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How could you survive without your heart beating inside you?
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How can you know, she says, if no one teaches you, and no one ever talks about it, and all the books about it are gone?
The mother with the stroller would say nothing. She would never even see the news; her baby had a new molar coming in, and neither of them was sleeping through the night.
What can she teach him, what can she do for him, what can she give him to make up for what’s been lost? She wants to buy him pretzels and ice cream and lemonade from a cart, to let him dance through the park, licking the salt and drips from his fingers. To watch him play silly games, rules changing as he goes: leapfrogging broken squares on the sidewalk, jumping high to slap stop signs as they pass. No: she wants to play those games with him. She wants to be just his mother for one day. As if she can correct all these years without her, with one golden afternoon.
They’d been dangerous, he thought; they’d loved him so fiercely it had made them dangerous.
