Page 88 of The Elements

It’s been many years since I’ve slept in the same bedroom as my son, and I find his presence strangely comforting.

He’s sleeping in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, his right arm slung over the side of the bed, his left leg sticking out from beneath the duvet.

Part of me feels slightly disconcerted by how beautiful I find him.

There were moments in his childhood when I found him so utterly perfect that it was difficult not to weep when he came running toward me.

When I would bring him to Nippers, I would study his small body and fear that I was fetishizing his splendor.

I wanted him to stay that way forever, never to change.

And it seems as if it’s only now, in moments of repose, when he’s not being a pain-in-the-ass teen, that his childhood flawlessness is momentarily restored.

I suppose I looked like him once, long ago, too. Utterly innocent.

Maybe that’s why Freya chose me.

It’s just gone noon when we check out, and happily, Emmet has woken in good spirits, while I, on the other hand, feel a little rough. He seems almost excited when we board the train at Heuston Station, heading in the direction of Galway.

“Don’t,” he says when he sees me smiling.

“Don’t what?” I ask.

“You’re thinking about my trains,” he says, and I laugh, despite myself.

“Yes,” I admit. “Those bloody things.”

At the age of five, only a year after Rebecca left, Emmet became obsessed with toy trains, constructing an elaborate system of railway lines that ran around our home: carriages, signals, tiny buildings, and miniature figures everywhere.

Every birthday and Christmas, it was the only thing he wanted.

It was a harmless hobby, although I had to make my peace with how much of the apartment they took over.

And then, one day about three years ago, I came home to find his entire collection disassembled, boxed up, and placed for sale on eBay.

He sold it to a collector for a surprisingly large amount, and I found myself missing them afterward.

For all my professional training, it took a while for me to recognize that their loss signaled the end of a special period in our lives.

When I suggested this to him a few weeks later, he buried his head in his hands and pleaded with me, for the thousandth time, not to psychoanalyze him.

“Here’s the difference between you and me, Dad,” he said.

“You see me selling them as a sign that I’m getting older, which means you’re getting older, so you’re thinking about your mortality and the fact that, one day, you’ll die.

While, for me, it’s much less complicated.

I just want a better board and a couple of hundred dollars in my bank account for the summer. ”

“Wow,” I said, as I tried to take this in.

“And I didn’t even have to spend seven years in medical school to figure that out,” he added with a grin.

It was hard to argue with that assessment.

Now, as this real-life train makes its way across the country, through Kildare, Tullamore, and Athlone, we’re at ease with each other, chatting about inconsequential matters.

Only as we pass through Ballinasloe, with less than an hour to go, do I dare to ask how’s he feeling now about seeing his mother.

“Fine,” he says, noncommitally.

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

“Whatever.”

“Don’t whatever me,” I say. “It’s complicated being a parent.”

“Sure.”

I can see from the expression on his face that his anger with Rebecca is what’s making him try to provoke me.

It crosses my mind that he’ll probably be a father himself one day, and when that happens, he’ll be good at it.

Each year as he’s advanced through the Nippers colors, from red to brown, he’s shown himself to be particularly concerned with looking after younger children, encouraging them, watching out for their safety in the waves, and lending them a helping hand whenever needed.

It’s one of the things that makes me think his idea of becoming a lifeguard is a good one.

It was only six months ago, during that conversation, that I told him about his aunt Emma, who drowned off a Wexford beach when Rebecca and her parents were holidaying there decades earlier.

He was shocked by this revelation—he’d never even known that she existed—and I could see that it left a deep impression on him.

Later that day, he phoned his mother to ask about her, and she refused to engage in the conversation, insisting that Emmet return the phone to me, when she read me the riot act.

“He’s our son,” I told her. “He had to know sometime.”

“You didn’t tell him anything else, did you? About why she did it?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you think I should?” she asked, her tone softening.

“Well, not over the phone.”

“Obviously not.”

“But maybe next time you see him?”

There was a lengthy silence.

“I don’t want to bring that darkness into his life,” she said. “You haven’t brought yours into his either.”

“Maybe he needs to hear it,” I suggested. “So he can understand both of us better. He’s not a child anymore.”

As I’m recalling this, out of the blue, Emmet says, “Dad, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Go on,” I say, snapping back to the moment.

“It’s about yesterday evening.”

“What about it?”

“When you left me alone in the hotel.”

My mind spins in a dozen different directions. I know I was gone far longer than expected—and, in the end, I never bothered to text him, assuming he would contact me if he wanted to meet—but surely nothing untoward could have taken place during my few hours of absence.

“What about it?” I ask nervously.

“It’s just…” He hesitates, and takes a deep breath. “The thing is—”

“What? Just spit it out.”

“I nearly…”

I’m ready to shake him now to get whatever it is out of him.

“Nearly what? Just tell me.”

He looks out the window, shakes his head, then turns back, looking down at the table that separates us and scratching it awkwardly with his thumb.

“I nearly had a threesome.”

I’m not certain that I’ve heard him right. How is that even possible? He knows absolutely no one in Dublin. And he’s only fourteen. The same age I was when—

“All I needed,” he adds, “was two other people.”

There’s a few moments of silence before he bursts out laughing, collapsing back in the seat, his knees pressed up against his chest. It takes me a minute to get the joke, and when I do, I can’t quite believe that he’d prank me like this, but I find myself laughing too, unable to stop.

Tears roll down both our faces, and some of the other passengers turn to look at us in irritation.

I would like to preserve this moment forever.

The two of us, on this train, heading toward Galway, laughing over the silliest joke I’ve ever heard in my life.

“God, I miss the beach,” he says a little later, looking out as the green fields pass us by. “My body literally feels like it’s drying out.”

“I miss it too, actually.”

“I will never live anywhere but Sydney.”

I expect to feel pleased by this declaration, but as much as I want to keep him close, I also want him to explore the world, something that I’ve failed to do in my life so far.

A thought occurs to me that I still could.

No matter what Emmet says, I’m not Jurassic.

I’m only forty. So I’ll be forty-four if and when he goes to uni. That’s still young.

“There are beaches in other countries,” I tell him. “I’m pretty sure the oceans stretch around the planet.”

“Long term, I mean,” he replies. “When I’m really old and settling down. Like, twenty-seven or whatever.”

I stifle a laugh.

“Well, at least we’re going to an island,” I tell him. “You can probably swim there.”

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

“Sure.”

“Furia.”

“What about her?”

“Do you think…” He pauses and bites his lip as if he wants to ensure that he phrases this exactly right. “Do you think that if you’d never met her, then you and Mum would still be together? And that she wouldn’t have abandoned me?”

I’ve never heard him use this particular word before to describe his estrangement from Rebecca. Would he prefer to lay all culpability for his parents’ breakup at Furia’s feet? I can’t say that I blame him, but I don’t want to lie to him either. It would be unfair to both of them, and to him too.

But it’s not the time to answer.

“Can we have this conversation another time?” I ask him. “It’s a long story, and we’re too close to Galway. But I will talk about it with you, I promise.”

He sighs, then nods his head, before taking his AirPods out, putting them in his ears, and looking out the window. I silently curse myself. I’ve fucked up again.