Like Blood for Ink
by Aimee Ogden
When he was three, Jacob got his first skinned knee.
I was in the backyard, trimming the raspberry bushes, while Derek moved wood chips in the front and Jacob rode his scooter up and down the sidewalk. Then a high-pitched squall cut through the podcast in my earbuds and I went running.
The wheelbarrow had tipped on one side in Derek's haste to collect Jacob. He sat on the sidewalk with my poor baby between his knees, hugging him and trying to make him laugh. Jacob only paused in between sobs to look up at me. "Mama kiss it?"
"Oh, baby, of course." I bent down, but stopped before I could deliver the promise treatment. His denim pants had soaked up the blood: not a dark red stain, but pure black. Not blood at all, but ink. As I stared, the dark lines wicked into readable words: I EATED THE LAST COOKIE BUT I TOLD MAMA TILLY EATED IT. I TOUCHED THE SHARP KNIFE. I HATE MRS SCOTT'S BAD DOG.
"Mama?"
"Yes, baby. Sorry." I dropped a quick peck on his shin, just below the ink lines, then struggled back to my feet. I couldn't see to meet Derek's eyes. "There are Band-Aids in the kitchen cupboard."
"I know. Honey, are you--?"
But I was already inside the house, the garage door slamming behind me.
In the bathroom, I washed my hands and my face. Hot water and soap failed to wash away my puffy eyes. I sat on the toilet lid and leaned my head against the cool, daffodil-colored wallpaper. Deep breaths. Deep breaths, until you can say what's wrong. What was all that therapy about, all that rehearsal, if everything fell apart at showtime? A sad, lonely square of toilet paper clung to the roll; I poked it listlessly. I'd known all along there was a fifty-fifty chance, but actually seeing it--
My pocket buzzed; I dug out my phone. U ok Jess?
It should've been easy enough to just type it out. Instead I swiped my fingers a few times: im fine
My phone let me know Derek had read my message, but he didn't answer. His voice issued from the kitchen, on the other side of the bathroom wall. Too deep for me to make out what he was saying, and Jacob filled the silences in between with a jumble-tumble of squeaky three-year-old lisping.
I closed my eyes, but even the darkness was overlaid with a wild kaleidoscope of lines and colors from how hard I'd rubbed them.
A knock at the bathroom door.
"...Come in." I jumped up and grabbed the towel off the rack, saving it from its wadded-up state with a vigorous refolding. "Just tidying up a bit."
