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“Where’s Mom?” he suddenly asked.

Claire spun around and saw that his gaze had returned to her face. She cupped his chin in her hand. “I’m right here, Nicholas. Your mom’s right here. Do you remember?”

“Where’s my toothbrush?”

“I’m your mom, Nicholas, can you remember now?” she asked slowly and calmly.

“I want . . . to hit the ball. Where’s the ball?”

She felt defeat spread through her stomach.

“I want to hit the . . . volleyball,” he repeated, slurring.

“Nicholas. Honey. I know this is frustrating, but you’ll get there. I promise. It’s just going to take a lot of baby steps.”

“I’m not a baaaby,” he screamed. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes and he began punching the wall of the bed with his good hand. “Fuuckkk, I’m not a baby.”

Claire tried to hold his raging arm as he thrust her wrist against the plastic edge. “Of course you’re not a baby, Nicholas. You’re seventeen years old and you’re strong and smart and you’re going to hit the ball again. I promise you will.”
You’re going to hit that damn beach ball.

 

Claire walked the shoreline, the rolled-up cuffs of her jeans wet around her calves, the sand under her toes pulling back out to sea with the tide. She wondered if Nicholas would experience simple joys like this again. She kicked a soggy mound of sand and fractured shells into the surf with all the force of her body. It landed with a plop a few feet in front of her, swallowed into the retreating gray curtain.

She used to see the greatest joy of her life when she looked at Nicholas. Now she saw a reminder of her most hideous regret, and the stunted brilliance of young man trapped by a brain that might or might not have permanent deficits. The wind picked up, blowing sand and salty spray into her mouth. “Fuuuckk,” came the cry from deep within her core. She grabbed rocks and threw them one after another until her arm ached. They flew in rapid succession, skipping and sinking into the waves. Then suddenly mindful of her surroundings, Claire turned to check if anyone had witnessed her outburst. But she was still alone in the gloom, embarrassed at her self-consciousness. She bent down and rinsed the sand from her fingers.

The penetrating chill rose to her ankles, then her knees, the crash of the waves a hypnotic song. She knew no deed went unrecognized, that there were consequences for every action or inaction, even consequences for acts of omission. A wave splashed onto her face. In the grand cosmic scheme, she questioned, why wasn’t karma linear? Why was Nicholas made to suffer so greatly for her mistake? Things ricochet where we don’t expect and life just gets messy, she remembered Jackie telling her more than once. The trick was figuring out how to repair the aftermath and move forward.

Claire felt the pull of the tide around her, its soothing ebb and flow. She noticed the graze of shells against her calves and the fluid eddy of kelp and sand. The wind calmed. Her shoulders relaxed and she dangled her fingertips in the water. It no longer felt cold. It just was. She was. She closed her eyes and let her mind float with the current. She listened to the crackle of the surf and sensed her heartbeat sync to its rhythm, feeling part of something whole and sustaining. After a minute or possibly several, she opened her eyes to the world around her—a world she endeavored not to see anchored in regret over the past or an increasingly distant partner, but simply in the sunrise and sunset of each day.

 

As Claire finally made her way to Nicholas’s room, she bumped into one of the occupational therapists. “He’s been asking for you, Mrs. Montgomery,” the woman said with a wide smile.

“What?” Claire asked, yanking her sweater down over the rumpled sweatpants she’d found in her tote bag.

“Nicholas has been asking for his mother all morning.”

She could feel the swell of anticipation but tried to keep her hopes in check. “Well, he’s done that before, and still hasn’t made the connection.”

“He’s had a very good day today, Mrs. Montgomery.”

She rounded the corner near Nicholas’s room, bracing herself for a reunion with her son, and also for the likelihood that today would be like all the others. Either way, she would take things as they came.

When Claire walked in, Nicholas lay staring out the window, the uneven patches of his hair standing up on end like the little bean sprouts they’d once planted in a Dixie cup in the kitchen. It was growing back in a darker shade of brown. Potato-peel brown.

“Where were you?” he asked slowly, his expression conveying neither recognition nor the contrary.

Claire pulled up a chair next to his bed, trying to temper her mounting hope. “Hi, honey. I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”

“Where were you?” His words sounded deliberate and practiced.

“I was at the beach. Do you remember the last time we went to the beach, Nicholas?” She took his hand in hers, but he looked at her blankly, his eyes drooping as if fighting sleep. She tried a different approach. “Do you remember me?” she asked expectantly.

“What?”

Claire cleared her throat. “Do you know who I am, Nicholas?”

He grabbed the edge of the mattress and pushed himself up to a sitting position with his right hand. Claire could see his right leg digging for traction under the blanket. “You think I’m crazy?” he said, breathing hard from the exertion. “I’m not . . . crazy.”

