I found Max in his bedroom, sitting on the ledge of the bay window that overlooked the backyard.
“It’s looking pretty good out there,” I called out, causing him to glance toward me. “Can I come in?”
At his shy nod, I went to sit next to him. My heart broke as I took in his demeanor, eyes downcast and sad, shoulders slumped.
“Is there a reason you didn’t tell me about the bees?”
Max shrugged and shook his head meekly.
Instantly, guilt filled me. My question was about me. About how it made me feel not knowing about Max’s fear. I realized that I’d been doing this a lot. I was so busy that I forgot to take the time to just sit beside him. To give him room to talk. I’d gotten so obsessed with therapy schedules and journal entries, so worried that Max could relapse, that I was talkingathim rather than taking the time to sit andlisten. So, I didn’t say anything. I simply looked out the window and waited, observing Jace work around the yard at first, then watch a soaking wet Sam return to the backyard beside a skipping Ryla.
It was a few minutes before Max spoke, but he didn’t talk about what I thought he was going to talk about.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“You know that picture in the library? The painting? The one that Jace moved?”
I nodded.
“Why don’t you ever talk about her?”
For a wild second I thought he was being existential and talking about me, like the me I was before my mother died, the me that I should have been. But then, like a punch to the stomach, I realized he was talking about my mom.
“Was she mean?” Max asked in a small voice, sounding younger than his ten years.
“No. Not at all. She was kind. Funny. Smiled a lot. Loved to dance and have fun. She would have loved you so much.”
Max appeared thoughtful as he continued looking out the window.
“I’m sorry I haven’t told you stories about her. I think it hurt too much. I missed her. I still miss her. It makes talking about her hard.”
Tears pricked my eyes, making my vision blur as I felt Max’s not so little hand grasp mine, which I hadn’t realized was pressed to my chest, right over my heart. I released a breath, somehow keeping my tears at bay. Bringing our hands down between us, I threaded my fingers through his and held tight.
Max squeezed my hand once, twice, then sent me a reassuring smile—something I always did when I walked him into school to provide reassurance. A gentle reminder that things were going to be ok.
With that simple gesture, Max showed me what he couldn’t put into words. That talking was hard. Putting your emotions and feelings into words was hard. And just like it was hard for me to talk about my mom, it was hard for Max to explain how he was feeling out loud. I knew this. It was part of the reason why his therapist and I agreed it was a good idea to have him re-evaluated by a neuropsychologist. But you don’t always need words to communicate. You can be there for someone with your wordsanddeeds. It could be something as basic as a hug or elaborate as removing all flowering plants from your backyard and installing giant bug zappers.
Sometimes being there for someone simply meant showing up, sitting beside them, and listening.
I squeezed Max’s hand once, then twice. “I love you, Max. So much. I promise from now on, I’ll take more time to just listen.”
We sat quietly then, giggling as we watched Jace and Ryla sneak up on Sam with the hose, spraying him from behind, then giggling more as Sam chased them around the yard. As the minutes passed, I no longer felt disappointed that Max might not share anything with me today, because I understood that he eventually would, as long as I kept giving him the space and time to do it.
“There was a video,” Max began suddenly, “and a kid got stung on his face. His throat swelled up. He couldn’t breathe. He almost died.” Max paused, then whispered, “I don’t want to die.”
I wanted to scoop him up and never let him go. I wanted to wrap him up in Bubble Wrap and tell him that I’d fight off any bee that came his way. I wanted to confiscate all electronics and never let him watch anything again. But whether it’s bees, or a bear, or a human being, I couldn’t fight off all his demons for him. I was his mother. It was my job to protect him when he was too young to do it himself. Now that he was older, it was my job to equip him with the tools he needed to protect himself.
“Jace said I should talk to Frank about it,” Max added, referring to his counselor.
“What do you think?”
Max shrugged. “I think I probably should.”
I nodded in return, trying to blink back tears, the lump in my throat making it hard to swallow.
Max leaned forward, wrapping his arms around me in a hug. A tight hug. A hug that told me all I needed to know. That he loved me. That he didn’t know how to tell me.
