When He Fell. Кейт Хьюит
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autumn day and Manhattan is stirring all around me as people climb into cabs or walk briskly down sidewalks to work. I see people with trench coats and brief cases and smart phones, Starbucks cups and wax paper-wrapped bagels in hand, everyone busy, busy, busy, and I marvel that just twenty-four hours ago I was like them, and I was annoyed. I didn’t even realize how easy my life had been. And I’m afraid I still don’t know how hard it’s going to get.
Even though it’s only a dozen blocks I take a cab to my apartment building on Tenth Avenue and Forty-Seventh Street as I’m way too tired to walk. I live in a modern building of box-like apartments in Hell’s Kitchen, all aimed at the young upwardly mobile corporate types, which was what I was when I rented my one-bedroom eleven years ago; I’d just been given a promotion at Alwin to Sales Associate and I was thrilled to move out of the tiny walkup I was sharing with a woman I’d met on my training course.
Since Ben’s birth I’ve toyed with the idea of moving; the building and neighborhood are not very child-friendly. But moving costs money. Getting a decent apartment in Manhattan requires a broker’s fee, which runs to thousands of dollars. And there’s the actual cost of moving, not to mention the exhausting process of searching for a place, applying to rent it, and getting through all the checks…
Renting in Manhattan is not for the faint of heart, and buying’s even worse. Not that I’ve ever had the money even to think of buying. And so I’ve stayed where I am; about five years ago I hired someone to build a wall across the dining alcove to make a bedroom for Ben. Before that I’d stacked bookcases to make it more private, but the light from the living area still filtered in and Ben’s always had trouble sleeping. The wall has helped, even though it turns the living area into a windowless cave.
People are hurrying out of the building as I come in, everyone moving quickly to get to work and no one meeting my eye. Not that anyone does; it’s not that kind of building. The doorman murmurs a greeting—there are over a dozen doormen on rotation and none of them know my name—and I move past him slowly. My feet feel like cement blocks.
Upstairs my hall is quiet; everyone has already gone to work. I unlock my door and step into my apartment’s tiny foyer. The first thing I see is Ben’s soccer ball, kicked into a corner before we left, and an unruly sob escapes me before I can bite it back.
I toss my keys onto the table and press a fist to my lips, willing the other sobs back. I’m afraid if I let them out I’ll never stop crying. I’ll fall apart completely, and I don’t have the luxury of that now.
I move through the apartment, stripping off my filthy clothes, and then step into a scaldingly hot shower. I let myself cry a little bit in the shower, as if the streaming water can hide the tears from myself. They slip down my cheeks as my shoulders shake and my mouth forms a silent scream. I wonder how much emotional pain a person can endure, can hold. I feel as if it is spilling out of me, and I crave the comfort of another person, anyone to help me carry this burden.
But there’s no one.
After my shower I dress and then gather some things together for the hospital. I have no idea how long I’ll be staying, or how often I’ll be able to come back here. I pack some basic toiletries and a few changes of clothes; it’s only when I see the red light blinking angrily on the answering machine, like an accusing eye, that I remember I walked out of work yesterday and haven’t so much as sent a text as to where I went or why.
With my heart thudding sickly, I scroll through half a dozen missed calls and texts from my boss on my cell that I hadn’t even opened yesterday. I dial my boss Elena’s cell. She answers on the first ring, her voice a screech in my ear.
“Madeleine, where the hell have you been?”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Elena—”
“Did you remember the meeting we had with the Boston reps yesterday afternoon? The presentation on dapaglifozin you were meant to give?”
I remember now; I had a PowerPoint presentation on a new medication for diabetics that had just been approved by the FDA. It was a big deal, and yet now it means less than nothing to me. It’s all so trivial, so meaningless. Jobs. Work. Money. But no, I need money.
“Elena, listen,” I interrupt, and she sucks in an aggrieved breath. “My son Ben had an accident at school. A…serious accident. I went to the hospital yesterday as soon as I’d heard, and…” I can’t make myself continue.
“And?” Elena asks in ringing tones, clearly unconvinced by my little sob story.
“He’s suffered a traumatic brain injury,” I say, the words squeezed out of my too-tight throat. “They’re not…they’re not sure if he’s going to…” I stop. Elena lets out a huff of breath.
“Maddie?”
“Live,” I finish, and there is nothing but silence.
Ten minutes later Elena has granted me indefinite compassionate leave; she informs me rather gruffly that I will have to consult HR regarding the current policy of payment.
“I still have ten days’ annual leave,” I say. I know Alwin doesn’t grant compassionate leave until you’ve used up all your vacation days.
“Maybe you’ll be back by then,” Elena says. I almost want to laugh. I know she means it as an encouragement, but even I am realistic enough now to know I won’t be back after ten days.
Will I? The truth is I have no idea what situation I’ll be in, in ten days. What situation Ben will be in. And I feel too tired and alone to hope.
As I’m getting in the elevator, my phone buzzes with a text message. My heart lifts and then crashes again when I see it’s from Lewis: I need to cancel this afternoon.
Josh and Ben were going to get together, I recall. Lewis and I had talked about taking them bowling downtown, after I got off work. That was before, of course. Before Ben’s fall. Before I messed things up with Lewis.
Before everything changed.
That night I don’t sleep well, because I’m worried about Josh. I don’t bother Lewis with my concerns; I tell myself I’m overreacting.
“Just let him be, Jo,” he’d say, if I mentioned Josh’s withdrawn silence again. And so I don’t. I tidy the kitchen a little more and I pack Josh’s lunch for tomorrow and leave it in the fridge. Lewis finishes his paperwork and then stretches out on the sofa to watch the news while I get ready for bed.
At eleven I slip into Josh’s room to check on him. He is asleep, curled on his side in the fetal position, and when I bend closer I can see the streaks of dried tears on his cheeks that are still smooth and soft as a baby’s. I draw a quick, horrified breath at the thought of my child crying alone in the dark. I touch his head; his hair is soft beneath my fingers.
Then I tiptoe out and go into our bedroom; Lewis is stripping down to his boxer shorts but even the sight of his well-muscled body, a body that takes my breath away even after twelve years of marriage, does not distract me.
“Josh’s been crying,” I say quietly. Lewis glances at me, eyebrows raised.
“How do you know? He’s asleep, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but I could tell he’d been crying. I could see the tears dried on his cheeks.” A lump forms in my throat and I swallow hard. “Something’s really wrong, Lewis.”
“Okay.” Lewis sits on the edge of the bed to take off his socks. “Something’s bothering him, obviously. We can talk to him in the morning.” He glances up at me. “But you know if he wanted to tell us, Jo, he would.”
“You know Josh isn’t like that.”
Lewis sighs. “You know it too, and yet you keep pushing him. He’s not going to talk if he doesn’t