There's No Place Like Home
by VATERGrrl
Spring had come early. The small yard immediately beyond the kitchen window was bright yellow with forsythia branches in blossom, and the cedar trees towered behind them, copper bark growing upward in deeply grooved stripes. Occasionally, a fawn hobbled by on unsteady legs, its mother watching from a wary distance back in the trees that surrounded the two-story house where a dark-haired woman and a young blond boy sat in the kitchen, intent on two different tasks.
Sniff, sniff. A minute went by, then, Sniff!
"Do you need a tissue, Cory?" Arlene Marshall looked up from her reading, Thoreau's Walden sharing room on the kitchen counter with The Joy of Cooking, to see her eight year old godson and ward, Cory Svendsen, scrubbing hard at his nose with the heel of his hand, his fingers stabbing toward the ceiling with every upward scuff.
"Huh-uh. I'b fide." His white-blond eyebrows crinkled downward over reddened, puffy eyes as he concentrated on solving another word problem from his supplemental mathematics workbook. Mr. O'Hearn, Cory's new teacher at Chinook Elementary, had noticed Cory's talent in math within weeks of his pupil's arrival, and had encouraged his gift with more challenging work. The sorts of problems that had driven Arlene nuts at the same age seemed fun to Cory, who quickly scratched out another answer with his pencil and turned the page of the book to fill out an end-of-unit puzzle.
"Okay." But, Arlene admitted to herself, continuing to watch as Cory snuffled again and rubbed at his nose with the cuff of his sweater, it wasn't okay. Cory's quiet, agreeable passivity worried her. He'd been like a polite little ghost ever since he'd come to live with them, following the death of his parents in an auto accident on New Year's eve, taking out the garbage and putting away dishes when asked but volunteering little or any information about how things were going in school, if he was making new friends, even if he was uncomfortable.
And heaven knew, she thought, he had to be uncomfortable, even miserable, given the sniffles and sneezes that had plagued him for the last two weeks. She had taken him to the clinic when the symptoms hadn't abated after a week, and Dr. Graham had delivered his diagnosis five minutes after entering the exam room.
"It's not a cold, Mrs. Marshall," he'd said, keeping his hand firmly on Cory's chin to tilt the boy's head up toward the ceiling. "You see the dark shadows under his eyes and the little crease here?" He pointed with an index finger to a point an inch above the tip of Cory's nose, where a faint crease had formed from constant upward rubbing.
"Yes?"
"And when his nose is running, the mucus is watery rather than viscous?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"This is an allergy, most likely seasonal if you just started noticing the symptoms in the last few weeks." He let go of Cory's chin and swiveled his stool to a low desk, taking a black pen from the pocket of his lab coat. "There's an allergist I'd like you to see, Dr. Jed Stevens. Very gentle, great with kids. He's young, but he's good." He jotted down the name and phone number on a prescription pad, ripping off the top sheet and offering it to Arlene.
"Thank you, Doctor."
Cory took that as his cue to hop down from the exam table, glad the appointment was at an end and he'd escaped getting a shot or a throat culture. That afternoon, Arlene called for an appointment with Dr. Stevens, whose receptionist sounded harried and exhausted.
"If this is your son's first time here, I'll need to have you fill out some forms before the appointment. Just a questionnaire about his prior treatment, his health history, those sorts of things. Can you come in next Tuesday at four?" Arlene didn't bother to correct her, to say, "He's my godson, I just took him into my home three months ago, and I'm worried I'm doing a horrible job as a mother." Those were thoughts better left unexpressed, at least to the frazzled woman on the other end of the phone. To her, Arlene simply said yes, murmured the polite responses, and hung up.
To herself, however, Arlene was free to ruminate on the unfairness of the situation, her doubts and fears about being an inadequate guardian. Gudrun Svendsen had been such a devoted mother, writing bi-monthly letters to Arlene chronicling Cory's growth and progress from his birth to his first tooth and to his first day of kindergarten. Every letter was filled with details and glowing little comments that indicated to Arlene just how happy Gudrun was being a mother.
"Arlee," Gudrun had said during one of their last visits, when Bob, Per and Cory were out taking a walk in the cooling fall air, admiring the changing leaves on the trees and the withering stalks of corn on the farm adjoining the Svendsen's rural acreage. "I so wish you and Bob could have children. They are a joy. Per and I are thinking of trying to have another one, now that Cory is in school and growing up so fast."
Gudrun placed a protective hand over her abdomen, and Arlene felt a brief flash of grief that she would never be able to experience pregnancy and childbirth. She had suffered from heavy periods ever since the onset of puberty, god awful things that confined her to bed for days at a time with cramps and bleeding so intense, it made her anemic. Finally, when she'd turned eighteen, she'd begged for a hysterectomy, the state of the art in 1968, and she'd been granted her wish. Although the operation and recovery had been painful, she rarely regretted having it done, as she was free of the pain and fatigue.
"Are you...?" Arlene watched Gudrun smoothing her hand over her skirt, where a baby might already be growing, but Gudrun shook her head, her long blond hair waving with the motion.
"No, not yet, but Per and I are trying. We try quite often." The two friends laughed together, feeling deliciously naughty at discussing such things. They were still giggling when the men came home, and the looks on their faces made them laugh anew.
"You have been talking about us, ja?" Per's brows furrowed, but he smiled, his tanned face already showing creases and lines from his long days out in the sun, tending to his crops of corn and barley. "You must say that we are very strong and handsome."
"Ja." Gudrun kissed her husband on the mouth, her blue eyes open so she could see his expression, then bent to kiss her son on the forehead. He squirmed and rubbed at the spot with the back of his hand, embarrassed to be fussed over in front of company but still obviously pleased.
At dinner that evening, the Marshalls' last meal with their college friends, Cory was a font of information, burbling happily away about what he'd done in school, his plans for his eighth birthday, which wasn't until December, but was still close enough to dream about and plan. He occasionally interrupted himself with a series of sneezes which were loud and startling enough to unnerve Arlene but didn't seem to worry his parents.
"Allergies," Per explained, taking a blue bandanna from his hip pocket and handing it to his son. "It is the end of the ragweed season. Once the first frost comes, dinner will be a bit more quiet."
"Huh-uh," Cory said from behind the bandanna. "Dad says I'b his bagpie." He paused to blow his nose. "That means I talk a lot, like the magpies in our fields."
Whatever magpie gifts for talk Cory had had, they seemed to have disappeared by the next time the Marshalls had seen him, a hectic and dark new years' afternoon as Arlene and Bob had been summoned to Kansas by a provision in the Svendsen's will which named them Cory's legal guardians. Although both Arlene and Bob were aware of the responsibilities they'd agreed to, they'd never quite believed that they'd be asked to fulfill them. But when the call had come in the early morning hours from a gruff sounding lawyer who asked them, "How soon can you come out here?" before explaining that Per and Gudrun's car had been broadsided by a drunken reveler while they'd been on their way home from a grange-sponsored dinner and dance. They had arrived to find a mute and dry-eyed Cory looking around his living room as if it were the surface of the moon.
