litlinks 2022

Plastic Smiles

by Charlie Stockings, Canberra High School

“He is socially and emotionally ready for school.” Ready for school. Ready. For. School. If I tell myself enough, will I eventually believe it? I think back to the day he was born. I remember the nurses who tried to mask their confusion through frozen smiles. I remember my wife, my beautiful wife. No one knew about her heart condition. They told me I would make a great father, that I could do it on my own. But that was before the diagnosis.

I have never really believed in God. I wonder if anyone, anything, will ever hear my prayers. “Dear God, please give my little Max strength; Lord, give me strength,’ I mutter under my breath. I slip another pill down my throat. I don’t even keep track anymore.

I wake up gasping for air. Through the window frame, the sunlight tells of a picture-perfect day awaiting. Maybe the sunlight is God. Maybe the light is a sign of hope, a rope for me to hold onto. Or maybe those pills are making me crazy.

I think Max is awake; I heard that Batman alarm go off a few minutes ago. Oh God, hold onto his innocence for me, hold onto what little bit of good I’ve protected him from for so long. Wait, there he is. Shit, I knew that school shirt was too big. Does he know? Will he care? Will the other kids notice? 

I try to mask my fears through another plastic smile. I’ve become good at those, nearly as good as those nurses six years ago. Can he see through me? Maybe I’m just paranoid.

My boy has always been different. Those parenting books I read say to embrace your child’s differences and love them unconditionally. Honestly, I don’t know if that’s enough. I know it’s wrong but maybe he will act differently at school. Will those other kids notice when he sucks that one strand of hair; when he flicks his middle left finger when he’s focused? No, no they won’t, they can’t. I just want the best for him, my boy. I hope he knows that. 

One breath in. Hold for four seconds. One breath out. Hold for four seconds. 

In. Out. 

It’s strange those little things you remember from therapy. I’ve memorised this drive. We both sit in silence. I would do anything to get inside his mind right now. We pull into the parking lot; my palms are covered in sweat.

In. Out. In. Out. 

Max takes my hand as we take the first step into the building. I notice his eyes dart around the room. Before I realise, his arms wrap around my waist. Max hugs me so tight that everything inside me feels squeezed. My lungs. My heart. My fears. I feel time pause for a moment; I think I needed this as much as he did. My boy, my beautiful loving boy. No one in this cruel world could love you as much as I do. 

The school bell rings, and he looks me straight in the eye. “I love you Dad,” he mutters. For a moment I don’t know what to say; I just stand there, frozen in that warm feeling inside of me. I look my son dead in the eye, my beautiful boy and say, “Have a great day, Maxie.”