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Your first and only child is a quiet baby.
He comes into this world with a silence so heavy that you have to ask if he’s breathing. The doctors reassure you that yes, he is breathing. And yes, he is healthy. He’s tiny, with 10 small fingers and 10 stubby toes. He’s perfect.
He’s calmer than any baby you’ve ever seen. He lets the nurses poke and prod at him, his dark eyes open and fixated on you. Mama. The only title that really matters to you.
Your baby boy destroyed your womb, but he’s a miracle and an angel wrapped in one, and you can’t bring yourself to regret it.
“Mrs. Menzies,” One of the nurses interrupts your thoughts. “What would you like to name him?”
You think of your previous miscarriage, of Roger’s clenched jaw and disappointed eyes, of his “you can’t name my son that. Pick something else or don’t pick at all.”
You hold your angel close to your chest.
“Akeno.” Your throat hurts. You’ve screamed it raw the past 7 hours.
“His name is Akeno.”
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One week after Akeno is born, you struggle to get out of bed.
It isn’t sudden fatigue, but it is unexpected in its intensity.
You’re just so damn tired.
Akeno is so quiet, it’s eerie. You would prefer if he screamed, because then you knew that he was alive. Every time you lay down and close your eyes, you awaken distressed, running to the nursery to see little Akeno looking around. Observing.
It never eases the anxiety in your chest. The fear.
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The first few weeks of Akeno’s life, your body refuses to produce milk. The doctors blame your age, Roger blames your stress.
You feel the inadequacy crawling in your bloodstream, sludging it’s way around your circulatory system. You scratch at yourself, hoping to remove it by hand. Your husband catches you one day, and his eyes widen.
Roger says that he’s getting a nurse for you, a nanny for him. You tell him you can take care of your own damn child.
“I’m a good mother.” You hiss and your voice cracks on a sob. He looks at you with pity, with resignation.
You hate him for not believing you.
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When he’s four years old, Akeno calls one of the nannies, “Mommy.”
You cry so hard, Roger has you sedated.
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You didn’t grow up with love. You grew up with discipline, and lots of it. So when Akeno breaks your favorite vase, you don’t scream at him like your mother did you. Instead, you pull him into your lap, and explain the importance of taking care of fragile things.
Your baby nods, looking far too serious for a five year old. “Gentle. I promise.”
“Yes, sweetheart.” Your energy is waning; you need to lie down. You wave the nanny over and deposit him into her arms. “Gentle.”
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You can’t unfuck-up your kid’s childhood.
No matter how hard you try.
Akeno loves you anyway.
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You and the nanny, this one named Meredith, take Akeno back to school shopping. He’s six, and you firmly believe in him “having his own sense of style”. Meredith offers to take him herself, but you insist on coming along. Therapy is working, and the pills are working even harder.
You beg her with your eyes to let you have this.
You hold Akeno’s small hand and navigate him through the miniaturized versions of Gucci, Nike, Louis Vuitton. Your son, always watching, spots something in the Goodwill across the street.
He’s up and out the door before you have a chance to stop him.
“Akeno!” You might be overreaching, but you haven’t left your house in 12 days and the sun is so bright. The streets are so busy, so dangerous and that’s your angel running across them.
You reach him first and pull him close to you.
“Akeno! Don’t do that again! Do you understand me?” Your face is red and your words are firm. You watch as Akeno looks up at you, then quickly looks back down at his feet. You feel like your husband, with a raised voice and hard eyes. You want to cry. You want to scream. Meredith is standing too fucking close.
Akeno nods, still avoiding eye contact. You release his arm and pull him into a hug. You squeeze until the pressure in your chest feels less suffocating. Your baby’s short arms try to reciprocate.
“Mommy.” He whispers, as if telling you a big secret. “I want this one.” It’s then you notice the cheap, plastic Spiderman backpack clenched in his little fist. “Please?” Roger would throw a fit if they came home with this, but Akeno looks up at you as if you are the sole provider of his happines, and you would rather die than deny him of it.
You buy him Avengers stickers too, and together, you stick them all over the back of the family limo.
Roger nearly bursts a blood vessel when he sees it the next morning.
Akeno’s laugh is better than any symphony you’ve ever attended.
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You can hear Akeno’s sobs from down the hall.
He must not know you’re home, because he has never been loud, outspoken, dramatic, fussy. He didn’t cry when he was born, didn’t cry when he broke his arm skateboarding or when Roger yelled at him for breaking his fancy wine glasses. You know he’s sensitive, still, soft and kindhearted and the best parts of you.
The sound of his cries constricts something in your chest, and you feel protectiveness roar inside you like it could protect him from the world using willpower alone.
“Akeno?”
You keep your voice soft, and your knock even softer. You hear his cries stop, like the flip of a switch.
“Can I come in?”
A beat. One, two. Silence doesn’t bother you, you’ve lived with it your whole life.
“Please, angel.” You’ll beg, every day you breathe, if it means Akeno will let you in.