At the hastily arranged funeral, Arlene had delivered a speech which expressed as much shock about the tragedy as love for her departed friends, and Cory sat stiffly in the front row in a black suit that already seemed a bit small for him. Bob had made sure that the service would be closed casket, brief and non-religious. Many of the Svendsen's friends attended the graveside service and murmured words of sympathy to Cory, but he kept his gaze on his feet and let Bob say the thank yous for him. Only once the coffins had been placed in the ground and buried under half-frozen dirt, each mourner tossing a handful onto the pile, did Cory make even the slightest noise, a cough and snuffle which Bob attributed to the cold air.
"We'll get you home and have some hot chocolate, okay?" Unaccustomed to the ways of eight year olds, Bob hoped he hadn't said anything that would be misconstrued as "babyish," but if Cory minded the offer or thought it beneath him, he didn't indicate it, only snuffled again in response. Arlene rummaged in her small black bag for a tissue to offer him, but he refused to accept it, trudging on toward the waiting rental car.
Three days later, having packed two large suitcases with Cory's clothes and possessions, meeting with the lawyer to finalize details for custodial care and the disposition of the house and property, and arranging to have school and medical records mailed out, the new "family" boarded a plane for Bellevue, Washington, where Robert worked as a stock analyst and Arlene decorated and sold houses. One of the stewardesses, noticing Cory's apprehension, brought him up to the cockpit to meet the captain and see the instrument panel, a distraction which he tolerated but didn't really enjoy. During the five-hour plane ride, Cory kept his nose pressed to the window, looking east and wishing that the flight would return safely to Topeka, where his parents would be waiting for him at the airport gate.
The oven timer Arlene had set earlier to go off at 3:30 PM buzzed, and she closed both Walden and The Joy of Cooking, placing them on the counter next to the avocado green refrigerator that she and Robert had purchased last year with a bonus from his employer.
"Sweetie, it's time to get ready to go see Dr. Stevens."
Cory's head snapped up in surprise at her use of the endearment, and he dropped his pencil onto the kitchen floor, where it landed with a tap. Leaning out of the breakfast nook where he'd been working, he picked the pencil up and wedged it into the seam of his workbook, folding the cover back over to show a pattern of four orange slices arranged in quadrants against a dark brown background.
"Okay." He sniffled again before wriggling off the bench, and Arlene made a mental note to tuck a packet of tissues into her purse.
Cory was halfway to the front hall when he paused in midstride, bringing his hands up to cover a series of sneezes that distressed Arlene by their intensity. "Hehh-shoo! Eshhoo! Heh-shooo! Eshhh!" His small body folded over at the waist, his sweater pulling up and revealing a crescent of pale skin above the waistband of his jeans.
"Bless you." Grabbing the box of tissues from the kitchen counter, she ripped out a handful and approached Cory, who stood pinching his nose between his fingers and blinking streaming eyes.
"Now do you need a tissue?"
"Uh-huh." He acquiesced grudgingly, pausing a long moment before giving an extended, wet blow into a tissue he'd folded over into two layers. Almost immediately after pulling the used tissue away from his nose, he sneezed again, a quick, quiet, "Hiiishhh!"
Arlene traded Cory his used tissue for two fresh ones, not noticing when he shoved them into his pants pocket and swiped at his nose with his sleeve. He hid the damp spot by pulling on a light jacket whose cuffs flopped over his outstretched fingers, and held the tissue box while Arlene donned her own jacket.
"And we're off!" Arlene took the box back and tucked it under her left arm, shouldering a bulky tan purse on her right side. They walked out of the house and down the short driveway to a maroon VW Wagon which sat speckled with rain water from a morning downpour. Arlene waited until Cory had gotten in and fastened his seatbelt before she leaned over to place the tissue box on his lap.
"Just in case," she assured, though Cory looked as if he'd rather she'd dropped a nest of rattlesnakes in his lap. The motor puttered to life, and Arlene glanced in each side mirror and in the rear view mirror before backing out into the quiet residential street. Their route to Dr. Stevens' office took them past Main street, where a number of two and three story buildings seemed to part just so they could have a glimpse of Mount Rainier.
"Wow." Cory, raised in Topeka, was new to the hypnotic charm of Rainier, or Mount Tahoma, as some called it, and he pressed his face against the passenger side window for a better look.
"It is special, isn't it?" Arlene, stopped at a red light, could see Cory's face reflected in the window, the way his jaw had gone slack. Just as the light changed to green, however, Cory's upper lip pulled back from his teeth, his nose wriggled, and he sprayed the window with an "Ishhh!"
"Sorry." He wiped away the moisture with a tissue and grimaced, embarrassed at what he'd done.
"That's okay." Arlene kept her eyes on the road, but tried to reassure Cory with a gentle smile. Five minutes and fifteen sneezes later, they pulled into the lot of Dr. Stevens' clinic, a two-story building which he appeared to share with a number of other pediatric specialists, judging by the long list of doctors' placards screwed on to the brick façade near the door.
"You want to take the box with you?" Arlene pointed to the tissues, and Cory shook his head. He bounded out of the car and up the front steps, leaving the box on the passenger seat. Arlene stripped out another handful of tissues as a precaution and tucked them into her purse before joining Cory under the long awning above the doorway.
The reception area itself was painted in bright primary colors designed to appeal to children, and someone had copied a scene from the Wizard of Oz onto one wall, Dorothy and her companions just about to skip out from the wall and down the Yellow Brick Road which they seemed to see before them.
"Go ahead and find a seat. I have to fill out some forms." Arlene nudged Cory toward a seat, and he took one a few chairs over from a woman who was trying, without much success, to get her son to sit still long enough for her to wipe his runny nose. Across the room, a little girl - Cory guessed she was five - coughed repeatedly into a cupped hand, the sound low and thick. If he hadn't seen the girl, he'd have guessed he was listening to an old chain smoker, and he felt sorry that she was so sick, so young. Her dark brown braids bobbed with every cough, and her father, sitting beside her reading a sports magazine, would look over at her every so often and pull out a crumpled handkerchief to press to her lips.
Cory averted his gaze quickly, uncomfortably reminded of the way he and his own father had sometimes sat out on the back porch on warm spring nights to watch the stars come out, his four-year-old self protesting that he didn't feel like going inside even when he could see clouds of pollen floating around them. Per Svendsen would always chuckle indulgently and tug out his large, blue bandanna handkerchief, cupping it to his son's face as soon as he heard Cory's breath begin to hitch. His mother, Gudrun, would usually come out a half hour later and scold his father for letting Cory stay out when it was apparent to her that her son was tiring from his runs of allergic sneezes. She would herd Cory into the bathroom and strip him down, tossing his pollen-laden clothes into the hamper and washing more pollen out of his short, white-blond hair.
