dazzling red and white strobes. For some strange reason, this reminds me that, sometime soon, a trip to The Home Depot is in order.

“Gardening tools,” I say. “A rake. I need to buy a new rake. The tines on my old rake are rusted and bent.”

(Five, one thousand.)

Roland’s head arches back and his limbs hang limp. The weather front pushes through and drops the temperature low enough to see my breath but not his. A pale tinge of lavender colors his chapped lips. Water drips from both his dark hair and tattered shoelaces. His vacant eyes are glazed and halfway open, like a stone-blind drunk staring off into space. Smudges of grime darken his knees, and the pockets of his shorts bulge with handfuls of toy cars. His broken spectacles dangle from his ear by their frames, and when they fall to the pavement, the shattered glass crunches beneath my scuffed loafers. His skin is cold, and I squeeze him tighter, holding him close to my chest to keep him warm.

Curiously enough, this reminds me to stop by the supermarket tomorrow. “Bread,” I say. “Milk. Cheese. Don’t forget the cheese.”

(Six, one thousand.)

My strength must be depleting because he’s much heavier than when he was a baby. Two silhouettes in the shape of men appear from the brilliance of the red and white strobes. As they lope toward me, the first shouts, “Sir!” He grabs my son by the arms and says, “Sir, give him to me.” The second takes Roland by the legs and says, “Let us help him.”

Squinting, I focus on a patch embroidered on the man’s sleeve. It’s a blue, six-pointed star with flat edges and a snake wrapping a staff in the middle. Above the symbol is the word paramedic.

(Seven thousand.)

I once told Roland when counting this way, it’s best to leave out the number one when he gets to seven because it has an extra syllable—and the entire purpose of syllables is timing. In his spry, boyish voice, he asked what to do when he got to the teens, and I told him he shouldn’t worry because the storm would be long gone by then.

The two men take Roland from my grasp, and speaking over a rumble of dying thunder, I say, “Today is his birthday.”

One man asks how old he is with a stern voice rather than pleasant curiosity. Wanting to both cry and laugh, I can’t help but smile and say, “He’s eight. Can you imagine? They grow up so fast. It seems like only yesterday he was running around the house in a diaper.”

(Eight, one thousand.)

There must be something wrong with me. If my emotions were a phone call, they would be on hold, listening to impassive elevator music. The lingering remains of panic have left me numb, but more anxiety promises to swell. The two men carry Roland away. Something isn’t right about letting him go, even if it’s for his own good. If only I had protected him, things would be different.

(Nine, one thousand.)

When I arrive at the source of the strobing red and white lights—an ambulance with its back doors wide open—I watch in silent interest as the men lift Roland inside, lay him on a stretcher, and cut off his wet clothes. The first uses two hands to repeatedly press on his chest, counting, “One, one thousand. Two, one thousand.” The second slaps a pair of adhesive pads wired to a machine on opposite sides of Roland’s torso.

The first continues, “Three, one thousand. Four, one thousand.”
The second presses a button on the device and says, “Charging.”
The first continues, “Five, one thousand. Six, one thousand.”

An electronic whine rises in pitch until it plateaus at a steady tone. The men back away and spread their hands apart. “Clear!” The tone ends with a click, and I focus on the bottom of Roland’s shoes as his body jerks like he’s falling from a great height in his sleep before going limp again.

The world goes silent as though every living creature is holding its breath. The paramedic places two fingers against Roland’s neck to check for a pulse, and, like me with my weary emotions, he feels nothing. He looks at his partner, shakes his head, and presses the button again. The tone rises as they prepare to shock Roland a second time, but now the deafening, drawn-out noise rings in my ears. This sound—like a whistling teapot—dampens the commotion, the splattering rain, the dissipating thunder, and the howling wind, and soon evolves into my wife’s wretched screams from our front lawn to the heavens, begging God for our child’s death not to be true.

Oddly enough, this reminds me there’s something else I need to do tomorrow, but I can’t put my finger on it. Whatever it is, it must not be important.