From somewhere in the house comes the thunder of small feet, and then Beckett bursts into the room like a comet. He's all energy and light.
"Warren!" He clutches the soccer ball I gave him under one arm, eyes bright with excitement. "I practiced my kicks! Wanna see?"
Before I can answer, his small hand wraps around my fingers, tugging me toward the door.
"Be good for Warren, honey," Margaret calls after us. "Just pull the door closed when you leave. You know we don't ever lock it."
"Will do."
"Thanks again, Warren. You're a lifesaver."
I let myself be pulled along by my son, powerless to resist the magnetic force of him.
Beckett drags me across the lawn toward an empty patch of grass away from the firepit and newly installed swing set.
That fucking firepit.
His sneakers leave indents in the damp ground, small footprints I can't help cataloging.
"Watch, Warren! I can kick with both feet now!"
He drops the neon and black ball, positions himself with surprising focus for a four-year-old, then boots it with his left foot. It curves wildly to the right.
"That was great!" I position the ball again. "Try turning your foot this way."
I demonstrate the proper angle, my own foot dwarfing the ball. Beckett studies my movements with an intensity that's like looking in a mirror. The furrow in his brow deepens, a mannerism I can't stop seeing now that I see the resemblance.
"Like this?" He kicks again, connecting more solidly.
"Perfect! You're a natural."
His entire face brightens at the praise, eyes crinkling at the corners. They're Janie's eyes, but my expression. It's all so obvious now.
We fall into an easy rhythm, passing the ball back and forth. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the yard. I demonstrate small tricks, and Beckett mimics them with surprising coordination.
"Look what I can do!" He attempts to bounce the ball off his knee, nearly toppling over, but catching himself. Hetries again, succeeding this time, and looks to me with naked pride.
A laugh bursts from my chest. It's full and genuine, surprising me with its depth. For a moment, the bitterness that's been my constant companion these past several days dissolves completely.
"That's it! Now try to control where it goes."
I kneel in the cool grass, positioning his small body. My hands on his shoulders feel right in a way I can't articulate. My chest tightens with a strange mixture of pain and something sweeter, more dangerous.
"Mimi says I'm the best soccer player in my whole class."
"Mimi is right."
Four birthdays. First words. Fevers and nightmares and Christmas mornings. All gone. Irretrievable. My throat constricts around these thoughts, but I swallow them down.
This moment is what matters. His smile, his determination, the ball sailing back and forth between us. These are the things I came for. These are the things that will keep me coming back.
The sun dips lower, everything washed in amber. It occurs to me he’s probably hungry.
“Hey, you want to help me get your pie out to cool. After that, what do you say we find something good for dinner?”
He nods, suddenly shy again. “Can I bring my ball?”
“Of course. It’s yours.”