“Okay.” His voice sounds far away, like he’s underwater.
You open the door slowly and slip inside his bedroom. It’s dark, the only light coming from the moon illuminating through the penthouse window.
Your son is huddled under the comforter, his head peeking through near the headboard.
You remember the day he came home with it dyed pink. It was right after the divorce, Akeno looking devestated and relieved all at once. He’s observant to this day, and you know he could see how the marriage was weighing on you. How Roger was chipping away at you, steadily, and you were moments away from achieving obscurity.
You’ve smiled more in the past few years than you have your entire life.
His pink hair reminds you of when he was born. His little pink body and his huge eyes. You miss him, and he’s right in front of you.
“Akeno.” You walk close to the bed, and you’re happy that he doesn’t shrink away from you. “I heard you crying. What’s wrong?”
He sniffles. “I’m fine.”
“You sound anything but fine.” Slowly, gently, as if expecting him to flee, you move to sit on the bed. “You can talk to me about it, if you want.”
You have no idea how to do this. You didn’t have heart to hearts with your own mother, who couldn’t be bothered to look at you half the time. You feel the phantom pain of inadequacy, and like an old friend, your skin itches.
“Did you love Dad?” He speaks softly. “Even when he hurt you?”
You feel your heartbeat in your throat.
“Yes. I loved him even then. Sometimes the people that you love hurt you. It may be purposeful, it may be because they’re scared of how they feel. When they love you back, it doesn’t mean they’ll never hurt you. But they’ll try their best to be good to you and for you. The good in them will outweigh the bad, every single time. That didn’t happen with your father and I, and that’s why I left. I’m happier now.”
You’re not sure if it’s what he wants to hear, but you’ve never been an expert on love.
“Are you in love, Akeno?”
His silence is louder than anything you’ve ever heard.
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Your baby boy’s eyes are huge and brown. They’re yours, and when you look into them, you see yourself.
Sometimes, you don’t want to look because you’re scared of what you’ll see.
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You knock on the door of the Wolfe residence with more confidence than you feel. You hope you don’t have this wrong, that this isn’t all a big misunderstanding. You consider turning around, but then you remember the pain in your baby’s eyes, and you knock again.
Gideon Wolfe answers the door as if preparing to face a firing squad. You’ve heard the rumors, and you wonder if he’s used to hearing bad news.
“Ms. Menzies.” He begins. “This is certainly a surprise, though not an unpleasant one. How can I help you?”
“Hello Gideon.” You keep your voice light. Unassuming. “I’m actually here to speak to your son.”
“Max?” His eyebrows furrow. “Is everything alright? Has he gotten himself into trouble again?”
Trouble seems to follow Max Wolfe like a moth to a flame. You remember when you first met him, years before Akeno would trade the playground for the skatepark. He was the center of attention, the single spotlight. Max was a star by any other name.
“I’m just worried about Akeno, and I was hoping he could help me get to the bottom of whatever is going on with him.”
“Oh my.” Gideon steps aside to let you in. “They have been spenging quite a lot of time together.”
“They have indeed.”
You think that the two of you are saying the same thing.
“Maximus is in his bedroom, but I’ll call him down. To be honest, I’m just happy he’s spending more time at home. You know how teenagers can be.”
No, you want to say. Akeno isn’t like the rest of them. Your boy never leaves home without telling you where he’s going. He sends you “goodnight” texts at 3am to let you know that he’s safe. He buys you flowers on Mother’s Day and writes silly poems that you keep framed in your office. He’s a good kid, the best kind of child. He’s forgiven you even when you didn’t deserve it. He’s your heart and your soul and you’ll spend the rest of your life proving it to him.
“I’m glad he’s back home, I’m sure that gives you some peace of mind.”
Gideon nods, looking distracted. He stares wistfully into the distance, and you think you understand.
“It gets easier.” You say, not specifying what. “It hurts like hell, but it does get easier.”
He blinks, and you pretend that you don’t see the wetness in his eyes.
Gideon is halfway up the stairs when he says, “Aki’s a sweetheart. I hope he’s okay.”
You hope so too.
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The brightest stars dim eventually, and you wonder if this is it.
Max Wolfe comes down the stairs looking hungover out of his mind. You can see tear streaks on his handsome face that he tries to no avail to rub away.
You were right, after all.
It takes him a minute to register who you are, and when he does, he stumbles backwards before his expression smoothes over. His charming smile would be convincing, if it reached his red rimmed, puffy eyes.
“Ms. Menzies,” You should start going by your maiden name. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“It’s good to see you Max. I’m sure you could guess, but I’m here to talk about Akeno.”
His smile withers, just slightly. It brings you small amounts of satisfaction to know that Max is just as affected, just as fragile when it comes to your son as he is him.
“I’ll-” Gideon looks from you to Max and back again. “Be in the study if you need me.”
He makes a hasty exit, and then there were two.
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“It’s not your fault, Mom.”