“No, honey, of course not. You had an accident, and it’s been difficult for you to remember things.” She blinked fast to keep her tears in check, still uncertain what Nicholas’s words really meant, still wondering if he really
knew
who she was.

“I’m tired,” he said, staring past her.

She nodded stoically. “Why don’t you rest, and I’ll be here when you wake up.” She kissed his forehead as he closed his eyes, and Claire retreated to the small sofa near the door and rummaged through her tote for a book to read.

“Mom?” came his drowsy voice after two chapters of
The Goldfinch.
“Where’s . . . where’s Dad?”

Claire bolted to the bed. “Oh my God, Nicky, I’m here.
I’m
your mom,” she cried, grasping his fingers and kissing them. The sweetness of the relief that washed over her was like nothing she had ever experienced. She felt dizziness and exhilaration crash together in her chest. And Nick simply looked back at her as if she were the one who had been having trouble comprehending things. On the verge of eye rolls, he looked at her like a teenager looks at a parent—and she couldn’t have been more grateful. “Your dad’s back home in Denver,” Claire explained, marveling at the mysteries of the human brain, and still having a hard time believing that the nurses’ numerous experiences with sudden recall had actually occurred with Nicholas now, too. “And he’s going to be so happy you asked for him. We love you so much, honey.”

“Okay.” Nicholas closed his eyes again and drifted off, mumbling something—a name, Claire thought, but couldn’t quite make out.

C
HAPTER
14

M
ichael finally answered his cell after her third call. In the background Claire heard the din of voices and cutlery on plates, but at the sound of his clipped tone, she could only clear her throat.

“Is that you, Claire? What is it, has something happened?”

She took a deep breath. “Nicholas asked for you. And he remembered me.”

“What? When?”

“Today. He—”

“Wait, hold on a sec.” Claire could make out a muffled “excuse me,” and footsteps before Michael retuned to the line. “What happened?”

“He asked where you were and he called me ‘Mom.’ The doctors were right, Michael.” She related the day’s events, omitting her detour to the beach.

“Whoa, slow down, Claire. He’s recovered his memory, is that what they’re saying?”

“That’s what they believe. He’s still got retrograde amnesia from the night of—from that night. He may never remember the overdose, or even the days leading up to it. But he’s been asking for you all day.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. A long silence. And Claire braced herself for another round of the blame game. She still hadn’t figured out a way to share good news when it was really only camouflaged sad news in the bigger picture. But then she heard quiet, hiccup-like sobs.

“Thank God,” Michael finally said, several times between loud breaths.

“Are you all right?”

He exhaled loudly. “I’m fine. I’m just—” his voice cracked, “I wasn’t sure he’d ever—” he paused. “Did he say anything else? He really has no recollection of . . . of things before?”

“Not yet. He just asked where you were. And he really seemed to know me.”

“What did you tell him?”

Claire walked in small circles around the kitchen, wanting to reach through the airwaves and touch him. She imagined them hugging and sharing the relief that two parents in their position should be sharing. “I told him you were in Denver, but that you’d be here again soon.”

“I was planning on coming out next week, but I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“That’s great.” She studied a large gouge at the foot of her kitchen stool.

“Claire?”

“Yes?”

“I, uh . . . Jeez, this is such a relief. Thank you. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Travel safe.”

Gone was the sandpaper quality of their exchanges, replaced by a sense of joy and—she was almost afraid to think it—connection. For once her fears had gone unfounded. Their child was getting better and Michael had accepted it without any caveats, had even exhibited a glimmer of warmth. Were these their first small steps toward détente? She thought of the plans they could start making to participate together in some of Nicky’s therapy sessions, even outings they might take. She stared at the telephone, the conduit of such promise, and heard Michael’s familiar
“whoa, slow down, Claire,”
echo in her mind. The clock on the oven rolled over to the new hour with a loud, achy grinding. Maybe she was reading far too much into a three-minute telephone conversation.

Her phone rang, and she immediately clicked back on with anticipation.

“Hello, dear.”

“Oh.” Claire looked at the phone screen, shaking her head. “Hello, Mother.”

“I hadn’t heard from you in a while. How’ve you been?”

“It’s been hectic, but—”

“How’s Nicholas doing?”

“He’s had a breakthrough, actually.” She walked over to the couch and, falling into the cushions, gave Cora the good news.

“My goodness, Claire, what . . . a . . . relief.” Claire could hear her mother struggling with the words between her smoker’s hack. “That’s so . . . wonderful, sweetheart. What did Michael say? Is he warming up a little bit now?”

