I

     Searing onions in a pan at night, I have to cover them. The lid traps the moisture and reduces the oil that bubbles and burns my skin. I always have the vent on at night. It is there to drown the other sounds so that my son will hear only it. Its axle is slightly bent so it wobbles and scrapes the edges of the drywall. He is infuriated by the vent’s noise. Often, he sleeps just to escape it. He comes out from his room from time to time. I can hear him climb down from his bed because he always stumbles on the ladder, then the edge of his bed, corner of his dresser and hesitates as the weak floor bends, warping under his weight, between the support beams. I let him grope through the dark to the hallway and come to the threshold of the living room. I’m sure he cringes as it creaks and he feels the uneven floor shift. He often hesitates before revealing himself. There are nights he walks back without me telling him to.

     He is only eight. He is frightened by noises. I must help him overcome his fear. It is the only one left. I would not be able to bear looking at him if he continues flinching at every beat of a drum.

 

II

     Four years ago, there was a hail storm. The hail hit the roofs of houses and dented the hoods of cars. It would hail for a time and then there would be a time when the clouds pretend to leave. All he understood was the noises of the hail and lightning. He was not concerned when the flooded streets filled and began to flow onto the sidewalk and lawn and slowly seeped into the carpet underneath the doorway. I went to clean the clogged gutters with a rake. He pulled on my shirt, an attempt to keep me inside. He shouted at me that the lightning would kill me if I went outside. I went out anyway. He convinced himself that lightning’s purpose was to terrorize and that it would inevitably ruin his life. I tried to show him the whirlpools that lined the streets when the water drained or walk him to the park where the swings were submerged. The rain began to stop and he slowly calmed down, but continued to worry it may start at any moment.

 

III

     I relax on my couch and feel the wooden frame. I can hear him still as he rolls in his bed. I try to focus on the television. It says there is only a slight chance of rain, but the wind was going to continue through the night. Before closing my doors I realize that my onions are burning and the are smoking slightly. Lifting the lid some are salvageable, but most are not. I leave the windows and doors open.

 

IV

     The first thing he feared was fireworks. He was four. I thought it was the fire or perhaps the speed that was frightening, but he was worried by the noise. I would have understood if he was scared by the smell of sulfur. He allowed bullies in school to hit him without ever retaliating. He was six when they started. He was not afraid of them or snakes or insects. His mother told him horrific stories of snakes crawling in air vents, eating children without having to chew. He watches action movies without flinching.

     There was a time that he was scared of fire because he burned himself trying to light a candle. He would blow it out when he was successful. The wicks would sometimes become lodged in the molten wax and I would watch as he reached into it and jerked back when he broke the thin layer of wax that dried on the surface. He quickly overcame this fear when he recognized its predictability. He would always get burned when he tried to burn something.

 

V

     From the couch, I hear that he is out of his bed again. He does not hesitate in the hallway. He comes to me and tells me he is scared.

     “Go back to bed,” I respond. He begins to turn red. He leaves the room but does not go to bed. I meet him in the hallway on the warped floor that lifts him up when I stand across the support from him. They have the potential to make a shrill noise when the wind blows. The lack of wind does not matter to him. I tell him that he is being ridiculous and assure him that they will remain silent. I return to my couch. He climbs the ladder in the dark and sits quietly without rolling as he does in his sleep.

 

VI

     There is practicality to fearing thunder. There is a possibility that it will harm friends or family. It splits the sky and shatters trees in an instant. His fear of noises became irrational when he couldn’t listen to rock music or see monster trucks. If he did not cure himself of his fear, he would spend his life scared and hiding. There would be nothing to prevent him from fearing all noise. He would fear his descent down stairs and be incapable of opening cans or bottles. There would come a time that he would isolate himself to avoid voices. He would starve if he could not stand to hear his teeth clench and his throat swallow.

     He was stronger than the other boys his age. He could push any of them to the ground, but instead he allowed them to hit him. They could be grovelling in the sand at his expense. He watches them let out their frustration and is not afraid. At the very least he could reach out and tell them to stop. There are times he lets them carry on too far. He comes home with bruises up his shins and some one his arms and chest. He is not helping them; He must understand that. There is no reason for him to worry.

 

VII

     He cooks himself breakfast each morning. He doesn’t like cheese because he burns himself when he cooks eggs with cheese. He puts his hand close and the water boils and bursts, releasing oil droplets that singe the back of his hand. He refuses to eat cheese even when he does not cook it. The eggs are slowly made. He enjoys cooking them now that he can protect himself from burns. He doesn’t even eat them.

 

VIII

     I step onto the balcony: I’m trying to breathe freely. The wind begins to accelerate. I feel it whistling in the doorway. My lungs are dry. I close the doors and turn on the heater. I put the kettle on. I can hear him call my name. He wants to know what I am doing. I say nothing. I turn off the rickety vent.

     When he was just two years old or so, he did not speak. I wonder who he blamed when things went wrong. Everything he sees in his life happens to him. Every thunder strike is for him. He was raised to believe it was predestined, planned for him, so he wouldn’t blame himself.

     The kettle screeches and I jump. I cannot drink tea so late at night. I go into the room and open the door. The draft lightly jingles the wind chimes.

     “I’m throwing them away first thing in the morning.”

     I don’t argue. I crawl into my bed beneath him and cover myself in blankets. I still feel cold.