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186 pages, Hardcover
First published May 1, 2005
But Liam didn't die. He spent the year after the first stage of his surgery guzzling milk from his mama and belching like a barge and learning to sit up and developing a face as round as a planet and developing a ferocious yen for Cheerios and pears and learning to stand up and walk around the room holding onto couches and chairs and tables and people and then learning to sail off on his own waddling and shuffling and then walking and then running here and there and occasionally smacking his face on something or other and occasionally smacking his twin brother and once or twice his older sister although he quickly proved his intelligence by grokking the fact that she was stronger and meaner and quicker when it came to blows rained down upon the boys who were suddenly crowding her existence which heretofore had been filled with fawning parents and now appeared to be filled with Chaos and Hubbub, which is what her father called her brothers so often that occasionally visitors were the under the temporary impression that indeed such vaguely Hebraic names had been inflicted upon the squirming boychiks.
That was a good time, what I remember of it. I remember changing a lot of diapers and laughing a lot and not sleeping very much. That was a good time.
Then when he was about eighteen months old he had another open-heart surgery, and what I remember most from that time is his grinning face receding down the hallway as he was carried towards the bone shears by a sweet quiet doctor. I'll always remember that. His face was so round. His face bounced up and down a little on the doctor's thin shoulder. He smiled at me at the very end of the corridor, just before he and the doctor turned the corner, and I thought maybe that was going to the be the last time I ever saw that big fat face smiling at me, and that was when I saw pain and death leering at me closer than I ever saw them before. That was a cold moment. I'll always remember that.