A LITTLE AFTER TWO IN THE MORNING, I creep into his room to get my weights. Wired awake. Wanting to hurt and sweat myself into some purer condition—or, barring that, simply to pass out for the last few hours before sunrise.
The door to the room has a creak in it. I stand in the wake of that noise listening for his deep breathing. Sam still on his back on the bed, bare chest and cheekbones holding light that otherwise doesn’t exist. On the floor, the dumbbells are low dense shadows like rooting animals underfoot. I feel for them in the gloom, and grip them by the necks, and two at a time carry them out of his room into mine. I’m leaving with the last pair when his sleep-fogged voice catches me.
“Mom?”
How do you answer? Except to say, No. You’re mistaken. That’s the other one. The one who raised and loved you right. “It’s just me.”
But he’s asleep again, and doesn’t hear me.