Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or anything connected to it. I also do not own the version of "Bye-O, Baby" that is used in the story. The copyright belongs to Terry Kluytmans, 1998. I found it freely on a website, so I am assuming that means public domain.
Author's note: Thanks for sticking with this. I think the next two chapters (after this one) should bring it around.
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Shelby's arms were beginning to get tired, but she continued to expel her grief into the head that steadfastly lay in her lap. As the aches of her muscles demanded she ease the intensity of her strokes, she began to think it was actually surprising that the man had not only kept his position for her to continue her punishing blows, but had neither cried out in pain nor had he asked her to slow down or stop completely. Instead, he lay still, as if he deserved her lashes for some past crime he had committed, one of which she was not aware.
Shelby stopped at last.
The man opened his eyes and raised his head to look up at her, tears licking the corners of his eyes. Somehow, Shelby was certain the tears were not from physical pain, as the child recognized that the sorrow painting his brown eyes was a reflection of the grief she had seen in her own every time she had looked in a mirror over the past four months.
She wasn't sure how to respond, so she pressed the brush down again, the bristles barely touching his hair as she tried to dissolve the small stain of guilt that was beginning to taint her stomach.
The man laid his head back down, his eyes shutting tightly as he anticipated rough strokes that never came.
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Don looked up at the little girl when she stopped brushing his hair. When he peered into her eyes, he felt as if he was standing on a precipice of grief, looking down into a sharp crevice filled with blackness and chills. Since his mother's death, whenever Don thought about his mom, he felt as if he was standing on the edge of a similar cliff, afraid to climb down, afraid of what waited for him there.
When the little girl gently pressed the hairbrush to his head, Don placed his head in her lap again and closed his eyes, allowing himself to peek over his own personal cliff, as he remembered the last time he had ever brushed his mother's hair.
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Margaret Eppes entered the bedroom of her youngest son, Charlie, tucking him into bed and kissing him goodnight. She was not surprised when he fell fast asleep, whispered mathematical equations punctuating the sound of his breathing within a few minutes of him entering his bed.
Margaret sighed. With a genius for mathematical thought, on a daily basis Charlie needed her more than her eldest son, who had continued to need her at night. She walked down the hall to her bedroom, grabbing a worn silver hairbrush from her nightstand. As quietly as she could, she slipped into the bedroom of her eleven-year old eldest son, closing the door behind her and locking it.
She then came up behind Donny and smiled.
He was looking in a small mirror set on top of his dresser. She saw him make different faces, pushing his hair around at different angles, trying to look more mature than the baby fat on his face allowed him to look. Margaret made a small coughing sound, and Donny jumped around to face his mother, a sheepish look crossing his face, immediately replaced by a scowl which was becoming too familiar.
Donny puffed up his chest, ready to defend his privacy, when he noticed the brush in his mother's hand. He looked over at the clock set next to his bed and realized it was time to go to sleep. Again, a sheepish look overcame his features as Donny walked over to his bed and sat on its edge. Margaret sat on the floor before her son, sitting with her legs crossed over one another, her sons' legs firmly cradling the sides of her arms, as he began to brush the right side of her hair, counting out loud, "one, two, three…"
It amazed Margaret that her nightly routine with Donny had continued for so long. She had expected him to have outgrown it a long time before, but when Charlie was born and so much attention began to be given to him… To compensate for what he perceived was the loss of his mother's attention during the day, Margaret believed Donny had stubbornly refused to give up their nightly routine, a ritual that allowed him to have his mother to himself, like he once did when he was younger and no Charlie had been part of their lives.
Like a secret club, Margaret and Donny had continued the ritual, one that neither Charlie nor Alan was aware was being practiced. When Donny had turned nine, he had started insisting that Margaret lock the door, afraid his dad or younger brother would walk in on them and consider him a "sissy". After all, he had argued, only girls play with hairbrushes. When Margaret had suggested it might be time for him to forego the brush, he had surprised her by collapsing into a bundle onto his bedroom floor, crying and complaining that she didn't love him anymore, only Charlie- she'd do anything for his younger brother, not one thing for him. She had fallen to the floor beside Donny, and sealed her eldest within a passionate embrace, running her fingers through his hair and whispering sweetness into his ears. Then, she had locked the door to his room and sat in front of his bed, as Donny sniffled tears into his nose and began to brush her hair. After he had brushed her hair fifty times on each side, Donny began to pull the brush down over the top of Margaret's head. As she felt the bristles walking a path through the middle of her hair, Margaret had sung Donny her favorite lull-a-bye.
Now, Donny was eleven and would be entering the sixth grade the next day, the thought of a girl probably the reason for his self-appraisal. Margaret realized her son was growing up- and away from her. She cherished the feel of the brush on her scalp, and the warmth of her sons' legs pressed firmly against her arms. She felt his breath beat little indentations of heat into her hair, as she began to sing to him.
Once I was a little baby;
Long, long ago!
Bye-O! Bye-O!
Little baby in the cradle!
But I started right away
To grow and grow and grow!
Bye-O! Bye-O!
Little baby, you will grow!
Neither mother nor son knew it would be the last time that Donny Eppes would take a brush to Margaret's hair.