“I feel the bar from the pullout couch digging into my back and give thanks for it. I close my eyes and listen to the sweet harmony of the garbage trucks on our street. In my nightgown (a fresh one; I will donate the one I wore to the arraignment to Goodwill at the first opportunity) I start a pot of coffee and pad down the hall to Edison’s bedroom. My boy rests like the dead; even when I turn the knob and slip inside and sit down on the edge of the mattress, he doesn’t stir. When Edison was lit...tle, my husband and I would watch him sleep. Sometimes Wesley would put his hand on Edison’s back, and we’d measure the rise and fall of his lungs. The science of creating another human is remarkable, and no matter how many times I’ve learned about cells and mitosis and neural tubes and all the rest that goes into forming a baby, I can’t help but think there’s a dash of miracle involved, too. Edison rumbles deep in his chest, and he rubs his eyes. “Mama?” he says, sitting up, instantly awake.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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