Th e Bli n d Ki d , C amil l e Good i son
down the hall. She checks to make sure he doesn’t bump into anything. “I’m fine, Mom,” he drawls in that way kids do. “I want to make sure you don’t burn yourself in the bath,” she says. It’s never happened, James scalding himself by accident, but she’s convinced he’s becoming a little too brave. He protests as she follows him to the shower: “I’m fine.” She stands there for a while as he strips and climbs over into the tub. He feels with both hands for the knobs and faucet and turns the cold knob. Slowly and carefully he sticks his fingers in the cold stream. He fumbles for the hot and turns that knob. He places both hands under the faucet, palms up; a few seconds are all he needs to test the water. Finally, he reaches for his washcloth with his right hand. He turns the hot water knob with his left, one last time, for a final temperature adjustment. He lathers up, and it does look awkward the way he does it, left hand over right. He soaps up with no trouble though and takes his bath. He’d prefer her not sticking around to watch, but soon enough, she leaves. His mother selects his clothes and lays them on his bed: a dark blue-and-white horizontal striped rugby shirt, a worn pair of jeans. “Jeeze.” It’s really late. The time on her watch says five minutes to go. Scrambly, skinny legs, like a delicate new fawn, James walks over to his bed in only his jockeys. He’s gangly like his Dad, all tied-up legs and arms, long and not long enough, his feet turn out slightly. It’s common in kids like him. Something about early childhood motor skills. Something the doctors said. Long lashes frame his downcast eyes as he feels along the bed until his fingers
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