Claire winced at the idea that she had shared this same thought with her mother who, as always, managed to elicit and dissect the entire conversation.

“So, he seemed optimistic about Nicky’s progress?”

“Sort of.”

“And he didn’t bring up the accident?”

“Not once.” Claire doodled flowers on a magazine page, picturing Cora’s Fanci-Tone White Minx curls and her soft, rouged cheeks pressed into the princess phone in the family room.

“Well, that’s just the copper on the penny, dear. This is progress.”

By the time Cora was finished, Claire found herself puffed up. She heard Cora’s excitement mount with each nuance of intimacy she’d unearthed from the phone call. And against her better judgment, she was infected by Cora’s optimism.

“You work on that boy of yours when he comes out there,” Cora added. “You do what you need to do to get him back.”

“Michael’s not a boy.”

“They’re all boys. And they all have their childish ways of dealing with things. It sounds like he needs you. He misses you, even though he’s too stubborn and proud to admit it. But he’s given you an opening here, Claire. Now you take that and run with it. You fix this thing you did, for what reason I’ll never be able to fathom”—she exhaled loudly—“and you put your family back together.”

“Mother, I’m trying.”

“And I’m so thrilled about Nicholas,” Cora continued. “I was going to suggest a little visit, but I’ll wait until after you and Michael have your time together. You just grab that ball he’s offered you, honey, and you run with it.”

 

The weather had shifted from gray to blue, and the first of the season’s Santa Ana winds blew fast and hot through the night. Claire closed her bedroom window against the dust, and fell asleep to tree branches scratching at the glass, thinking that on a night like that anything could happen. Good things, or earthquakes.

C
HAPTER
15

T
he next morning, one of the clearest in memory, Claire sat waiting for Michael outside Nicholas’s room. She watched her husband approach from the elevator in a cornflower-blue dress shirt and dark suit pants, his face slimmer and with more than the usual amount of tired around his eyes. He carried a small gym bag over his shoulder. Claire ran her fingers through her hair and stood to greet him. She hoped Cora had been right. If Michael could keep this flicker of optimism lit, then there just might be room for some healing between them.

Claire reached out to him, and he stuck his hands in his pockets. “How’ve you been?” she asked, keeping her voice upbeat.

“I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “Better now.”

“Good flight?”

“Yeah. I brought the plane.”

“Oh? Just for you?” Claire looked away, unable to discourage the rush of nostalgia this news brought. The luxury of romantic birthday jaunts to New York or Aspen. Their privileged life as a couple. Their once beautiful life as a family. A patient with a walker approached, and Claire was forced to move in close to Michael to allow the man to make his arduous way past. A staleness lingered in the air behind him, and Claire smiled weakly. Their life now.

“I flew out some of the Manhattan Beach Fund investors, too.”

They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, nodding like colleagues.

Then Michael stepped forward, leaning in toward her, and Claire saw a softening of his body language, a warming in his eyes. Impulsively, she wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him and nestling her cheek into his neck in their old familiar way. She smelled Eau Sauvage and closed her eyes, waiting for him to return the embrace and celebrate their son’s triumph. But what she felt instead were the muscles of Michael’s neck tense against her just before he took her shoulders and gently eased her away. He stepped back and rubbed at the small damp spot where Claire’s face had rested. “I was just looking for Nicholas,” he said, indicating with his chin Nicholas’s empty room behind her. “I see he’s not there.”

“Oh. I thought—” She pretended to wipe a stray lash from the corner of her eye, then smoothed the front of the pale jade sweater he had given her the previous Christmas, lost for a second in the collision of hope and reality. “They just took him to the therapy pool.” She pulled the soft sleeves over her knuckles. “I’ll walk you over,” she said quietly.

When they arrived at the pool, Nicholas was finishing his balancing exercises with the therapist. Claire and Michael stood near the steps and watched him from behind. As the therapist held Nicholas’s arm, he moved forward with her assistance and the natural support of the water.

“So he really is starting to walk again,” Michael said with a half smile.

“Well, not yet on land. They’re working on his balance here first.” Claire watched the smile wane. “He’s made so much progress, Michael. Really, it’s amazing. Look at the difference since you were last here.”

“Yeah.” Michael started to pace along the side of the pool, with Claire following behind. “I’m glad to see he’s out of bed and exercising. And not swearing at everyone in sight.”

“He’s been asking for you all morning. And his strength is getting better.”

