01 December 2004 - Conversations with Nicky

Nicky’s English is at the exploding stage. Every day he uses new words and phrases, most of them correctly the first time. It’s as if he’s finally gotten the confidence to repeat things he’s been hearing all along, and now that he’s internalized the words and meanings, he uses those phrases to express himself. But he’s not just parroting things he’s heard; he’s picking up on grammar and syntax, and forming completely new sentences.

“This one I like,” he says as we ride around the neighborhood looking at Christmas lights on houses. “Daddy, I like this one.”

“I like it, too, sweetheart,” I reply, and we go on to the next house, and the next, and the next.

“Whatcha doin’, Daddy?” he giggles as we roll around on the floor and I tickle him mercilessly.

“Ya going be seven,” he says while pointing to his birthday on the calendar. “I’m going to be seven,” I correct him, but he misses the point and says, “No! Daddy not seven, Daddy old.”

“Yes,” I agree. “Daddy’s old.”

Later, after lunch, he says, “Mine,” pointing to a Twinkie on his plate. “Yours,” he adds, pointing to my coffee. And as we drive up to the house after shopping, he says, “Ours, our house.” And he smiles so broadly that his face almost splits.

I tuck them into bed. Zack insists on having the light on.

“Zack scared,” Nicky tells me. When I ask why, he confides to me, half in English, half in Ukrainian: “At the orphanage, they takes us for a walk and show us Baba Yaska’s house. Mean witch, Baba Yaska. She eat children.” He pauses, then asks, “Orphanage far away, Daddy? Far away?”

I’ve long since given up trying to convince him that Baba Yaska isn’t real. The best I’ve been able to do is tell him that she lives very far away, and couldn’t possible get here to trouble him.

“Very far away,” I agree.

“Baba Yaska not here?”

“No, I won’t let her come here. Not ever.”

“She come here, Daddy you hit her.” Bang, he smacks the pillow. Bang, bang, bang. “Daddy hit. Me safe here.”

“I will never let anyone hurt you,” I promise him.

“Safe.”

“Yes, sweetie, you are safe here. I will protect you.”

“Protect? What this?”

“Keep you safe.”

“Ya no scared. Zack scared. At the orphanage, Baba Yaska. Baba Yaska no here. Daddy hit if she comes.”

“She will never come here. Never.”

“At the orphanage, they close door, lock door, small room, no light. Me hurt. Hurt me, they.”

“You’re safe here, sweetheart.”

“Wonderful Daddy!”

“And you’re a wonderful son.”

And so he sleeps at last. He was never frightened of the dark, oh, no. Only Zack was scared. Sleep, child, and forget the mean witch. Forget the stories you were told. Forget the fear. I hold him for a while after he falls asleep, watching his even breathing, his untroubled face. When I leave the room, I turn the light on low, so when he wakes up during the night he won’t imagine Baba Yaska’s face in the darkness.

I sit in my office afterward and cry, thinking of the lonely, scared children at the orphanage being locked up in dark rooms, thinking of my children having gone through that. When we were still in Ukraine together, Nicky showed me all the places they told him Baba Yaska lurked, waiting to eat little children who disobeyed the workers. She lived in the basement, in a shuttered hut behind the grounds, in holes in the ground. She lived in all the dark places of the orphanage, and in all the dark places of my little boy’s heart.

The next day, it’s as if he’s never said a word about witches or nighttime fears. He’s cheerful and happy at breakfast, and talks about Buzz Lightyear.

“To infinity. . .” I prompt on the way to school.

“. . . And beyond!” he and Zack scream in unison.

There’s a pause, then, “Don’t want school,” Nicky complains suddenly.

“Why not, honey? You like school. You always have a wonderful time. When I pick you up after school, you’re always smiling.”

“Don’t want school. Only want Daddy.”

“You want to stay home with me all day?”

“Only Daddy, I want this.”

“Well, Nickerson, that’s not going to happen. I have work to do during the day. And you have a job, too. Your job is school.”

“Don’t want school. Only Daddy I want.”

“Sorry. All little boys go to school.”

“Ya not little boy! Zack little boy.”

Zack pipes up: “Ya not little boy!”

“No, you’re both big boys who have to go to school.”

Nicky changes tactics. “7-Eleven after school?”

“What do you want from 7-Eleven?”

“Drinks.” He pauses, then says, “And hot dog. Me two hot dogs.”

“Me two!” says Zack, meaning he also wants two hot dogs.

“We’ll see,” I say, and manage to get them into their schools without further controversy. I wonder, as I drive home, what he’ll say tomorrow.