That Day – Gaden Sousa

That Day

Gaden Sousa

I was one or two—or in-between the two. Mum, Dad, and I were at a friend’s. I’ll never remember their names, but the names aren’t important. They had a son, Josh. We were friends in the way all two-year-olds were friends. We were friends because our parents were. The living room of his house went straight from the hallway out to the backyard. I think there were more adults in the house than just mine and Josh’s. Thomas the Tank Engine was on the TV. I’ll never forget that blue train smiling at all the little boys and girls. Entertaining our small, fragile minds with his wide-eyed stare. His grey face animated in a way to comfort all the children watching.

Mum asked for a tea, ‘Milk and one, thanks.’ Dad said he didn’t want anything and nibbled on a single biscuit that had been generously surrounded with hummus, tzatziki, and cheddar cheese. He was skinny then. The adults talked about this and that, in the kind of polite chatter of not-really-close-friends; brought together because their children were the same age.

Eventually, Josh’s dad led us down the hallway, the walls looming above my teeny tiny head. Me in the lead, Josh behind, or maybe the other way around. Outside, the sunlight promised us play. The shine was overwhelming, my little eyes barely able to decipher the brightness of the world.

My eyes adjusted, absorbing the grand playground that awaited us. A garden as big as the earth. An endless vista of play and adventure. Rich forest grass, soft to our weak legs. Bushes plump and round for us to run and hide in. A world away at the back of the garden, on a slight slant, was a fence marking the perimeter of our play. Above us, trees splintered the glowing ball of white, carving up its rays so we could watch the shadow patterns run across our chubby skin. I vaguely recall an almost-hill perfect for the yellow tricycle that looked like it had been made by a twoyear-old’s dreams. It waited for us, expectantly.

Josh’s dad went into his workshop. We got to playing. The shed had been allowed to flow into the paradise. Cable leads lay dead amongst the grass, off-cuts of pine wood filled the air with their scent. Nails, not-quite-nailed-in, stood upright like rusted soldiers. Tools scattered the ground, drill bits and saws and screwdrivers. We ignored all of it. All that mattered was the yellow dream.

Josh took the tricycle to the top of the almost-hill. I watched. I don’t remember any words. I don’t think either of us knew any. He came rushing down, and I’m sure he was grinning and giggling. Filling the world with joy. Unadulterated, uncontrollable, unimaginable fun.

It was now my turn. Except … Josh didn’t agree.

At this point, we started to argue. I’m sure neither of us knew any words, but I imagine that, if we had, our argument would have gone something like:

‘Give seat!’

‘No!’

But I don’t remember any words being shared, maybe it was just angry sounds. I remember trying to shove him off. With all the strength my short, fat arms could muster, I attempted to unseat this dictator of the toy. Pushing. Shoving. Digging my minuscule feet into the ground. He wouldn’t budge. My efforts were futile. I was upset. It was my turn. This world was meant to be fair and, all of a sudden, it wasn’t.

I looked to the overflow of shed with the hope of a solution. My eyes passed over the shavings of wood and the gnarled balls of wire. Searching, looking, until I saw the hammer. It lay innocently away from the mass of scrap. Its dull grey absorbing the sunlight. A sanded wooden handle stretched half as long as I was. The head had a rounded side that looked like it would’ve been smooth to touch. On the other side, it was flat, dented from being hit too hard against wood. It was just behind me, close enough to reach. This would be my first lesson for life. I stretched my arms out and, with two hands, I lifted it …

There had to be ambient noise from the adults inside the house, but all I remember was thud.

Then wailing. And tears. Most of all: blood.

It all slipped away. The green faded. The sun set. Silence descended. And the weight. The weight of something you don’t fully comprehend at such a young age felt heavy in my hands.

There are moments that define us. This was mine. Josh. The hammer. Me.

The rest is a blur. A stupor. I stumbled back into the living room. As if I had been concussed. The world was bent. The straight corridor now creaking side to side. The walk back, now a tilting shifting journey through a nightmare world.

I edged around the corner, Thomas the Tank Engine was talking to the Fat Controller. He didn’t seem so blue. His smile now hollow. His grey face disturbed. No laughter now. No polite chatter. Josh’s mum knew something was wrong. She was gone within seconds, straight out the back door. Then there was Mum.

There’s a look. A look that will etch itself into your brain forever. No matter how young you are. No matter how hard you try to erase it, it will be there staring back at you. For most, it’s the look of the person that loves them unconditionally. For me, it was the look on Mum’s face.

I was falling from grace.

There is nothing more painful for a mother than the discovery that her perfect, beautiful boy is capable of violence and destruction. That is the face Mum wore that day. Lost and unbelieving.

I don’t remember what happened next. I think I cried. That’d be the normal thing to do, right? Let the tears come and wash away your sins. What made me cry? I’m not sure. Was it that I didn’t understand why everyone was rushing around? Was it the constant mentions of a scary word like ‘hospital’? Or, was it that somehow, I understood the gravity of what I’d just done. Or maybe I didn’t cry and just stood unbelieving at the chaos that I had caused.

I just wanted to play.

I don’t know how I could’ve seen this, maybe I’ve made it up, but I can still picture Josh’s head being washed out in the sink. His crimson wound, gurgling blood. Water being flushed over the gash. The diluted pink run-off disappearing down the drain. I can still hear the murmuring and the panic. Like a malignant tumour threatening to spread.

We left.

On good terms or bad terms, we left. That was that. Looking back, it’s just patches. Patches of innocence and blood. Joy and anger. Victory and defeat. It’s fuzzy, soft around the edges. But I remember the feeling. I remember the immediate triumph being obliterated by crushing dread.

When you’re two, you don’t know what’s right or wrong. I had a problem. I saw a solution. I solved the puzzle.