Nikolaus #3
“I wanna see how high we can bounce them,” Charlie says, palming his newly-unmolded bouncy ball like it’s a gem.
And who would I be to deny him this? He looks at me with a dare in his eyes, then slaps the ball down onto the marble floor with a vigor that sends it ricocheting off the ceiling and careening into a bookcase, where it rattles around the shelves and sends a row of art monographs tumbling like dominoes.
He stares, frozen, but when I snort in amusement, the sound snaps him loose and he breaks up in a fit of post-carnage giggles.
“Oops,” he says, voice cracking with delight. “I think the kit underestimated the ‘super’ in ‘super bouncy.’”
I retrieve the thing from under an Eames lounger where it’s come to rest, then hand it back to him. “Try again, but this time, bet you can’t hit the ceiling twice in a row.”
He narrows his eyes, sets his jaw, and launches it. The ball manages to hit the ceiling on the first go, careens to the floor, then rebounds and hits the light fixture with a crystalline ding and comes down in a blur. He leaps after it, scrambles, then holds it aloft, triumphant.
I wonder how long it’s been since he’s been this loud, this physical, this gloriously disruptive.
Charlie’s energy is a runaway train; he has to see if we can get more air, more chaos.
I join him, taking turns slamming our DIY bouncy balls against the floor, each time waiting, breathless, to see which direction they’ll shoot off next.
One of mine pops straight up and clocks the glass chandelier with such force that I wince, but the fixture holds, and instead it’s the bouncy ball that explodes into a shower of rubbery glitter confetti across the floor.
Charlie howls, wild with delight, then immediately drops to his knees to gather the fragments.
The chandelier above us sways from the aftershock. I half expect a scolding from Marta or Elise, but they’re both watching from the kitchen, wearing nearly identical tender smiles. I meet Marta’s eyes, and she just shakes her head fondly.
It’s soon time for cake, which means the bouncy ball tournament has to be wrapped up. Charlie’s hands are washed, and he’s ushered to the table.
Elise brings out the cake, the sparklers already lit and hissing like tiny fireworks.
The “2” and “6” blaze side by side, and Charlie’s face glows in the reflected light.
For a second, he just stares, mesmerized by the sparkle.
Then he scrunches his face, glances at me for approval, and blows them out in one breath.
I clap, as do Marta and Elise, and Charlie preens, basking in the attention. The women sing a quick, gentle rendition of Happy Birthday, and Charlie doesn’t even look embarrassed—he just lets it happen, like he’s learning how to accept a kindness he’s never been afforded before.
The four of us dig in at the dining room table, all of us together, even though the women have surely been working since early morning.
I suspect they’re as infatuated by Charlie’s transformation as I am, because Marta keeps sneaking him extras—cheesy crackers, another slice of cake, extra berries on the side.
He makes happy noises with every bite, and Elise can’t stop herself from patting the top of his head each time she passes by.
When the sugar crash looks imminent, I herd him to the living room, where the pile of birthday presents waits on the coffee table. There’s a small mountain, everything carefully wrapped in layers of tissue and bright paper, and Charlie just stands for a moment, staring.
“These are for me?” he murmurs in wonder.
“You’re the birthday boy, aren’t you?”
He blushes. “Yeah.”
“Then what are you waiting for, baby boy? Open them,” I prompt encouragingly.
He opens them one by one, his chin trembling more and more after each gift is unveiled. He hugs every stuffie, strokes and fingers every onesie, and clutches the duck pacifier to his chest.
By the time he gets to the last box, his hands are shaking, and he lingers with it in his lap, as if expecting the whole experience to vanish if he moves too quickly.
I want to say something, to remind him he’s deserving, but my own throat is tight with the urge to protect him from every soft-bellied ache he’s ever endured.
He peels the tape with careful fingers, lifts the lid, and finds a card laid atop tissue paper. His gaze flickers up to meet mine, uncertain, and I nod.
He reaches in, turns the card over, and reads the contents, his mouth falling open with a broken sob.
“It’s—” He blinks, and when he looks up at me, his eyes are flooded and shining. “You didn’t—”
“Every cent,” I confirm, reaching to wipe a stray tear from his cheek. It comes away slick. “To be honest, I paid it all off the moment we got off the plane, but I thought to wait till now to tell you. Happy birthday, baby.”
Charlie draws in a breath so spiky it seems to physically hurt. He’s shaking. “You really paid off my debt?” His words crumble and collapse as more tears leak out.
I kneel in front of him, take his hands in mine. “Of course, sweetheart. I take care of my own. I always will.”
He doesn’t answer, just nods, and then launches himself against my chest, clinging to me as if he wants to merge our bodies completely. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he cries.
I caress his back and sit there as long as he needs, feeling completely and utterly fulfilled.