The therapist let go of Nicholas and he continued walking forward with his arms in floaties, and outstretched on the surface of the water. After several seconds he teetered to the side, but managed to regain his balance for another few seconds before breaking to rest. The therapist high-fived Nicholas as she helped him over to the steps. Michael knelt down at the edge of the pool, still out of Nick’s line of sight, and Claire was afraid he was about to yell something to push Nicholas on, to keep him from quitting just yet. Little League, swim meets, and lacrosse matches flashed through her mind, and she cut Michael off before he could speak.

“The pool’s been good for him, Michael. It’s really helped with his confidence. And the great news is that they removed his catheter last week.” Michael squinted at her and Claire struggled to make the words sound better. “I mean, he couldn’t work out in the pool until he was fully, you know . . . continent.”

His squint turned into a glare as he stood and walked toward her. “That’s just
great
.”

“For God’s sakes, Michael,” Claire hissed through clenched teeth, the smell of chlorine filling her head. “Everyone here is working very hard to help Nicholas. Can’t you see the positive?” She knew better than anyone how difficult that was, but she couldn’t risk letting his irritation spoil the reunion. She watched Michael turn away, watched his fingers swiping at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose before he refocused on Nick. They waited until Nicholas was raised out of the water by the mechanical lift and then placed back into his wheelchair before greeting him. Claire nudged Michael forward, holding in the rest of her anger. Slowly he set down his gym bag, eyeing his son closely, warily, as if assessing his reaction to his arrival.

“Dad!” Nicholas shouted. “Dad!”

Michael moved in quickly then and wrapped his arms around Nick’s torso. Nicholas hugged back with his right arm, his left still resting on the side of the wheelchair.

“I’m so glad to see you, pal.” Michael was on his knees now, kissing Nick’s cheek, clinging tightly to his son. “How’re you doing?” he asked, pushing up to a squat and searching Nick’s face for . . . something.

“Did you . . . see me out there?” Nicholas asked with wide-open eyes.

“I sure did. You’re going to be doing the hundred fly by next year, sport.”

Nicholas’s expression wilted slightly.

“Well maybe not quite that soon,” the therapist said as she finished toweling Nicholas off. “But your son is making some amazing strides, Mr. Montgomery.”

“Did you see me . . . in . . . the water?” Nicholas asked again.

Michael looked over to Claire. She nodded at him to answer again. “Yeah, Nicholas, I sure did. You’re doing a great job in the pool.”

“So, Liz,” Claire asked in the rosiest voice she could muster, “what’s next on the schedule for today?”

“Nick has group mat class with Amy in fifteen minutes, and you’re both welcome to watch.”

Michael grasped Nicholas’s shoulders and smiled a broad smile before kissing and then hugging him again. “You look wonderful, Nicky. And I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do in the gym. I know you’re going to blow me away.” As he stood, he clapped Nicholas on the arm. “You knock ’em dead in there, champ.” Nick’s elbow flopped from the armrest into his lap.

Claire dug her fingers into Michael’s wrist and hurried him out of the pool room, gazing back at Nicholas. When she opened the door into the empty hallway, she felt the rush of cool air on her damp neck. She turned and abruptly stopped, nearly tripping Michael. “Damn it,” she said, squaring herself to him, “I know you’re frustrated, but you can’t put pressure on him like that anymore. Some days are good and some aren’t so good. It’s a slow process, and he needs a lighter touch now. You’ve got to tone it down.”

Michael pulled his hand free. “Don’t tell me how to treat my own son. Especially now,” he said, his voice thick with anger and, Claire was pretty sure, surprise at her reproach. “You think Nicholas got to be an all-star lacrosse and hockey player, or a nearly straight-A student with a light touch?” He ran both hands through his hair, tugging at the roots. “He needs the push.
That’s
what’s going to get him through this.”

In her husband’s sunken expression, Claire saw the distillation of a childhood’s worth of disappointing Bs and
you can do better
backslaps. They stood staring at each other, numb with the venom of their words. After a moment the standoff abated with muted
sorrys,
and they continued on in silence to the therapy gym. As they passed patients with walkers or canes moving close to the railings on the wall, Claire watched Michael studying their strained efforts. Her stomach began to ache, and she worried that if Nicholas didn’t have a successful mat class, there would be no conversation with Michael over dinner later about their own situation. There would be no dinner at all. When they reached the entrance to the observation area, Michael held the door open, cradling Claire’s waist as she passed through, as had always been his habit. Claire turned to him and whispered her thanks.

 

Michael and Claire stood behind the gym’s glass doors and watched a group of eight men, women, teenagers, and attendants assemble their wheelchairs into a circle. Nicholas was one of the youngest patients. He scanned the room until his eyes met Claire’s. She elbowed Michael, and he gave him a thumbs-up, as they both smiled at their son. Nicholas raised his right thumb back. Amy led the group through some stretching exercises and then produced a balloon, to the apparent dismay of the group.

