To her Mother and I she was a joy to our lives and an erosion of our parental zeal, as Bethany also had another part of her life seen only by a few people. There were times I felt helpless, watching the instant that her face would contort in pain and she would scream out as if in the grip of some unseen terror or watching as exhaustion slowly engraved its scars on my wife’s young face. I felt at the time that Bethany having colic was the worst possible thing that could have happened to our family. However, compared to later events it would seem insignificant. Up to this point in her life, Bethany’s physical development had been quicker than either of her two sisters’ or with that of most children in her age group. It was if she was if she were trying to compress a lifetime into a few spans of time. I would soon wish I had paid closer attention to this feeling. One Monday in January 1981 almost five months after she was born, I came home for lunch, as I walked into the living room. We talked about work. We talked about the heat wave and Obamacare and gas prices. We talked about sonograms and baby names and boys versus girls. The suit coat had come off, the tie loosened and the top three buttons unbuttoned. My hair was probably a mess from my combing my fingers through it. At one a.m. I was out of gum and said I needed a smoke. We went down to the lobby where there were a line of vending machines and he got a cup of coffee and I got a Coke. We went outside so I could smoke. The night was still unusually warm. I smoked half the cigarette and tossed it. We threw our cup and soda can in the trash receptacle and decided we didn’t want to go back inside yet. There wasn’t any place to sit in front of the hospital. I suggested we go into the parking structure and sit in one of our cars. “I’m on the second level,” I said. We had been lucky. “I’m up on the fifth,” Marco said. We got in my car and I tilted the steering wheel up. I wear boxers with my junk hanging on.
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