Once Cory was clean to his mother's satisfaction, she would enfold him in a warm towel and kiss his forehead as she rubbed water droplets off from behind his ears. New underpants and a pair of pajamas later, he would climb under the covers and ask his mother to tell him a bedtime story, usually the folktale about the mysterious man named Ulf who lived at the fringes of the village and who disappeared during every full moon. His clothes were ragged and torn, but he was loved by all of the children of the village, who were fascinated by how his long, black hair differed from their blond locks. Every time Gudrun told the story, Cory fell asleep just as the moon began to change from gibbous to full and Ulf disappeared to spend nights apart from the villagers.
"Cory Svendsen?" A woman's voice read his name in a clear, precise way from across the room, and Arlene watched as Cory looked up from studying the carpet, blinking sleepily as if he was coming around after hypnosis.
"That's you, kiddo." Arlene picked up her purse from the floor and prompted Cory forward toward the nurse who had called his name. The nurse checked her clipboard and took a thin manila file from a plastic box near the reception desk.
"Hi, Cory, I'm Sandra, but everyone calls me Sandy. You know, like Annie's dog?" The nurse was young and did, indeed, have dark blond hair like the dog who had been cast in the musical. "I'm Dr. Stevens' nurse, and I'll be taking your vital signs before he comes in to examine you."
She escorted them to a non-descript exam room, number five, positioned just off a sunny atrium filled with an enormous fish tank and various tropical-looking plants. "That's our waiting area for parents and children during our shot clinics. The fish help to calm everyone down."
"Mrs. Svendsen, you can have a seat in the black padded chair, and Cory, if you could jump up into the spaceship?" She indicated a high-tech chair that did, indeed, look like Captain Kirk's chair from the bridge of the Enterprise
Arlene didn't bother to correct Sandy, just took a seat and pulled her purse up to rest on her lap. Cory reluctantly slunk down into the exam chair, nervously pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.
"Now, don't worry, Cory, Dr, Stevens is very nice, and he doesn't give shots on the first visit." Sandy pulled over a stool and placed the earpieces of her stethoscope into her ears. "Can I take your blood pressure and listen to your heart?"
Cory acted like a veteran of clinic visits, pulling off his sweater so that Sandy could hear his pulse clearly. The cool air in the room made him shiver, and he crossed his bare arms over his chest as soon as the nurse had finished listening to his heart and making him breathe in and out as she'd moved the disk of the stethoscope around his chest.
"Your lungs sound great," Sandy told her patient, adding to Arlene, "We like to check for any signs of asthma. It can go along with rhinitis - hay fever."
"Okay, Cor, you can put your sweater back on, now. You have a pulse and a blood pressure. That's good to know, right?"
"Yeh." Cory sniffled again, a long, burbling inhalation that prompted Sandra to look around the room. When she spied what she wanted, she pulled a few tissues out of a large box and handed them over to Cory. Under her watchful gaze, he blew his nose again, another soft "iishhhh" following close behind.
"Now, Doctor Stevens should be in in just a few minutes. You're the last appointment he has today, so he'll be able to take his time." Sandy waited to open the door to the exam room until Cory had pulled his sweater back on, then gave a little wave as she backed into the hallway and closed the door.
"Well, here's a magazine you can read while we're waiting." Arlene pulled an issue of Highlights off the magazine rack and offered it to Cory, who shook his head.
"It's kind of babyish," he protested, and Arlene realized it was one of the first pointless, standard eight-year-old complaints she'd heard him utter.
"Okay, how about McCalls?" She held up a woman's magazine with a cake on the cover, and for the first time that day, Cory laughed.
"That's too -" He struggled to find the right word.
"High calorie?"
"Yeah, that."
"I think I remembered to pack one of your books, if you want to read that." Arlene was fast acclimating to being a "mother," carrying a purse as big as a tote bag so she was assured of having something to keep Cory occupied during grocery trips, medical appointments and the like.
"Neat!" Cory waited until Arlene was occupied with the task of digging around in her bag for the promised book before he rubbed at his nose with his sleeve, sniffling as quietly as he could. He was not trying to be obstinate, he told himself as Arlene handed over his copy of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. He simply didn't want to inconvenience his legal guardian over such a small thing as the fact that -
"Hello! You must be Cory?" A big, dark-haired man, with a closely cropped beard and fashionably long hair, came into the room, a white doctor's coat pulled over a brown, tan and white plaid button-down shirt with a wide collar. The name Dr. Jed Stevens was embroidered in blue thread over the pocket of the coat, and a few ballpoint pens poked out of the top of the pocket to the side of the embroidery. He looked as if he wouldn't have been out of place on a college campus, protesting the treatment of veterans or demanding that Ford not pardon Nixon, but Arlene assumed he had to be thirty, even if he looked barely draft-age.
"Let me wash my hands, and I'll be with you in just a moment." Both Cory and Arlene watched as the doctor dipped his hands under the faucet and splashed a thin red soap over them. He scrubbed for a good fifteen seconds, then rinsed off, turned off the tap, and dried his hands on a brown paper towel from the dispenser over the sink.
"And you are Cory's mother?" He extended a hand to Arlene, and she noticed the way he carefully applied a measured grip to her own hand. He didn't assume she needed a weak, floppy fish handshake, but neither did he attempt to crush her fingers.
"I'm his legal guardian, actually." She gently corrected him and he nodded in response. "Arlene Marshall."
"Sorry, my mistake. Jed Stevens, good to meet you." He pivoted on the ball of one foot and sat down on the rolling stool, scooting it over in the direction of the exam chair so that he and Cory could see eye to eye.
"Cory? I'm Doctor Stevens, but everyone calls me Jed. Nice to meet you, too." Again, a measured handshake was exchanged, Jed's hand dwarfing Cory's, but Cory liked the way Dr. Stevens treated him with respect, like he was an adult, too.
"Now, you're having problems with allergies? Of course, stupid question - you're here, aren't you?" Jed fished a pen out of his jacket pocket and opened Cory's chart.
"Okay, according to this, you're a 34 year old woman suffering from chronic gastritis of the left little toe, and you've come to have your eyebrows shaved off. That we can do, Mrs. Flogglebottom."
"No!" Cory protested, laughing. "I'm not Mrs. Flogglebottom!"
"You're not?" Jed took another look at the chart, turned it upside down, then slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Oh, of course you're not. My apologies, Mr. Svendsen. Now, what can I do you for?"
