PROMISES

When Mommy finally comes home it's almost bedtime.

I'm sitting on the top stair wearing my green railroad pajamas. Grandma is sitting next to me, our knees close together.

Daddy opens the door and they come in.

She walks into the house first, with slow shuffling steps. Daddy holds her around the waist very, very gently, almost not touching her.

He is carrying a white plastic bag with her things in it.

The dark winter sky gasps behind them.

Daddy closes the door.

He puts down the white plastic bag.

He takes Mommy's coat from her shoulders and drapes it over the arm of the couch.

Mommy is wearing her Vassar sweatshirt that zips up the front. She is wearing yoga pants and slippers. She is also wearing a plastic hospital identification bracelet.

Daddy takes Mommy by the elbow and leads her to the rocking chair, which is waiting for her like a grandma with purple velvet arms. This is our favorite chair in the entire house because it is where we used to rock and cuddle and drink milk when we were new. I almost remember it. My head in the crook of her arm the way it is in my favorite baby picture. I am one day old. Just a furry black head. Max.

Daddy helps Mommy into the chair.

She leans back and closes her eyes and doesn't rock or move at all, which is very strange because Mommy is usually moving all the time.

Daddy lets her sit there a minute. He hangs up their coats. Then he closes the closet door, goes to the white plastic bag, opens it, and places things on the coffee table one at a time. There are pamphlets and bandages and boxes and medicine bottles and tubes of ointment. Then he comes back and kisses Mommy on the head and they both stay like that for a while, his cheek resting on the top of her head, not saying anything, just being there together.

Grandma holds my hand and hushes me so I won't interrupt them.

Don't go down yet, she says. Let them settle in first.

But I haven't seen Mommy for two days and one night and I'm not about to stay up here. I want to tell her a joke about a boy and a dragon.

I yank my hand out of Grandma's and crash down the stairs in my pajamas feet like a green hurricane, with Grandma close behind me step by step, holding on to the banister saying, Here we come. Welcome home, honey. Oh, look at you.

I am tumbling and twirling down, stomping and slobbering like the Tasmanian Devil, growly and monster-crazy, whooping and leaping off the last three stairs all at once, so I land with a thump and slide in my pajamas feet toward Mommy, who is not rocking in the rocking chair. She opens her eyes and smiles at me. Her eyes are still as blue as they were before she left, and her smile is still filled with the same pretty white teeth. I think she is going to tell me a joke. But instead she holds out her arms.

Baby boy, she says.

It is the same voice she had before she left.

But she looks smaller than Mommy.

I stand in front of her and don't know what to do.

I want to jump in her lap and scrunch up under her chin and kiss her cheeks and put my fingers in her hair and rock like I used to when I was a very little Max-Max. But Daddy told me it might hurt to have me press, so I need to be very careful with Mommy and not hug too tight.

How about an air hug, Daddy suggests.

Yes, says Grandma. An air hug would be just right.

Mommy holds out her arms and closes her eyes and kisses the air.

I hold out my arms and close my eyes and kiss the air too.

Not good enough, I whisper.

Not good enough at all, Mommy says, laughing. Come over here. Let me take a look at you. It's okay. Come on up.

I tiptoe to the rocking chair. She smiles and nods, which is the same as permission, so I climb up on Mommy's lap and hug her really gently around the neck with both my arms.

Good job, honey, says Grandma.

Mommy kisses my nose and my chin and she tickles my back with her fingers up and down like dancing spiders and then she blows a slurpy raspberry in my neck and I growl like a monster.

I forget what Daddy said and lean in a little too far.

Mommy pulls back.

Okay, she says. Her voice is tight. Time to climb down now.

Daddy lifts me off.

There you go, champ, he says. Give Mommy some space now.

Grandma takes one of my hands.

He's been such a good boy, Grandma tells them.

Mommy's eyes go all soft and watery.

I'm so glad you were here, she says.

Oh sweetheart, says Grandma, I'm just glad I could be here for you. I wish I could do more. You know that, don't you?

I know, says Mommy. But tell me, was he really okay? Did he get upset at night?

Grandma swings my hand back and forth and then kisses my fist.

He was just fine, she says. Her voice is light and cheerful because she is pretending I was not upset so Mommy won't feel bad about leaving us.

Mommy looks doubtful, so Grandma finally admits that I cried at bedtime. But we told stories, didn't we, Max? And the stories helped calm him.

Grandma told me a story about a magic toy store, I say. You want to know what toy I picked at the magic toy store?

What did you pick? Mommy asks.

A magic jack-in-the-box that when you wind him up and wind him up, he finally pops, zoing, out of the box, he zoings up and then he keeps on zoinging higher and higher and higher until he reaches up to the moon.

Holy moly, says Mommy. Grandma sure is a great storyteller, isn't she?

I nod. I want to keep on telling, but Mommy looks small. She is putting her head back in the chair and closing her eyes again.

Listen, Max, says Daddy. Why don't you go upstairs for a while and let Mommy and Daddy talk with Grandma.

I want to be with Mommy, I say.

I know, Daddy says. But we need some alone time with Grandma. You've had her all to yourself for two whole days. And now it's...