Shawn

John and Sadee find their son Shawn floating in the pool

Transcript

Hi, I’m Wayne Jones. Welcome to Lies I Tell My Kids. This is episode 11, “Shawn.”

There’s no sound that a 10-month-old boy makes when he slips off the edge of a pool into the inviting warm water, and no sound either when the parents re-emerge laughing from the kitchen with freshened drinks and see a patch of soft white skin, his back that has been rubbed many times to soothe him, to see that, and then a dark patch that must be a leaf, right?—and then to see four limbs dangling loosely below the surface—there’s no sound from the parents because even those lightning synapses cannot process this anomaly, this atrocity, quickly enough. The glasses are not thrown but just let go of, and the father runs toward the pool and dives in. I get him out of the pool and look at his face first, a face that seems normal, like I’ve watched him a thousand times sleeping, but now I lay him down on the towels that Sadee has brought over.

The crash of glasses has broken the silence but we still haven’t spoken. Or screamed. Or cried. Or anything.

“Nine one one,” I finally say to her, perhaps too softly to hear, and when she hasn’t done so in a millisecond, I’ve used that time to realize that she must want him dead, and so I repeat, “For fuck sake, Sadee, call nine one one,” perhaps too loudly.

She’s gone, or I think she is, I don’t know any more. I’m looking down at my son and he just seems like he’s asleep, and I feel I can indulge myself and give him a little poke to wake him so that I can just look at him, study this beautiful thing that Sadee and I somehow managed to create between arguments and racing through the logistics of everyday life. But he’s soaking wet, his clothes, the outfit we just bought yesterday, it shouldn’t be soaked through like this. I’m helpless like I’m watching someone turn a gun on me, or set me on fire, and I don’t say a word, what they’re doing, what is happening, is so outside the bounds of my normal life that I just shrug it off and—

People are running toward me. Is this the immolation or the gunshot? Is this—no, medical, it’s the paramedics, and I step back when they ask me to. I watch what they’re doing, or try to, but the guy is huge and the woman is doing the tending, both of them on their knees, moving Shawn now and then, and then sometimes getting something from a container.

They both stand up after a few minutes, or maybe it’s been an hour, I don’t know.

“We have to get him to the hospital. You can come. You should come.”

Sadee is at the vehicle when I get there, her hand bandaged, and it throws me off, further off, and I wonder whether absolutely everything is falling apart, being dragged down, hurt.

“What happened to—”

But the paramedics get our son settled and then sit us on either side and make sure our seatbelts are secure.

“What happened?” I ask her again just before the siren starts and the vehicle starts moving faster and faster. She mumbles something, then shouts, “Glasses,” I hear, but nothing more and we both bring our eyes down to Shawn. He has a mask on and there’s a tube that seems to have a liquid flowing through it and into him, I’m not sure, I don’t know what to make of anything now.

We get to the hospital and they direct us to the reception desk while they take Shawn through a double-door and he’s gone now. Away. Things are silent again and we stand there looking at each other.

“Excuse me, do you mind if I take some information,” and in a flash I get angry and decide that I don’t want anything else taken from me but I jolt back to reality and look at the tired face talking to us.

“Can you tell us about our son?” I ask.

“They’ve taken him to emergency and so we should be able to say more soon. They’re good people in there. They will take care of him.”

I have an awkward interaction with the receptionist, her getting names spelled wrong and I have to correct her, mumble less, and me pulling out the wrong plastic card to show my identity, “Oh, sorry, no, here it is, it’s this one,” and no, for the third time, the Costco card won’t do. We both look up at the same time and say nothing, she’s tired, I’m tired, she normally knows what she’s doing, and I do too, I think, but I’m just bumbling now. Ten seconds pass, I can see them from the sweeping hand of the clock behind her when I sneak glances.

“You know what,” she says, “I think I have enough for now. Why don’t you and your wife have a seat. We’ll let you know as soon as we know.”

It’s a great idea and I escort Sadee to the nearest seats, narrow and uncomfortable.

“What happened to your hand?”

“We dropped our gl—” but she doesn’t finish because there’s a fresh young doctor coming toward us and we look up at him.

“Mr. and Mrs. Nabbon?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid we did all we could but your son didn’t make it.”

He leaves that tidbit, succinct, just hanging there, and for a moment I’m about to contradict him and say we did whatever the paramedics said and we were even in the vehicle and we just made it about ten minutes—

But some lucidity comes over me, followed again by silence, but Sadee is crying now and has fallen against my arm. She’s limp. She’s making noises now as spasms of realization come out of her, primal. I look up at the doctor.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and then reaches his hand down to touch my other shoulder. He squeezes it lightly and gives it three short pats as he turns his back and heads to reception.

We’re not good with drinks and now Sadee’s coffee is spilled on the floor in front of us and the cup has scampered under a seat on her left. Do I care? Look at me, do I care.