"He's been sniffling and sneezing fairly constantly for the past two and a half weeks," Arlene supplied, but Jed lifted his hand in the air to signal her to stop.
"Cory, I'd like you to tell me what you feel has been going on, why you're here."
"I've been feeling gross for two weeks," he replied, ending with another sniff.
"Lots of sniffling and what not?" Jed reached for a tissue and offered it to Cory, who took it apathetically and crumpled it into a tight ball in his hand.
"Yes." Sniff, sniff.
"Does it seem worse at any one time of day?" If Jed was perturbed by the sniffing, he didn't show any sign of it.
"Bordigs." A tickle was building up, and Cory did his best to stifle it, pinching his nose hard.
"Cory?" Jed took another tissue out of the box.
"Uh-huh?"
"I have what I like to call my three rules here. One, no stifling. If you feel you need to sneeze, go right ahead. I know you're not contagious."
"Two." Jed stripped a second tissue from the box, and Cory watched with an odd fascination, wondering how many he'd take out during his lecture. "If I have a swab or a curette up your nose, and you feel like you're going to sneeze, try to give me fair warning so I don't hurt you."
"Ad three?" Cory was feeling more congested by the minute, and he raised his sleeve to his nose to snuffle into it.
"Three." Jed punctuated his sentence by pulling out one more tissue. "If I do hurt you, or you're uncomfortable for any reason, let me know." He stacked the tissues and placed all three layers in Cory's hand, which was lying limp and palm-up in his lap.
"Oh -" Cory inhaled sharply, the sneeze he'd stifled making a reappearance. "Okay." Now he was almost glad for the doctor's persistence, as he clutched the bunch of tissues to his nose and sneezed into them repeatedly.
"Huhh-shhh! Ishhh! Ishhhh!" He gulped in a breath, then, "Ishhkewww! Hihh-chh-chh! Hihchsssh!"
Jed folded his arms over his chest, waiting until the fit burned itself out at an impressive twenty seven sneezes. By that time, the pile of tissues in Cory's hand was a sodden, shredded mess, and he was grateful when Jed lifted up a small garbage can so he could toss them in and be rid of them.
"Dogder Steveds?"
"Yes, Cory?"
Cory swallowed hard, then decided to risk it. "Cad I borrow your haggerchief?"
Arlene scooted forward to the edge of her chair, appalled. "Cory, I don't think that -"
"Sure." Jed cut in, leaning forward himself to pull a blue and white checked handkerchief from his back pocket. "I keep a few extras in my office, just in case," he assured Arlene, unfolding the cloth once so that it was a large rectangle. Before he gave it to Cory, however, he asked, "Do the tissues bother you?"
Cory exhaled audibly, relieved. "Uh-huh. They bake by dose itch, ad thed I have to sdeeze agaid."
Arlene thought back to the last two weeks, how she'd nearly had to order Cory to blow his nose and how each time, he would sneeze right after, a soft "ishhhh!" that seemed inexplicable to her. Blowing your nose got rid of a tickle, didn't it?
"Ah." Jed handed the handkerchief over to Cory, who regarded it dubiously and sniffled again.
"Blow," the doctor demanded, softening it with, "It'll make you feel better."
Cory leaned forward a bit in the chair, hooking his thumbs under two layers of cloth before raising it to his nose and blowing with tempered vigor. It did feel good, actually, and it felt even better when he was able to finish blowing, wipe slowly under both nostrils, and not automatically sneeze again.
"Cor?" Arlene waited until her godson had finished dabbing at his nose and looked in her direction before she spoke. "Why didn't you say anything earlier? I had no idea."
"I'b sorry. I should have told you, but I didud wad to be a bother." He averted his eyes as he said it, willing back the thought that had been simmering for weeks. If he was too much of a bother, if he asked for too much, Arlene and Bob could just send him away, couldn't they? And then he would have no one at all - no parents, no guardians, nothing. The thought made him feel as he had years ago, when he'd accidentally fallen into the pond near his house right before Halloween. The bank had been muddy and slippery with the first ice of the season, and it was only luck that had brought a nearby farmer out to check on his field and find Cory huddled, shivering and wet, at the edge of a row of dried corn stalks.
"Cory, your legal guardian is bound by law to keep you safe and provide for your needs. Whether that's bringing you to see me or knowing that you're allergic to paper tissues, it's all the same." Jed filled in for Arlene, who was blinking rapidly and swallowing convulsively. He hooked two fingers under the lip of the tissue box and scooted his rolling stool over to her side.
"You're not allergic to them, right? I'm afraid I don't have another handkerchief on me."
Arlene smiled weakly and pulled two tissues out of the box, dabbing her eyes and nose with them.
"Oh-kay." Jed looked down at the box, saw the brown cardboard bottom and grinned. "That's that. Time to reorder." He chucked the box into the same small trash can he'd offered Cory, and the box fell in with a metallic thunk.
"Now, Cory, it's back to work for us. How long do you recall you've been allergic to things?" Jed readied his pen over the chart.
"Forever," Cory said earnestly.
"And do you know what you're allergic to?"
Cory reeled off a laundry list of pollens, danders and dust, and Jed's pen scribbled furiously across his chart. "Ragweed is really bad, and cats."
"All right, that's good to know." Jed was impressed with his patient's memory - at only eight, Cory was conducting himself with the aplomb of a veteran, though that idea unnerved him a bit. No eight year old, after all, should have to be a veteran of any medical problem, but the boy in front of him seemed well-equipped to shoulder the responsibility.
"Do you know if your parents were allergic to anything?"
The question caused Cory to shoot a pained look at Arlene, who stepped in. "I don't recall that they were."
"Fair enough. Allergies do seem to have a genetic component to them, but not specific sensitivities." He jotted down another note in the chart, then set it aside. "I'd like to send you home with another questionnaire, something you can fill out over the next few weeks. It's more of a symptom diary, really. Just keep track of when your symptoms are at their worst, how many tissues - er, handkerchiefs, you use in a day, anything else you recall you're allergic to, that sort of thing."
"Now, can I take a look up your nose and see what's going on?" Jed tilted the chair Cory sat in by pressing a small metal lever, and Cory felt as if he were on a spaceship.
"You really want to?"
Jed arranged a set of instruments on a tray, picking up a small object that looked like sugar tongs and a lighted scope with a blunt cone tip. "Oh, yeah, you never know what you'll find there." He paused and tilted Cory's head back gently against the headrest. "I found, let me see, a bean, a pea, and a plastic army man once."
"You're kiddig." Cory couldn't help but smile, and Jed took the opportunity to flare his nostril with the tongs and place the scope on the left side, flicking on the attached light for a better view.
"Wish I could say I was. Of course, I didn't find all three things in one person's nose." He reached for a long-handled swab from the tray.
"This may tickle a bit, just let me know if you need to sneeze."
