On God's Deaf Ears

“Are you there, God? It’s me, Sophia. I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

I grasp the toothbrush in my hand and stand beside him. His feet are bigger than mine. Masculine, slightly dirty. I watch as he taps two of his calloused fingers together in front of his chest, his gaze fixed firmly on the photographs on the wall. I look at them, too. Old images of easier times. What I wouldn’t do to go back and stop this somehow.

Too much emotion rises in my chest. I look away, intent on keeping the sadness out. Instead, I lean in toward his shoulder and inhale his scent. It’s different than it used to be. He turns his head to look at me, hazel blue eyes smiling through dark lashes. I sniff him again and he laughs, but his attention goes back to the photos. Some of the photos have stuck to the wall where I placed them. Others keep falling off no matter how many times I try and make them stay put. They’re sort of like the people in the pictures, I guess. You can’t make them stick around if they don’t want to.

“God, please . . . please, can you hear me? Can you help me? I don’t know what to do.”

I look back at his feet. His big toes dwarf mine and I suddenly feel more fragile than I did just a moment ago. He’s swaying now, gaze still fixed, fingers tapping. Beside him, I match his movement. Back and forth. Back and forth. The movement should calm me, but it doesn’t. Nothing ever does.

The room smells of urine, but I don’t dare mention it. A fist to the head was enough to learn my lesson the last time I did. His bed is a couple of inches too small and held up by some old, ratty books on one side of the headboard. The sliding glass window that used to lead to the sunroom is gone, broken, replaced by a blackout curtain. The big ceiling fan is gone, too. Also broken. 

“God, you’ve placed too much on my shoulders.”

My head falls forward. I suck in my lips as if that will keep my eyes from overflowing. This isn’t the life I imagined for myself. Not that I had ever dreamt of a specific life, but I could never have imagined the one God gifted me.

Teary eyed, I look at his face, more intently this time. I’m looking for the healthy, happy boy he used to be. Sometimes on a good day, I see that boy in him and my heart swells with a mixture of anguish and love.

“God, can you please help him? Please?”

A hint of facial hair adorns his upper lip now. His skin, once perfect, is stained with the remnants of teenage blemishes. His hands are bigger than mine, too. Calluses line his fingers. His fingernails are dirty, and his hair is too long. But he is a handsome boy, tall like his father though much more attractive. If things had turned out differently, I’m sure he’d have had all the girls chasing after him.

I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, then gently bump his hip with mine. His fingers continue to tap. He seems happy enough, so I change my strategy. I move in front of him, facing him, hoping to block his view of the pictures to break his trance, but he can see clear over my head. He laughs as if he knows my little plan has failed.

“Are you ready to brush your teeth?” I ask.

He picks up the hairbrush from his nightstand. “Itchy.”

“Okay. Let me see.”

I shift his toothbrush to my left hand and take the hairbrush with my right, placing long, hard strokes down the length of his back. When I stop, he asks for more. A few more strokes, then I give him the hairbrush.

“Let’s brush your teeth first and then we can scratch some more.”

He plops into bed onto his side and rests his head in his hand. There’s no need to be in the bathroom to brush his teeth. He never learned how to spit out the toothpaste. I slide the toothbrush into his mouth, attempting to carry out the task while watching his hands. Luckily for me, his hands are occupied. Within a few minutes, his teeth are brushed and I’m sitting at the end of his bed. This is always how we end the day. We used to read his favorite book every night, but he doesn’t want to do that anymore. I don’t know what he wants, so I sit and wait to see if he wants to interact with me or if he wants me to leave. He hasn’t given me the brush, so I assume he isn’t itchy anymore. I think of something to talk about even though I know it will be a one-sided conversation, kind of like my conversations with God.

“I wonder if it’s going to get cold again,” I say, but my words are interrupted by a painful blow just above my right eye. I clutch my eye and stand.

“I’m done,” I snap. The emotion I ignored before now boiling in my throat and moistening my eyes. He picks up the brush from where it bounced off my face and lobs it across the room. He reaches out for me, a look of apology on his face. I take his hand, but his mood shifts again. I’m tugged closer. He’s too fast, and I feel the sharp pinch of being punched in the gut.

I back away, holding a hand over my abdomen, my eyebrow throbbing, my heart shattering into even tinier pieces than it had been before. I’m trembling with anger. Drenched in grief. This is my life, and there’s no end in sight.

Swallowing over the boulder in my throat, I look at the boy that’s no longer a child. He regrets it, but he doesn’t have the words to apologize.  

I wipe my eyes, but I don’t bother speaking again on God’s deaf ears. I don’t ask if He’s there or if He’ll help us. I don’t question why He’d let things be this way, but I do wonder what He would do if he were gifted this life.

“Good night. I love you,” I whisper to my son. Then, I turn out the light.