Now, in the quiet, those moments replayed differently.
But one thing bothered me.
***
Four days after the funeral, Caleb shuffled into the kitchen while I was making scrambled eggs.
“Mom, my back hurts,” he said.
I glanced over. “From yesterday’s baseball practice?”
“Maybe. It started last night.”
I checked his back, but there were no bruises or swelling. “You probably pulled something.”
I found the ointment the doctor once prescribed and rubbed it into his lower back. “You’ll be fine. Try to stretch before bed.”
“Mom, my back hurts.”
***
The following morning, Caleb stood in my doorway, pale and frustrated.
“Mom, I can’t sleep in my bed. It hurts to lie on the mattress.”
That caught my attention. So I went into his room, but the bed looked normal. I pressed down on the mattress. It felt firm but not broken. I checked the frame and the slats underneath.
“Maybe it’s the box spring,” I muttered.
Caleb crossed his arms, uncertain.