"Okay." Cory grimaced as he felt the swab go up and touch his turbinates, brushing gently. A second later, the swab was back out, followed by the scope and the tongs, and Cory took the opportunity to scrub at his nose with Jed's handkerchief.
"Not too bad?" Jed rubbed the swab onto a slide, creating a smear of something Cory didn't want to think about. "I'll check that under a microscope to see how many eosinophils I can find. That lets me know how allergic you are, relatively speaking."
Again, Cory was impressed with how Dr. Stevens treated him like a grown up, explaining what he was going to do before he did it, and then telling him why he was doing or had done something.
Halfway through the inspection of the right side of Cory's nose, however, he felt an overwhelming urge to sneeze. "Jehhh - Jed?"
"Point taken." Jed backed out the swab and the tongs, but he was still in the process of removing the scope when the sneeze erupted, and Cory couldn't adequately cover. "Kishhhh!"
Jed rolled back and placed the scope on the tray, discretely wiping spray off of his cheek. Once he was out of the way, Cory raised the kerchief to his nose and let fly another three fast, hard sneezes. "Hissh! Ishh! Eshh-oooo!"
"Bless you." Jed waited until Cory had blown his nose again before saying anything else. "I think I have all the information I can get for right now. Your nose looks pretty good, actually, no large polyps. A few small ones, but I think we'll just keep an eye on them."
"No army men?"
"Not a one, but your left hand turbinates look a little like Teddy Roosevelt on Mt. Rushmore. He was in the army, at one time.
"Anyway," Jed continued, jotting notes on a prescription pad. "I'd like to see you again in two weeks, with your symptom diary filled out. Wear a cotton t-shirt, laundered in Dreft or Ivory Snow, no fabric softener. I'll be able to narrow down the range of allergens to test for based on your diary. After we find out exactly what you're allergic to, we can talk about immunotherapy."
"Immu -what?"
"Allergy shots." Jed chuckled when Cory made a face. "It can be a good long-term solution, in partner with medication. Is there any medication you don't tolerate?"
"Benadryl makes me throw up."
"Right, no Benadryl. I'd suggest twice daily nasal lavage with a saline solution - Sandra can give you an instruction sheet on that. That'll wash pollens out of your nose and shrink the inside of your nose a little. Any over the counter allergy or cold medication should be fine, but don't go overboard. I'll write a letter to your teacher stating that you don't have a cold, you're not contagious, and that you should be allowed to stay in the classroom during recess, if you want.
"And," he concluded, stripping off three prescriptions from the pad. "I suggest you go to a department store or a Pay n' Save and pick up some handkerchiefs. A good two dozen, so you have a few in reserve and don't have to launder them every two days. If you want something smaller than this," he drew a square in front of him roughly sixteen inches across, "you might look for plain white ladies hankies. No one will know the difference."
He offered his hand again to Cory, who tried for as much grip strength as he could muster, then shook hands with Arlene. "Cory, Arlene, it has been a pleasure to meet you both. Stay well, I'll see you in two weeks." He opened the door to the exam room and motioned to them to follow him out.
"And, Cory?"
"Yes?"
"Don't use any tissues." Jed said with mock seriousness, then waved and headed down the hall to what must have been his private office.
"Well, did you like him?" Arlene asked once they were back in the Volkswagon.
"Yeah, he is nice, He's weird, though. Army men?"
"Somehow, I don't doubt it. Now, Nordstroms or Pay n' Save? I think Nordstroms will have a better selection."
"Nordstroms," Cory agreed, feeling just a bit guilty that it would cost more there than at the drug store or discount store.
One good thing about living in Bellevue in 1978 was that everything in town was concentrated in the space of two or three miles, so it only took five minutes of driving, even stopping at every light, to get to Nordstroms, one of the flagship department stores of the area. They were famous for shoes and their half-yearly sales, but Arlene walked purposefully past the stands of clogs and some sandal called Birkenstocks right to the men's department, where a tall man in a suit and tie, with dark, slicked back hair was arranging a rotating rack of silk pocket squares.
"May I help you?" He greeted Arlene with a smile as smooth and brightly polished as his hair, eager to please and make a sale.
"Yes, you may. I need to purchase some handkerchiefs. Cotton, preferably, not linen."
"Are these for your husband? Does he have a preference for pattern or color?" The salesman bent down to open a glass display case, picking up a few different boxes of neatly rolled handkerchiefs. Some had borders, others didn't, and while most were white, there was also a selection ranging from white with a blue border to solid light blue to a solid dark blue.
Cory, his nose irritated by the scent of perfume that hung in the air from the nearby cosmetics counter, cupped his hands to his face, recalling Jed's injunction to not stifle. "Heh-shoo! Esh-hoo!" With difficulty, he fumbled in his jacket pocket and drew out the blue and white handkerchief, relieved when he could bring it to his nose and sneeze into it.
"Gesundheit." The salesman had to peer over the counter to bless him, as Cory's head was just level with the top of the case.
"Thank you." Cory pinched his nose between folds of cloth and sniffled sharply.
"So, these are to be for you, then?" The salesman's expression softened a bit, and he walked out from behind the counter to size Cory up.
"Yes."
"In that case, I'd suggest perhaps a dozen white, and then maybe some solid colors. We don't sell bandannas, but those might also be to your taste. I don't often - well, most of my customers are in their thirties, at least. This may be the first time a young gentleman has come in.
"Anyway, that's neither here nor there." He waved a hand past his head as if to chase away errant thoughts that were buzzing around him like flies. "Nothing terribly ostentatious, I assume, but not too formal. These, I think." He pointed to the white and assorted-blue handkerchiefs.
"Will these be on your Nordstrom's charge plate, ma'am?"
"Please." Arlene drew a small plastic card out of her wallet and handed it over to the salesman, who placed it on an odd looking contraption and put a carbon-paper slip on top before dragging an odd, noisy bit of the thing over the card with a crack-crack sound as it went forward and then back. He peeled off the slip, had Arlene sign it, and then placed the two boxes of handkerchiefs into a buff-colored bag.
"Use them in good health, young sir."
Arlene thanked him, and then she and Cory were walking back to the car, assiduously avoiding the cosmetics counter on their way out. Ten minutes later, they were home, Arlene making it a point to place the new handkerchiefs into the washer as soon as they came in. "You can transfer them to the dryer once the washer buzzes and stops."
"Okay." Cory watched the washer filling with water with vague interest, glad to be home. And somehow, Arlene and Bob's house was starting to feel more like home, even though Cory longed to be back in Topeka with his parents. Every once in a while, when something really good had happened, he found himself halfway to the telephone to call them, as if his stay with the Marshalls were an odd extended summer camp, before he realized that the phone would only be ringing in the empty house he'd grown up in.
