My Two Year Old Said Goodbye Instead of Goodnight

 

Every night since my son Ethan was born, I have tucked him in the same way. Blanket up to his chin, stuffed rabbit under one arm, the little moon shaped nightlight glowing on the dresser. Then I say good night, and he says it back in his scratchy toddler voice, though it comes out more like "ni ni." Two years of that. I could do it in my sleep.

So when he looked up at me that Thursday and said, "Goodbye, Dad," I laughed.

"No, buddy," I told him. "We say good night."

He blinked at me with those big serious eyes. "I know," he said. "But this time it's goodbye."

I want you to understand something about my son. At two years old, Ethan spoke mostly in single words and the occasional short phrase. Juice. Dog. More please. He did not say things like "this time." He had never once put that many words together in a row, and he said it so calmly, so patiently, like a small teacher explaining a thing to a slow student.

I stood there with my hand on the blanket and felt something cold move down the back of my neck. Then I told myself he was tired, and kids repeat odd things, and I kissed his forehead and turned off the lamp.

I should tell you what else was going on that week. My father, Walt, was in the hospital in Tucson with pneumonia. He was eighty one and stubborn as a fence post, and my sister Karen was staying near him. Every update she sent was the same. Stable. Eating a little. Complaining about the food, which she said was a good sign. I had a flight booked for Saturday morning. Nobody was panicking.

That night I couldn't settle. I went to check on Ethan at ten fifteen, and he was asleep on his back with his mouth open and the rabbit tucked under his chin. Fine. I went back to bed and stared at the ceiling.

At half past midnight I checked again. Same thing. Fine.

At ten to three I got up a third time, and I don't have a good reason to give you. I just couldn't stay in that bed.

The hall was dark and the house was quiet. I pushed his door open slowly.

Ethan was awake. He was sitting up in the crib with his blanket in his lap, looking toward the window, where the curtains were open and the streetlight cast a pale square on the floor. He didn't notice me. His right hand was raised, and he was waving. Not a wild toddler flap. A small, slow wave, the way you wave at someone leaving on a train.

"Ethan," I whispered. "Who are you waving at?"

He turned his head and looked at me for a moment, and there was a kind of gentle sadness on his face that no baby should have. Then he lay down, pulled the rabbit close, and said, "Sleepy."

He was out again in less than a minute. I stayed in the doorway a long while after that, listening to him breathe.

The phone rang at twenty to six.

I knew before I picked it up. I think I had known since he said goodbye. It was Karen, and her voice was thin and careful, the voice of someone holding a very full cup. She told me Dad had died a little before three in the morning. He hadn't been in pain. The night nurse was with him, and she told Karen that he had woken up right at the end, looked toward the corner of the room, and smiled at something. Then he closed his eyes and that was all.

I sat down on the kitchen floor. I didn't cry yet. I just sat there with the phone against my ear and Karen breathing on the other end, and I thought about a small hand lifting in the dark, and the streetlight, and a quarter to three.

A few minutes later I heard the soft thump of bare feet in the hall. Ethan came around the corner dragging his rabbit by one ear, hair sticking up on one side, still half asleep. He walked straight over and climbed into my lap without a word. Then he patted my cheek with his warm little palm.

"Grandpa Walt says bye," he told me. "He says you're a good boy."

I had never told my son that his grandfather was sick. Not a word. All Ethan knew was a man on a phone screen who made silly faces and sent birthday cards with too much tape on them.

That's when I finally cried.

Karen and I buried Dad the following week under a hard blue Arizona sky. Ethan sat on my hip through the whole service, quiet and watchful, and when they lowered the casket he raised one small hand again, the same slow wave, and nobody around us said anything at all.

He is three now. He talks a mile a minute about trucks and cereal and why the moon follows our car. He doesn't remember any of it, and I have never asked him to. Some gifts are only meant to be given once.

But I still tuck him in every night. Blanket to the chin, rabbit under his arm, the moon glowing on the dresser. And I take my time with the words now. I say good night, and I try to mean all of it, every syllable, like something that could be taken from me.

Last night he peeked out from under the blanket and gave me a sleepy grin.

"See you tomorrow, Dad," he said.

I stood in that doorway a long time before I could answer him.