Page 29 of Cut Off
“Water’s fine.” He picks at the edge of his pizza, peeling off a string of cheese.
I pour water for both of us, then settle back on the couch. The silence stretches between us, chewing the only sound.
“So,” I try again. “What kind of stuff are you into? Besides Flash, I mean.”
Eli takes a small bite of pizza, chewing before he answers. “I dunno. Normal stuff.”
“Normal stuff,” I echo. “Like... sports? Books? Movies?”
He shrugs. “I guess. I like science. Chess. And Avengers.”
Finally. Something concrete. “Avengers? That’s cool. Who’s your favorite?”
“Iron Man,” he says, no hesitation. Then shrugs. “But they’re all okay.”
“I’ve got the movies.” I point to the entertainment center. “When you’re not so tired.”
For the first time, I see a flicker of interest in his eyes. “Which ones?”
“All of them.” I blow out a puff of air. “The first Avengers is my favorite. Classic.”
“Mine too.”
My heart rate spikes. Common ground. “Want to watch it while we eat?”
He nods, and I practically lunge for the remote, afraid he’ll change his mind. I pull up the movie, hit play, and settle back, watching Eli from the corner of my eye.
As Avengers plays, his shoulders gradually relax. He takes a real bite of pizza, then another. By the time Loki shows up, he’s finished his first slice and is reaching for a second.
I want to cheer, to call Zoe and tell her about this monumental breakthrough—my son ate pizza and didn’t glare at me for a full ten minutes. But I keep quiet, afraid to break whatever fragile peace we’ve established.
The movie rolls on, and Eli becomes absorbed in it. His eyes track the action, his body language loosens, and duringa battle scene, he even lets out a sound of appreciation at a particularly cool moment.
Yeah, I’m watching him more than the screen.
By the time it’s over, Eli’s eaten three slices of pizza and emptied his water glass. I take that as a huge win, and say, “It’s almost nine. Probably time to get ready for bed.”
Eli’s face closes off again, but he nods and stands up. “Okay.”
He heads upstairs without another word, and I hear the bathroom door close. I clean up the pizza boxes and dishes, giving him space.
When I hear the water turn off, I head upstairs, knocking on his open bedroom door. He’s already changed into pajamas, plain blue ones, and is sitting on the edge of his bed.
“All set?” I hover in the doorway.
He nods, then flashes intense eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” I say, all eager beaver. “Anything.”
Eli chews his lip. “What happens when we die?”
The question hits me like a slap. Of all the things I’d geared up to discuss—school, house rules, maybe even feelings if I was really pushing it—mortality wasn’t on the list.
“That’s, uh...” I clear my throat. “That’s a big question.”
“Mom said people go to heaven. But how does she know I’m okay if she’s up there, and I’m down here?”
Jesus. I’m so out of my depth that I can’t even see the surface.