The thought forced tears into his eyes, and he sniffed sharply, hoping his godmother would chalk it up to his allergies. He really didn't want to be a burden, no matter how often Arlene and Bob had assured him, in many ways, that they were happy he was living with him. He saw the sadness in their eyes, felt the occasional tension as they rearranged their schedules for his benefit.
Over dinner that evening, macaroni and cheese from scratch, Bob asked about the doctor visit, and both Arlene and Cory were able to regale him with details, some humorous, others serious.
"Army men?" Bob stabbed his fork into his bowl of salad, then lifted it halfway to his mouth. "Hmm. I though those disappeared after I went to high school, in the Paleolithic age. And no wisecracks, sonny," he added, pointing toward Cory with the leaves of lettuce he'd impaled. "You should respect your elders."
"Yes, sir." The uncomfortable, bordering-on-shocked expression that accompanied Cory's answer prompted Bob to drop his fork and reach across the table to touch his godson lightly on the forearm.
"Joke, son, joke."
"Ah. Yeah." Cory forced a smile, trying to pretend he'd not misread his guardian so wildly. "Uhm, may I be excused, please?"
Arlene considered saying no, given that he'd barely touched his salad and more than half of his mac and cheese remained on the plate, but she nodded. "Of course, sweetie."
Given permission, Cory dashed from the table and ran to his room upstairs, the closing of the door audible in the dining room. Arlene and Bob were left alone to exchange puzzled looks across the polished walnut surface of the dining table.
Pushing aside her empty salad bowl, Arlene sighed and placed her elbows on the table in front of her. "Bob, I'm worried about Cory." Her head dropped into her hands, and she studied the grain of the wood as if it could reveal the answer to all of her questions. "To be perfectly honest, I'm worried about me. I feel like I'm doing the world's lousiest job as a mother, but I know Cory would never tell me. He'd just keep trudging along, not contradicting us, not complaining, not being a little boy."
Hearing the hurt in his wife's voice, Robert Marshall got up to stand behind Arlene's chair, reaching out to place his hands on her shoulders. When she looked up at him, the worry in her eyes was so intense that he had to glance away for a moment.
"Arlee, you're doing great. You've taken time off work, you've met with his new teacher." He paused, trying to think of some other evidence to offer. "You're dragging around that awful tote bag, just like every carpooling, career-and-home juggling mom I've ever met."
"But am I doing enough? Bob, Cory won't tell me what he needs, half of the time. It took a complete stranger to get him to admit that he's been miserable for the past two weeks and that I've just been making it worse."
"Making what worse? How? I'm afraid I don't follow."
Arlene repeated for Bob more of the details of the visit with Dr. Stevens, things she'd elided earlier. "I've been pestering him for days and days to blow his nose rather than just sniffle constantly, and it turns out he's allergic to the tissues I've been forcing on him."
"Well, okay, that explains why there are all those handkerchiefs in the dryer. But, I still don't get it. How do you rate as a zero on the mom scale?"
"What if he gets sick, really sick, but he doesn't tell me because he doesn't want to inconvenience me?"
Bob figured out where Arlene's argument was headed, and decided to stretch it to the limit of absurdity. "And what if he falls off a cliff, and dies, and doesn't tell you even then?"
"Bob, I'm serious!"
"I am, too. Given the fact that Cory's only been with us for three months, and his parents - our friends, I might add - died in a freak accident, I'm not surprised he's not as chatty as he was when he was back in Topeka with Gudrun and Per. He's not the same person as he was then, and we're not the same people, either. It's just going to take time to adjust."
Arlene dropped her chin to her chest, drawing in a deep breath to re-center herself. She knew she was prone to catastrophizing, to spinning normal, everyday problems out into huge disaster scenarios, but she couldn't help but feel concerned about mastering her new role as guardian and, perhaps someday, mother. It mattered too damn much, providing one lost little boy with a new home, a new family, the space he needed to open up and blossom just as the world around him was coming back to life in the spring after a damp and cold Northwest winter.
"Look, let me go get a basket for the laundry, take everything out of the dryer, and maybe Cory and I can talk. Maybe he'll be less reluctant to talk to another guy. I mean, no offense to women, but maybe you remind him a little bit too much of Gudrun. Mothers can be a really sensitive subject for guys."
"Okay. I hope you're right." Arlene looked up from the table, then gathered up their dishes in preparation for washing them in the sink. Although they had a dishwasher, she often found that the mindless, repetitive nature of washing dishes by hand calmed her, and it was nice to look out the windows over the sink to the backyard and the woods beyond the scrubby, tilting lawn.
"Me, too." Robert, good to his word, took everything out of the dryer and tossed it into a large maize-colored laundry basket, hauling it with him to the second story of their house.
"Cory, can I come in?" Anchoring the basket at his right hip, he tapped lightly on the door to his godson's room, waiting for a reply. A moment later, he heard a voice pipe up with a faint, "Sure."
When Robert entered the room, Cory was lying face-down on his twin bed, a pillow rolled up and pulled under his chin. He was staring at the navy and red plaid comforter, a precious reminder of his former life. Bob and Arlene had taken pains to transport all of the furniture and trappings of his old room to this new one, down to the tattered posters he'd had on his walls.
"Your m - Arlene wanted me to bring these up to you. She thought you might need one." Bob sat gingerly on the edge of the twin mattress and shook the laundry basket for emphasis, tilting it toward the small, pale-haired boy on the bed. Cory reached over without looking and plucked out a handkerchief, wadding it up and placing it between his pillow and the headboard.
"Thanks." Cory's reply was soft, weary. It was the fatigue, bordering on hopelessness, that cut into Bob, made him wish there was something he could do or say to ease his ward's grief.
"How's school been going?"
"Okay."
Okay, Bob thought, strike one. Maybe the best approach was to ask more open-ended questions, force Cory to articulate some opinion or idea rather than fall back on yes-no answers.
"What do you think is going to happen in The Silver Chair? Is Prince Rilian going to escape?" Good, good, appeal to the boy's reading habits. Cory had been clutching a copy of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader the last time Bob had seen him, and seemed to be nearing the end of the book.
"I dunno."
Strike two, and fading fast. Bob approached and then abandoned a few more subjects of potential discussion before even thinking of articulating them to the morose little boy beside him. Finally, he just plunged in, hoping for the best.
"I miss your father."
Cory made a muffled snorting noise and pushed himself up, rolling over to sit up and clasp his arms around his knees, pulling his shins up to his chest.
"You do?" It was the first time he'd heard either Bob or Arlene broach the subject, and he approached it cautiously, wanting to hear everything but a little afraid to, as well.