You’re watching Train to Busan together, and there’s zombies and guts and gore and what did he say?
“What are you talking about, sweetheart?”
Akeno waits until there’s a lull in the action. He’s not looking at you, but the sharpness in his cheekbones feels like looking into a mirror.
“Your post-partum depression.” He looks at you now, and you feel frozen in time. “I looked into it. It isn’t your fault. You should forgive yourself. I do.”
He didn’t say how he knew, but that’s your empathetic, clever, sweet boy.
You begin to cry, as quietly as you can. Akeno lets you cling to his hand the rest of the movie.
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“Aki,” Max fidgets, looking everywhere but directly at you. “is he okay?”
The question infuriates you.
“You tell me.”
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“You love him.” It isn’t a question.
A staring contest ensues. Max’s expression is what he imagines to be unreadable, but you know better. You know what loving Akeno does to you, and you can see it written all over Max’s face.
“I hurt him.” He croaks, sounding every bit as broken as Akeno had looked.
“And you’ll do it again.” You’ve known too much hurt to think it will elude the two because they’re in love. They’re human, and humans have mastered hurting each other. Especially the people that they love.
Max looks like he might cry again.
“I don’t deserve him.” He speaks in a hushed tone, speaking more to himself than to you. You can relate to his plight. He looks so momentarily miserable that you feel confident in your words.
“Neither do I.”
Max’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to reply. You interrupt. “But I spend every day trying to be someone that does.”
His jaw snaps shut with an audible click. He swallows.
“Akeno sees the best in people. In order for him to do so, there has to be something there. I know what that fear feels like, but you can’t let it ruin whatever is going on between you before it really begins.”
In front of you now, Max looks every bit his 18 years. His eyes, huge and terrified, remind you of yourself.
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A nurse nearly drops Akeno, once.
You leap off the couch. You’re moving before your mind can register what’s happening.
“Be gentle with him!” You snap, snatching him out of her arms and you’re so angry. You don’t know why, she was just playing with him, and you know she didn’t mean any harm.
It isn’t the josling that makes your baby cry, but the anger in your voice.
Be gentle with Akeno, indeed.
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You’re up late, later than usual. You’re reminded of when Akeno was four, and your lethargy gave way to insomnia. You would wander the halls of the mansion and try to not let the dark thoughts catch up to you.
Now, you mimic the wandering without the melancholy. You’re straightening a painting in the hallway when you hear giggling.
It’s 3am, and curiosity brings you to Akeno’s bedroom, where the door is just barely cracked. You hear Akeno’s giggle again, light and happy, and your heart soars.
“Max! Stop it! I’m not ticklish!” Akeno laughs, breathless. He’s a terrible liar, and Max must prove this point, because what follows is a series of wheezes and a “you asshole!”
“Now I’m no expert.” Max sounds just as happy, just as breathless. “But it sounds like the evidence is in the prosecution’s favor.”
“Shhh.” Akeno shushes him, still laughing. “You’ll wake up my Mom, and she’ll have you thrown out in your underwear.”
“Well,” You can hear shifting. “I’ll just have to take them off then. They wouldn’t throw a naked man out onto the streets, that’d be bad for business.”
With that, you head back to your own room to give the two some privacy.
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The next morning, Akeno joins you in the kitchen. He pours both of you a glass of orange juice and sits himself down at the bar. He knows you like having company while you cook.
You flip over a crepe, and try to hide your smile when you spot the bright red love-bite on Akeno’s neck.
You love being right.
You wait until Akeno is taking a sip of his juice to ask, “is Max Wolfe joining us for breakfast this morning?”
He spits out the mouthful all over the marble countertop, and you laugh until your sides hurt and the crepes are burning.
“Max?” He sputters. “Why would I invite Max?”
You hum, letting the sounds of knives running through fruit fill the silence.
“Well, he’s hiding out in your bedroom right now, and even super spies that excel in sneaking past parents at 10am need to eat.”
Akeno, red faced, is looking back in the direction of his bedroom before he has a chance to catch himself.
“Max!” You call, sliding the crepes and fruit onto the kitchen table.
Max Wolfe shuffles into the kitchen looking like the cat that got both the canary and the cream.
There’s a softness to him that you don’t think you’ve seen before.
“Since you were planning to sneak out of here without so much as a “good morning”, you can help with the dishes after breakfast.”
You catch Max’s eye, and the corner of his mouth quirks upwards.
“Of course, Ms. Menzies.”
Before you turn back to the food, you manage to catch Max winking in Akeno’s direction.
You hear your son’s exasperated sigh, and the comical thwack of his head on the table.
You share a laugh with Max, and you think that if both of you try, maybe you’ll deserve someone like Akeno.
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“Are you in love, Akeno?”
The silence stretches farther than you think you can handle. You know he loves you, respects you. You wish, desperately, that he would confide in you, trust you.
You weren’t here before, but you are now.
Akeno’s breath evens out as you draw yours in.
He whispers,
“Yes.”