Saving Elijah

the third step, the spot from which Alex used to jump until he was about seven, the spot from which he taught Elijah to jump. Elijah jumped down and down and down, over and over and over, until even Alex couldn't stand it anymore.
    I climbed the stairs and stood in front of my son's door for a moment, looking at the poster of the skull and crossbones he had tacked on the door. It said, do not enter under penalty of death, human Life inside. I wondered who makes all this paraphernalia of pop culture that takes death so casually, that plays so easily to the cynicism of teenagers, even teenagers seriously in danger of losing someone they love.
    I knocked, and knocked again. Finally I turned the knob and opened the door. Poppy greeted me, panting and jumping. My son, all five feet eleven inches, one hundred forty-five pounds of him, was lying flat out on his bed, eyes closed, earphones on. There was a tinny beat, Nine Inch Nails at full volume, filtered through headphones.
    I stepped over piles of clothing and sneakers and books, picking my way to his bed, then tapped him on the shoulder. He sat up, leaned over, and pressed the pause button on his CD player. "Don't you knock, Mom?"
    I put my hands together to try to still them. How could I do this, deal with a son who despite everything was still what he was, a teenager?
    "I did knock."
    He shrugged. "Didn't hear you."
    "How was your day? Did you take the bus home?"
    He moved away from me. "We played basketball after school." He flipped the off button, took out the Nine Inch Nails CD and placed it in its jacket, thumbed through the CD wallet on his desk. Names like Megadeth, Narcotic Gypsies, and Metallica flashed by along with pictures of the performers, whose skin tended to be littered with demonic tattoos not unlike Seth's pentagram.
    "You don't have to do this, Mom."
    I willed my eyes to stop filling up. "Do what?"
    "Keep up this front. Acting like everything's fine."
    Would you like me to do what I really want to do, Alex? Shall I howl?
    "I just wanted to come home to check up on you guys. That's all."
    He shot me a sharp look. "Dad told you to come home. You wanted to be there."
    "I want to be there when Elijah wakes up, yes. But I also wanted to make sure you guys are okay." Steady. Calm. He needed to think I was okay, then he'd be okay. But what if Elijah didn't make it? There'd be no making Alex think I was okay, because I wouldn't be okay. I wasn't okay now. The walking dead are not okay.
    He pulled a Metallica CD out of the stack and popped it into the player, slammed it shut, and sank down onto the bed.
    "Are you angry, Alex?"
    His eyes filled with tears and he stood up again and moved over to his desk, stepping over piles. "Why the hell should I be angry?"
    I felt so very tired. "Please, Alex." How could I handle this now?
    "Please come here, Alex."
    He looked at me for a moment through teary eyes, then he came over to the bed and sat down, allowed me to take his hands and sit down next to him.
    "I'm angry, Alex. I guess you must be, too."
    He looked at me, then the tears spilled over. "Dad keeps saying he's going to wake up, Mom. And the doctors. Everybody keeps saying it, but Elijah keeps not waking up."
    I hugged him, patted his back. "I know, honey, I know." I was offering comfort on automatic pilot. There was nothing genuine about it.
    When the moment was over, I knew I needed to sleep. I managed to tell him I loved him. As I left the room he put on his earphones, plopped back down on his bed, closed his eyes, and began tapping his feet and moving his hands as if he were playing the drums, all to some rhythm he alone heard.
    I got in bed but couldn't sleep. How would I live in this house if Elijah died? What would I do with his books, and his Barney blanket, and his Sesame Street bedspread? And the purple Smurf boots from three sizes ago that I saw in the cubbies in the mudroom, and Addie's hand-painted chest? What would I do with his room, hack it off the house like the tough end of a stalk of asparagus?
    Around three a.m. I got up and wandered around the house in my pajamas. I went into Alex's room. The quilt had fallen onto the floor and he was lying sprawled out across his bed. I listened. My son was breathing regularly, evenly. He was all right.
    He drew a deep, satisfied breath in his sleep, some dream of love perhaps. Almost a year ago he'd abandoned pajamas for jockeys and a T-shirt. His legs were skinny, though just lately I could see that they