"Oh, yeah. Your father had a great sense of humor, you know. When we were going to classes together at the U, he could do this imitation of our dull-as-dirt economics professor that was just a classic. 'The vector of change for the sub integer function of inflation must be balanced by a corresponding decrease in the proportion of working capital, as indicated by the GDP multiplied by the coefficient of the blah, blah, blah.' I really miss the way he could make me laugh.
"And he'd go to all the old Bergman movies and shut his eyes - he didn't need to read the subtitles, of course. I think he met your mother at a midnight showing of The Seventh Seal, come to think of it. They were both missing Sweden, and the pictures on the screen would just transport them."
"Did my dad talk about me?" Cory's voice was a hopeful little whisper, and his blue eyes glowed as he found the courage to look up at Bob.
"Oh, Cory, your dad couldn't stop talking about you. He'd call us, oh, maybe once every two weeks, and we'd talk for an hour, mostly about whatever you were doing in school, some new insect you'd caught in a jar, your helping your mother can vegetables in the fall or learning to ride your bike. I could hardly get a word in edgewise, he was always so proud of you, wanting to brag a little about this or that accomplishment."
"Really?"
"Yes. Really. Your mom talked about you a lot, too, though she was always closer to Arlene than to me. But, you know, I think Arlee has a big old stack of your mother's letters in a box in our bedroom. I'm sure she'd show them to you, if you asked."
Cory sniffled, then made an odd little hiccupping noise, and Robert tilted over from the side of the bed to grab the handkerchief Cory had crumpled up and abandoned. He tucked it into the front pocket of his pants and then looped an arm around his godson, who had started to tremble.
"You okay, big guy?"
Cory shook his head violently, sniffled again, then, in a tiny squeak, said, "I biss theb."
"Ah, Cor, I know. I know." Robert enfolded the small, shaking boy in his arms, relieved when he felt Cory's own arms loop around his back. He rested his chin lightly on the top of Cory's white-blond hair, moving his hands slowly up and down the boy's back and the back of his head.
Corry sobbed out his grief in gusty, snuffling waves, pressing his face hard into the rough weave of Robert's oxford cloth shirt and clinging as tightly as he could. When he thought of his parents, it felt as if two huge hands were reaching into his belly and attempting to rip him apart, one pulling down toward his feet, the other toward his head. He feared the monster's claws would fling him off into outer space, leave him all alone in the cold, dark black that was threatening to fill his insides.
But as he continued to cry, it seemed as if a little of the cold blackness poured out of him along with his tears, and the gentle hands that were moving over his back as his mother's used to after he'd had a nightmare, seemed to brush away some of his hurt like dust shaken off a curtain. Maybe the low voice that murmured in his ear was right: maybe there was a chance for everything to be okay, even if it could never be the same. Maybe the Marshalls were willing to put up with him, wouldn't try to send him away as he'd feared if he did something wrong or asked for too much.
"Feel a little better?" Robert asked a long while later, as Cory's breathing settled back into a more normal pace and his sobs were reduced to an occasional shuddery, snuffling gasp.
Cory nodded and began to pull away, but Robert hooked two fingers under the boy's chin and tilted his face up for a better view. Cory's normally pale cheeks were a splotchy red, shining damply in the dim moonlight that was filtering across the bed from the opposite window. His nose was a brighter red, and was still running profusely, though he tried to sniff it back in short, sharp bursts.
"Ah, ah, ah," Robert scolded gently, taking the wadded handkerchief from his front pocket and pressing it up under Cory's nose, folding the sides up and around his nostrils.
"Now, here, have a good blow."
Cory did as he was told, blowing repeatedly in little puffs until his nose felt clear. Apparently satisfied, Robert took the cloth away and folded it to offer a dry spot, then gently dabbed at his godson's dampened cheeks.
"Cor, I hope you know," he said, brushing under spiky blond eyelashes, "that Arlene and I love you, and we're happy you're here. We like having you with us, and we're not going to send you away if you do something wrong."
He paused to brush Cory's bangs up from over his eyes, but the hair fell stubbornly back into place. "I know all of us would rather that things were different, that your folks were still alive and we could just come to see you for visits. But you're here, with us, and Arlene and I want to be good parents to you. You might have to help us learn, since we've never raised any kids of our own before you came to live with us, but we need to know what you need, and what you want. That's what moms and dads do, guy."
"Bud I thoughd I bade you sad." Sniff!
"Oh, no, buddy, not you." Robert tried to smile reassuringly, didn't know if he was succeeding. "If we look sad, it's because we miss your parents, too, and because we don't like to see you in so much pain. Parents will say a lot of things that sound stupid, like 'don't cry' or 'it's not that bad' because it breaks their hearts to see their kids hurting."
"Oh." Snff!
"Here, blow again. You still sound all stuffed up."
Cory couldn't help but be reminded of his father as Robert lifted the handkerchief again so he could blow into it. The thought was actually kind of nice, he decided, not the stab of longing he'd expected to feel.
"Good." Robert balled up the used handkerchief in one hand and sent it sailing across the room into a large, dark brown wicker hamper where a pair of jeans was draped over one side and a bright green t-shirt poked one short sleeve out. "I was the scorekeeper for the men's basketball team, you know. Your dad was the star forward, of course. Got all the girls' attention."
"Yeccch!" Cory grimaced as if he'd just downed a spoonful of cold medicine.
"Oh, yes, right, girls are icky. Bleh." Robert tried to imitate Cory's scowl.
"Maybe not Arlene, though."
Robert smiled. "No, Maybe not. Say, what if you and I fold the rest of these," he pointed to the handkerchiefs in the basket. "And then, you and Arlee and I can watch some television."
"M*A*S*H?" Cory was fascinated with the medical/war drama, for reasons that mystified Robert.
"Mmm, maybe. Or maybe Exploration Northwest," Robert advised, referring to a family-friendly nature show hosted by local celebrity Don McCune, known to his fans as "Captain Puget". "Let's get these folded, and then we'll see." Together, they folded the squares quickly, setting them in a thick stack in the top drawer of Cory's dresser. When they went downstairs, Arlene was engrossed in knitting the front of what appeared to be scarf, but she turned her head and smiled at Cory as soon as she realized he was there.
"Hi. Are you feeling better? I was worried when you ran off in the middle of dinner."
Cory shrugged. "Yeah, I'm okay now. I'm sorry I scared you or anything."
Arlene, shocked to hear such a long string of words coming from her godson, let alone an apology, set down her knitting, trying not to gape.
"So, you and Bob discussed things, I guess?"
"Uh-huh. It was good." He paused, then, impulsively, leaned in to hug her. The knitting clattered to the floor as Arlene lifted her arms to embrace Cory in return, holding him fiercely for a moment before he grew embarrassed and wriggled free.
"Bob says you have a bunch of letters from my mom. Can you show them to me some time?"
