Deb Courtney
The Seventh Stair

For the fourteenth time that morning I yelled at Zachary to get off the
stairs.  At one and a half, the last thing he wanted to do was listen to me;
the carpeted stairs loomed in front of his little body like a pathway to
paradise, too much for him to resist.  Earlier, I had tried to block the
bottom of the stairs, but the furniture in the vacation condominium was ill
suited to the task, and the assorted tios, tias, primos and abuelos visiting
from South America kept moving the rattan chair back to its place.  My
rudimentary Spanish was not good enough to explain my purpose.  Watching
closely would have to do.
         I only looked away for a moment - my fear of falling, and my fear of
his falling was so great, I hadn't dared turn my back, hadn't dared to leave
the room.  Someone spoke in the kitchen - Donde esta something something - I moved my head slightly, and Zachary, who had been watching me almost as closely as I was watching him, saw his opportunity and took it.  I turned
back as I realized he was climbing - Oh and he moved so fast, so lithe and
limber at his age I envied his quickness even as I yelled.
         "Bajate," I shouted, the loudest I had shouted all morning, all week,
exasperated at him, at the condominium for its lack of child-friendly
features, at the thunder, lightning and rain that conspired to keep us from
the gem-like beaches of Grand Bahama, at my husband for going to the store,
at having promised to speak only in Spanish.  "Ay, Zach, bajate!"
        Maybe it was the thunder, maybe my voice, maybe both.  He turned to
look at me, his little body twisting on the seventh stair as he craned his
neck to see me.  The corners of his eyes crinkled in the beginnings of one
of his smiles - such beautiful, inside-out smiles he makes - then I watched
as his eyes widened.  My mouth was open, angry words already forming, when he swung his head back slightly and focused on his hand.  My breath left my body as I watched his fingers slip, slip, just a little, but enough to draw
his attention.  Oh, God, don't panic, I thought, maybe yelled, and the words
echoed somewhere, bouncing off the bright white walls of the condo, off the
insides of my head.  He made a little sound, a long drawn out 'mmmmm,' as
panic welled in his eyes, and I watched, stupidly frozen while he groped for
a better hold, finally losing his grip altogether.  His hand flailed,
seeking the security of the railing, and a buzzing sound filled my ears as a
scream built deep in my abdomen.  He turned to me again, seeking
instinctively the protection a mother should provide her little one, and oh,
that turn pulled my heart out of my chest.  That turn knocked him finally
and irrevocably off balance, took the foot that had been holding his weight
on the edge of the step and pulled it back a fraction, just enough to pull
it over the edge of the slippery periwinkle carpet.
         For a moment he hung there, arms twisting and reaching in a bizarre dance of fright, and I thought he would fall forward, fall up, but no, the pull
downward, groundward, is strong, even on the tiny weight of a child.
Gravity took him.  In one smooth arc, his body tilted, falling like a tree
cut at the roots.  I had managed, by this time, some sound loud enough to
attract attention from those in the kitchen; I tried to run, tried to catch
him, to get to him, but I moved so slowly, wading through a sea of molasses,
the pounding of my heart now drowning all sound.  His blonde ringlets hit
the edge of the third step, and his head bounced, pulling his shoulders up
towards his feet, feet that kept coming.  I caught a glimpse of his eyes -
so wide, so wide, pupils expanded so far that they obscured the happy
gray-blue that smiled so sweetly, so often.  Oh God, oh god don't let him be
hurt.
         With shoulders rounded, feet almost at his head, he doubled, a misshapen V, sliding down and across the edge of the third step, shoulders landing squarely on the second.  His feet continued their downward rush, overtaking his head in their zeal to right themselves, to regain their rightful place, and somehow, they made it to the bottom, stretching far out to bypass the first step to land on the tile floor at the bottom, wanting firm ground.  I
thought - oh yes, thank you god - then realized that the momentum of his
rolling fall was too much for the sturdy little feet to absorb.   His head,
carrying so much weight, relentlessly came, hurtling toward the only place
for it to go, aiming itself for the tile floor in front of the picturesque
French door that led to the rain soaked patio.  Then, oh joy, the diaper,
the miraculous diaper, his diaper which I could now see was full, full of
pee, full of something wonderful that let it hold all that pee,  that diaper
took the burden.  Not the head, not the precious head, but the diaper took
the impact and shattered, expelling thousands of little piss soaked pellets
like a release of so much yellow snow, little bits that skittled to a stop,
surrounding him in an irregular circle on the polished terra cotta tile.
As they flew, I let out my breath, my scream coming finally, in English.
"Zachary! Oh my God!"
         I stared, frozen, at him, and, he sat, just for a second, staring at me,
our eyes locked, his perplexed, mine relieved, then, as I finally reached him,
and as relatives converged from all areas of the house, he screwed up his
little face and screamed with every ounce of his being.  I dropped to the
floor, gathered him up, and , as he howled his displeasure with the world,
sat rocking, rocking, wanting to cry but not yet able to, a strange laughter
pushing its way into the back of my throat as I realized what I was
whispering, saying over and over.
        "Thank god for the pee."
 
Copyright © 1999 Deb Courtney All Rights Reserved 
Deborah Courtney-Bertha is a professional technical writer and freelance writer living in Tampa, Florida.  Her work has appeared in numerous local publications, and she contributes regularly to the local daily newspaper.  A graduate of University of South Florida's Creative writing program, where she was the 1998 Saunders Scholar, Deborah writes both fiction and non-fiction.  She is currently at work on a novel.