OCTOBER 31, 2005 / DELROV HOUSEHOLD

The birch trees lining Asher's street were caramelising.

Autumn in his sleepy town usually promised tranquility, but the nine-year-old was feeling anything but peaceful.

His ankle was broken, wrapped in a cast that looked white by day, but glowed in the dark. Vasily was determined to fix his son's mood. During the afternoon cartoons, the daytime mechanic - and self-proclaimed ilustrator - whipped out a black Sharpie and tried his best to ink funny faces and dynamic patterns onto his son's cast.

Asher looked quite bored throughout the process, and slumped on the couch, eyes glazed and looking the general vicinity of the TV - though they were unfocused and completely missing Cheburashka playing on the screen. The film flickered by him, suspended in time like his leg was suspended on a pillow - muffled, and feeling light.

He was thinking about his mother, whom he knew was definitely not thinking about anything.

Just a day ago, his primary school teacher had given the class five new words to remember, pronounce and use in a sentence, for the spelling test every Friday.

Macabre was one of those words.

Asher spun it over and over in his head, end to to end so that the start of one word and the end of the previous one bled together. Bremacabremaca.

Adjective: disturbing, related to death, or a fear of dying.

Mama's last days were macabre, Asher tested out internally. No, that doesn't sound nice.

Ekaterina's passing had carved Asher out. Not only was he burdened by the typical grief that obviously comes with the death of family, but he had lost a piece of himself. He was a little less naive, a little less hopeful and bright.

Ekaterina's passing had stolen his happiness, but that was ephemeral. It would return, in time. His innocence? His ready belief in good? Now, that was something his mother had taken to her grave which Asher would never get back.

It was exemplified in the simple ways he perceived the world. Last year, Asher had thought villains always wore black, and heroes always declared themselves as such. That bad things could only sound bad, and nice things could only sound nice.

Asher had learnt otherwise, sadly, because the doctors told Ekaterina nice-sounding things, like "You're doing really well," and "We're seeing some major improvement," when really, they were saying bad things wrapped in supportive words.

Too busy experimenting with just how morbid a child could be, Asher didn't notice Vasily rise from his haunches and flick the living room lights off, and powering the TV down.

"Papa!" Asher exclaimed. He wanted to move, and switch on the TV - even though he wasn't too preoccupied with the film in the first place. It was just that the noise and lighting blaring at his eyes helped lift his thoughts off darker, more painful things.

But his ankle felt too heavy to actually get off the couch, so he stayed surrounded by the quilt and couch cushions. "What was that for?"

"Look, Asher," Vasily lifted his leg gently so Asher could see it.

A right and proper mural was on his leg, black lines surrounded by glowing neon green. A pair of inked hands were clutching air on the edge of Asher's cast, looking like they wanted to pull any viewer into the fibreglass.

"Whoa," Asher shifted on the cushions, so he was sitting up straight, "That's so cool!"

Vasily took the compliment with a proud smile that couldn't be seen in the dark. He didn't think the hasty drawing looked spectacular, but it was his labour of love.

He'd never been a magnificent artist, but still retained some skill from drawing sketches and diagrams in his mechanical engineering course in university. To someone Asher's age, everything was bigger and brighter and darker than it actually was.

Ekaterina would have asked, "Do children live in extremes, or are adults just living in dullness?"

And Asher asked, "When I get my next broken bone, can you do another drawing on it?"

Vasily said, "Yes, sure," but inside, his heart was aching.

He didn't think any kid should talk about injury like it was inevitable. His heart gave a tight squeeze at the thought of his son thinking of pain in such certain terms. Even though it was, given the nature of hopes and love and loss, best leave that macabre thinking to adults.

Vasily flicked on the lights and TV. The animated movie was ending, and the advertisement for a movie that would play next weekend was playing over the end credits of the current one.

"Feel like watching-" Vasily read the TV guide on the screen through his glasses, "-The Snow Queen, or Three from Prostokvashino?"

"The Snow Queen," Asher answered, without thought.

"Really?" Vasily asked. He changed the channel nevertheless. "I didn't think you were one for a love story."

"Eh," Asher grabbed the remote and clicked until the volume meter was over halfway, "I've already seen Three from Prostokvashino three times."

Asher watched three-quarters of the movie, before his leg got numb and he fell asleep on the couch. He needed rest, because he was going to see Dr. Polzin tomorrow. Vasily Delrov and Giorgi Polzin had made the decision to start explaining what osteogenesis imperfecta to Asher.

Currently, he only knew that he was weaker than the rest of the kids at his school, but didn't know why. Asher just knew that he had to give up some fun times in his life to keep himself safe, and he was more vulnerable than his friends.

Funnily enough, vulnerable was another word on the spelling test list.