She tossed the balloon to a young man in a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, who then swatted it over toward Nicholas’s end of the circle. Claire held her breath.
Oh, God, please let him hit it.
Nicholas looked up at them and grinned. When the balloon came his way he began to rock his torso back and forth in his wheelchair and raise his arm, as if preparing for his moment to shine. He made perfect contact, tapping the balloon forward to a woman with long black braids.

Claire exhaled. “Look how much his coordination has improved.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of gum, offering a stick in Michael’s direction. “Remember those great picnics on the Vineyard, how much Nicky loved the sand volleyball games with all the kids?”

Michael remained focused on the gym. The balloon traveled straight to its target, but the woman opposite Nicholas made no effort to strike it. It drifted to the floor and came to rest in the center of the circle. Claire saw the subtle shift in Nicholas’s face, the downward cast of his eyes and mouth. He looked back up at Michael, his lips pursed into the same frustrated expression he’d have after making a brilliant assist on the ice, and then failing to lead the team to victory. Nick’s cheeks reddened and he glared at the braided woman who had decimated his moment. Amy set the balloon in motion again, and he began to flail his arm every time the balloon caught air. But he never made contact again.

Michael smacked the frame of the door. “This is what you were so excited for me to see?” He pointed to the group of patients now rolling indiscriminately in a dance of minor frenzy.
“This?”

Claire tried to direct his attention to the weight room on their left. “I know it’s disappointing, but he really is getting stronger, and he’s meeting milestones.”

Michael’s eyes were red and glassy, the veins at his temples throbbing like boiling oatmeal.

“I mean, what did you expect after such a short time, relatively?” she continued. Nicholas’s shouting drew their attention back to the gym, and they both looked on as an attendant wheeled his thrashing body away from the group.

Michael pressed his hands up against the glass and stared at the commotion. When he looked back at Claire, his face was wet with tears. He unzipped his gym bag and pulled out a football, turning it over and over in his hands. “Yeah, he’s made progress, but I can’t watch this.” He walked into the hallway, shoving the ball back into the bag.

“Michael, I know it’s hard to manage expectations, but—”

“I just wanted to toss a ball with him. I thought we’d at least be able to play catch, you know? He’s just seventeen. He was just on the verge of . . . everything promising.” He wiped his cheeks with the back of his free hand and repeated
seventeen
in his peculiarly anguished way. “I have so much to make up,” he said, his voice trailing off. “And you’ve taken that away.”

“Please,” she shouted as she followed him to the elevator, “please don’t go like this.”

Michael raised his arm in a gesture of dismissal and quickened his pace. “And this so-called progress is costing a goddamn fortune.” His voice had returned to full volume. “It’s ludicrous.”

“What?” Michael rarely complained about the cost of things. “Wait. Maybe we could talk to the staff psychologist together,” Claire said, tripping as she tried to catch him. She was grabbing at straws, she knew, given his low esteem for the profession, but she was desperate to pin him down to some sort of meaningful dialogue, and to understand his progressively cryptic remarks.

But he did not turn back, and Claire stopped in the center of the yawning hallway and closed her eyes, listening to his footsteps fall heavily on the linoleum. And with each step, her sense of loss and bewilderment grew more acute. The elevator doors closed. She walked to the wall of windows near the elevator bank and looked down. Seconds later she saw Michael push through the double glass doors three floors below, his head cast toward the gray cement. This was not at all how the day was supposed to go. They were supposed to be reprising their role as a team. Supporting their child and becoming a family again. She watched him wander in the small visitor’s garden near the exit, his lips moving as he paced circles around lush beds of begonias and birds of paradise. Finally he sat down on a bench and lurched forward, cradling his head in his palms. Claire saw his torso rise and fall in rapid, violent spasms. She felt her own body jerk against the window, tapping out their anguished beat.

When Michael headed toward the parking garage, Claire realized they had completely abandoned Nicholas, and she rushed to his room.

“Where’s Dad?” he asked sullenly, eyes focused on the TV.

“He’ll be back a little later, hon.”

“Where is he?”

Claire handed him a water cup and straw. “He, um, had an appointment. But he was so proud of you today, Nicholas. Really proud.”

Nick’s jaw twitched. His eyes narrowed. “Sure,” he mumbled.

“Honey, you did such a nice job in the pool.” Claire watched as he took the straw into the corner of his mouth and sucked water until it began to dribble from his lips and spill onto his chest. Saliva bubbled on his chin. She reached for a tissue, and Nick let the cup drop from his fingers like it was nothing, a scrap of paper.