“Can we talk for a minute?” she said. “Leave the ice cream.”
She kissed her son on the forehead and followed me outside. We sat on the swings of the playground, gently gliding above the sand.
“I gave him a double dose of the old trial medication. We only had a few doses left. He should feel a little better soon.”
“What happened?” I asked.
She looked down at the tracks from her feet, reached out for my hand. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should take him to the park while he’s well enough to enjoy it.”
I stared at the lights of Osiris and thought of the hundreds of children I had placed on the ride over the course of a year—the population of an entire school. Some had even requested to sit in the front, so they could have the best view of the drops. After a while, I lost track of their names, but I could still see their faces when I closed my eyes. In some parallel world, maybe I’d join Fitch on some other coaster where we’d look down at the drop, hold each other’s hands as we screamed through the loops and inversions, enjoying the wind on our faces, coursing through the sleeves of our shirts as the world became one rainbow blur. I’d put him on my shoulders afterward, treat him to anything he wanted at the gift shop. It wouldn’t be this place. No, it would be Disneyland or Universal or Six Flags （anywhere but here）。 We’d come home to Dorrie painting—maybe a portrait of the three of us—and Fitch would tell her about all the rides we’d gone on, how brave he was even during the inversions.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I received the dates for the next drug trial that might be an option for him. He’s not even guaranteed to participate. They put him on a damn waiting list.”
I got up and kissed her brow, pressed our heads together, trying to hold all that needed to be left unsaid inside of us, everything she was asking me to do.
“Okay,” I said.
Before I fell asleep, I left a message on my mom’s phone: I love you. I miss him, too. Every day. But I’m still here. You’re still here. And you were always there for both of us.
The next morning the machines around Fitch’s bed told us he had stabilized during the night, but we knew he might feel different once he woke up, and that the number of remaining good days were few. We snuck into his side of the room while he slept, hung streamers and balloons over his bed. On his lap, I placed a City of Laughter T-shirt with a logo of the Chariot of Osiris and its several loops.
“Wait, what?” Fitch said, confused, still half-asleep, when he woke and looked around the room. He studied the T-shirt and then, “Oh my god! Are you guys serious? Are you really taking me?”
Dorrie nodded and Fitch immediately began disconnecting himself from all the machines before hopping out of bed and packing a bag with his favorite toys, the last comic book I gave him, a juice box, a jacket. He asked me what else he might need.
“Just your awesome self,” I said. “We’ll leave first thing after dinner.”
I gave Fitch a map of the park, pointed to the color-coded legend in the corner as he unfurled it on the floor. I traced my fingers along the brick path that was filled with the carved names of visitors, past the candy-striped entrance gates to the courtyard containing the Laughateria and other exploration zones.
“And sometimes the trainers let kids feed the seals a bucket of fish,” I said, pointing to the Aqua Zone.
“Oh, I know,” Fitch said.
“He knows,” Dorrie said.
Fitch pulled out his handmade map of the City of Laughter from his toy chest, complete with annotations in crayon. In his version, he’d drawn himself on every ride, seated beside me and his mother. He drew us walking hand-in-hand along the brick path between the attractions. In one corner, he’d created a schedule, highlighting the rides he wanted to go on first, circling the shows he wanted to see. He pointed to the Laughateria, looked up, and asked:
“Will you be performing? Will you be the mouse?”
“Do you want me to be the mouse?” I said.
Fitch considered this for a long while and seemed to decide that he’d rather have me to himself. “Nah,” he said. “Who’s going to ride with me if you’re a mouse?”
Throughout my workday, Dorrie texted me that Fitch hadn’t stopped unpacking and repacking his bag and studying the maps of the park. I stopped by the gift shop during my lunch break and bought him an astronaut onesie, a hat that said Junior Space Commander, and a pair of glow-in-the-dark sneakers. I returned to Dorrie’s cottage after work and slipped the gift box through the slot in Fitch’s glass door. He picked it up and shook it, studied the wrapping paper printed with tiny roller coasters.