"Of course, Cory, of course. I can show them to you now, if you want." She bent down to pick up her knitting and deposit it safely into a basket near her upholstered red rocking armchair.
"That'd be neat, yeah." He recalled his good manners a moment later, adding, "Please."
"Wait right over there on the couch, I'll go get them, and we can talk about them." On her way out of the living room, she found Robert in the kitchen, cutting up and coring an apple and smearing peanut butter on the slices.
"What great miracle did you work?"
"Huh?" He dipped the knife into the jar one last time, licking the peanut butter directly off it without bothering with the apple as a conduit.
"Cory is actually volunteering information, and he looks - how should I say this? Not happy, but - peaceful?"
"Oh, well, I wouldn't call it a miracle. I just recalled what I wanted someone to say to me when my mom died, years and years ago. Then I said it to him."
"And dare I ask what that was?"
"That they missed her."
"Oh." The simplicity of the wish astounded her, and she wondered why all of the child psychologists whose books on bereavement and parent loss were piled a foot high on her nightstand had not thought to mention that.
"I'll go take these in to the living room for Cory. Can you go get those letters and stuff?"
"Yes. Be right back."
Arlene had to lie on the floor in order to reach the box she'd slid under the bed, but the effort became worth it when she went back downstairs to show the assorted letters, photos and drawings to Cory, sitting on the couch between him and Bob as they sifted through the memorabilia.
"Oh, here's your birth announcement!" Arlene pulled out a small, light blue card with a photograph of a squalling, tiny infant beside the requisite vital statistics. The baby's hands were curled into fists under his chin, as if he was protesting having come out into such a noisy world.
"I was that tiny?" Cory asked in wonderment, bending over the announcement to gaze at the picture.
"Oh, yes. And here's another photo of you with your father." Arlene unearthed the promised picture, in which a beaming Per Svendsen was holding his swaddled son carefully, as if the infant were a porcelain plate in danger of falling and shattering. There were similar pictures with a proud, if exhausted, Gudrun, baby Cory nursing eagerly at her breast, the tiny fingers of one hand curled around a fold of her hospital gown.
"I think I like this one best." Robert reached over to dig through the box, pulling out a picture of Cory dressed as the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz, smiling at the camera to reveal his front two teeth missing. "Do you remember that?"
"Yeah. It was fun - I won a prize at the contest. A silver dollar." He'd kept the large coin tucked under his pillow for a week, then his parents had driven him to the bank so he could start a savings account with it. The teller had given him a brass sunflower piggy bank when he opened his account, and he studiously dropped every penny, nickel and dime he received into the slot between the petals, delighted when it would finally get heavy and full enough to empty and count through.
Arlene took out a letter from the pile and studied the precise, right-slanting script on the pink paper. "Oh, here's a letter your mother wrote me, just after you made the second-grade honor roll. 'I cannot believe how smart Cory is - he received high marks in English and math. I think that he likes math very much, and that he will grow up to be an accountant like Bob rather than a farmer like his father.'"
"I want to be a doctor when I grow up, though."
"You do?"
"Yeah." Cory paused to sniffle - the dust from the stack of old letters was irritating his nose. "Like Jed." Sniff!
"So, you don't want to work with numbers all day like me, huh?"
"Nuh-uh." Snff, sniiiiff.
"Cor, buddy, you need a handkerchief?" Robert dug into his front pocket, but Cory shook his head emphatically.
"Don't need it." Even as he said it, his nose wriggled, and his lips pulled back from his teeth, his eyebrows drawing downward in a faint blond line. "Huh-eshhh! Hesshhh! Ishhhh! Heshhoo!"
"Perhaps you do." Arlene took the cloth from her husband and passed it to Cory, who accepted it with a whispered "Thag you." He snuffled into it, forestalling more sneezes, then slumped back against the couch.
"Tell you what." Arlene carefully set the box back down on the floor, sliding it under the coffee table so it wouldn't be stepped on. "How about you take a quick shower, wash off whatever's bothering you, and then you can change into your pajamas. We can read the first chapter of The Silver Chair together, if you'd like."
"Really?"
Arlene smiled at the blend of hope and perplexity in Cory's voice. "Really. You just go run upstairs, I'll lay out your pajamas for you, and then when you're ready, you can call for me."
Cory sprinted up the stairs with the same intensity as he had after dinner, but this time, it was the bathroom door, not the bedroom door, that slammed. Once Arlene heard the whoosh of running water, she went briefly into Cory's small bedroom and placed a small pair of flannel pajamas on the bed. Although the temperatures were regularly in the 50's during the day, the temperature could plunge into the 30's at night, and she thought the comfort of flannel might be just what her godson needed that evening, after sorting through memories of his early childhood. She fluffed the pillows on his bed, placing one on top of the other so that Cory would be able to sit up in bed easily and help read the book.
Five minutes later, she heard the water stop running in the bathroom, and retreated to her own bedroom to give Cory his privacy as he walked from the bathroom across the hall to his bedroom. Just as she was opening a magazine she'd placed on her nightstand, preparing to cut out a few new recipes to try next week, she heard her name being called.
"Can we read this book instead?" Cory had climbed under the plaid comforter, and it rested on his knees as he held up a copy of Tolkien's The Hobbit.
"Ah, There and Back Again! That was really popular when your parents and Bob and I were going to college, you know."
"It was?"
"Oh, yes. Here, skooch over a bit, will you?" Cory moved so that Arlene could sit at the edge of the bed, then handed her the book. "Okay, how does this begin?"
They read quickly, getting to the scene in which Bilbo lamented having left his home without even a pocket handkerchief, before Cory smiled sleepily, yawned and stretched his arms over his head, the sleeves of his pajama top pulling down a bit farther than they should have to expose his knobby elbows.
"Oh, dear, you are growing like a stalk of corn, aren't you?"
"Uh-huh." Cory yawned again, sitting forward a little so Arlene could remove one of the pillows from behind him. She waited until he'd reclined back against the remaining pillow before adjusting the comforter for him, tucking it up around his chin.
"Nice and cozy now?"
"Mmm hmm." Cory rolled over to face the wall, and wriggled further down under the covers so that only the top of his head was visible.
"Sleep tight, sweetie." She bent down to kiss his corn silk hair, then ruffled it fondly. Perhaps it was her imagination, but as Arlene turned out the light and began to close the door, she thought she heard a small, drowsy voice murmur the words she'd been hoping to hear all her life.
"'Night, Mom."
This starts off a quartet of stories based on a Wizard of Oz theme ("There's no place like home," "Off to See the Wizard," Treasures of the Emerald City" and "Dreams that You Dare to Dream"), and contains imagery referenced in "Off to See the Wizard," but it should also work as a stand-alone fic. Many thanks to my beta, bryanfan, and her many helpful suggestions.
Written as part of tg's bday challenge