Wilted

4) Wilted

"Sophi!"

Maxwell's voice travels to my ear from somewhere in the large house. I stand up from my swing on the porch, my feet unsteady as it rocks with my body. As soon as I enter, I turn to the right. Maxwell isn't in the foyer, but the t.v is on.

"Reporting live on West 7 News, a bank robbery-". I click the off button on the long black remote resting on the arm of the couch.

"Sophi! Get in here!" I hear him call. My heart starts to pound in my chest and I quickly leave the foyer, heading towards the dining room. Maxwell isn't in here either, but the table is set for three. Three? "Sophi? Where are you?!"

I start to panic, quickening my pace. Did I forget to cook breakfast? No, I can smell it on the stove. So what was I doing on the porch? I rush into the kitchen, smoothing down my skirt. But I'm wearing shorts. Why am I wearing shorts? Maxwell stands in the kitchen, facing the stove. The wonderful smell of eggs and bacon hits my nose, except Maxwell holds a spatula. The kitchen, the house, everything is the same, but this scene is so unfamiliar it startles me.

"Maxwell? What are you-"

"Hey buddy, show mommy what you made her." Maxwell's voice cuts me off. He turns around then, his arm tucked around a small boy in dinosaur pajamas. He has curly, brown hair and big hazel eyes. His button nose and pink lips are unmistakable, that is Maxwell's child. Maxwell's appearance confuses me too, with a large, genuine smile taking over his face. He gestures me closer, and I approach cautiously. What is this?

"Mommy, look!" The boy says, drawing my eyes to him again. I can't look away now, he's so beautiful. So breathtakingly beautiful. He beams at me in pride, his hands clenched into fists in Maxwell's shirt. And he has my eyes. "I made eggs!"

"You did a good job baby." I coo at him, taking him into my arms as he reaches out. My body moves without my consent, and I kiss the boy on his chubby cheeks. "Can Mommy have some?"

"Did you wash your hands?" He asks me seriously, tiny lips pouting. I swoon and swing him off of my hip, holding him tight.

"No." I sigh into his ear. "Not yet."

Maxwell turns back to the stove and begins putting the food on plates. The boy grabs my face in his tiny hands and shakes it side to side. "Bad mommy. Les' go wash our hands."

I laugh, tossing my head back, and hear Maxwell join in. The boy giggles back, unsure of what the joke is, but happy to participate. I kiss him again and set him on his feet. He breaks out into a steady run, heading towards the bathroom with the memory of having been there before. I jog after him, catching up as he enters the room. He grabs a little stool off to the side and steps on it as I reach around him and turn on the water.

"Wash, wash, wash your hands," He sings gently, pumping soap onto my fingers and getting it all over the sink.

"Wash them nice and clean," I reply, rubbing my soapy hands all over his. He giggles, words stumbling over his peals of laughter. We scrub our hands together, elbows and arms bumping and taking up all the room. His body turns as he scrubs aggressively, and I slow him down with a gentle touch.

"Soapy, sudsy, rinse them good, and dry so we can eat." He leans back against my body as I rinse my hands off. We grab napkins and he dries faster than me, so he shoots out of the room like a rocket. I suspect that his hands aren't exactly dry, but I only chuckle and leave the bathroom. The house is dimmer now, as I look around for the boy. Maxwell must have drawn the curtains. I turn the corner and come upon the next hallway.