When He Fell (10 page)

Today, for once, I don’t nudge him towards the Lego kits or the big bins of loose pieces. We spend twenty minutes staring at the Lego model of the Empire State Building which I feel like we’ve seen a thousand times.

“Do you know,” Josh says, “that laid end to end the number of Lego bricks sold last year would circle the world eighteen times?”

I shake my head in amazement. “That is a
lot
of Lego.”

“You’d need forty million Lego bricks to reach the moon,” he continues. “And forty-five million Lego bricks were made just in the last year. So if someone took all the bricks they made last year, they could reach the moon.”

I consider this for a moment, a Lego bridge spanning the sky, the universe. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” Josh nods in solemn agreement. “Wow.”

He tells me a few more Lego facts as we move around the store, and I start to relax, savoring this time with him, when things feel normal. As I watch him study each Lego creation with that quiet intensity I know so well, I remember other moments with Josh. How he loved his bath as a baby. He’d stay in there for hours, pouring water from one container to another. I remember the belly laugh he gave as a toddler when I tickled his tummy. He might not have spoken, but he laughed. He was
happy
. When, I wonder, did Josh stop seeming so happy?

I think maybe around the time he was three, but my mind skitters away from that memory. Josh was too young to realize what was going on between me and Lewis, I tell myself, but I can’t quite make myself believe it. I know children pick up on things. I know they sense tension. But it was only three weeks. Three of the longest, most miserable weeks of my life, when Lewis left me.

But he came back, and we moved on. And we can move on now. It just takes time.

A month after Lewis came back to me, Josh stopped talking. I don’t think it was related to Lewis; the timing isn’t right. Maybe it was simply preschool: the teachers, or too much stimulation, or the rules he didn’t understand. Sit on the circle carpet for story time. Find the shape with your name on it before you come into the ‘Explore Room’. I thought Josh would love that stuff, but I think it bewildered or even frightened him. I remember him clinging to my hand, surveying the room anxiously before going in; sometimes when I came to pick him up he’d be hiding under one of the tables. We thought about withdrawing him, but the teachers and doctors advised us not to, insisted that he needed a routine. But what if that routine was hurting him?

Things didn’t get better until we enrolled him at Burgdorf. It took him all of kindergarten to settle in and start to open up. His teacher, Miss Evans, was patient and gentle and kind. And kindergarten at a school like Burgdorf is just basically one long play session; you could do what you liked, when you liked. Josh seemed to relax.

First grade was a little harder, and the academics, even at Burgdorf, a little more rigorous. There was less play and more rules. But then Ben came and Josh finally found a friend.
Ben
. My insides clench as I think of him, wonder how he’s doing. How serious was his fall? And how will Josh cope, knowing he hurt his friend, feeling like it’s his fault?

Ben and Josh were unlikely friends from the beginning, drawn together, I suspect, by the fact that they were both misfits. Ben was too loud for the other kids and Josh too quiet. They have had, at least I hope they have, a symbiotic relationship. Ben plays to Josh’s audience and Josh feeds off Ben’s energy and interest. Or something like that. At least they have someone to be partners with in gym.

Or they did. But I have no idea when Ben will be back at Burgdorf, if ever. I should reach out to Maddie, I decide. There’s no reason for Lewis to be the one to do it, and I realize I want to see her for myself, for a lot of different reasons.

After the Lego Store Josh and I head to a nearby diner for lunch. Maybe, I think as we order enormous burgers and Cokes—my no-sugar policy has gone out the window—we really can enjoy this week away from reality. Maybe it will give Josh time to heal and recharge, as well as to open up more about what happened with him and Ben. Why he pushed him. Why he doesn’t want to see him now. I’m not sure I want the answers to those questions, but I know I need them, and I think Josh needs them too.

After lunch we walk up Fifth Avenue to the Grand Army Plaza, intentionally avoiding Burgdorf by a wide avenue block. We cross the city at Fifty-Ninth Street to take the subway back up the West Side, and when we’ve almost reached the far side of the park, Josh freezes.

At first I don’t know what he’s looking at, and then, through a tangle of trees, I see the concrete maze of Heckscher Playground. I know that’s where Burgdorf kids have their outdoor recess; it must be where Ben fell.

“Josh,” I say softly, and put my hand on his shoulder. His muscles are rigid under my fingers. “Josh, are you okay, honey?”

He’s still staring at the playground in the distance; I can’t even make out the shape of the equipment against the backdrop of towering boulders.

“
Josh
.” I give his shoulder a little shake. “Come on, buddy, okay?” And I lead him across Fifty-Ninth Street, past the park, to the safety of the subway.

Back in the apartment Josh makes a beeline for his bedroom but I halt him with one hand on his shoulder, trying to forestall his inevitable retreat. “Hey. Why don’t we do a puzzle?”

Josh hesitates. Puzzles are his next favorite thing, after Lego and trivia. Wordlessly he nods, and as I go to the cupboard of five hundred and thousand-piece puzzles, I realize I haven’t actually sat down with Josh to do a puzzle, or anything, in a long time. When did life get so busy?

“Which one?” I call over my shoulder. “We’ve got Harry Potter, antique cars, or cats playing poker.”

Josh points to the one of the cars and I get it out.

As we sort the pieces into different piles—edges in one, sky pieces in another—I think this would be a perfect time to ask him exactly what happened on the playground.

But the apartment is lovely and quiet, the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the curtains. I can hear the muted sound of traffic from Central Park West and the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. I don’t want to disturb this fragile peace.

I’m not sure if that makes me wise or cowardly, but in any case I don’t say anything. We complete the border of the puzzle before I have to start dinner, and I leave Josh with his dark head bent over the piles of pieces while I defrost some chicken and look in the fridge for healthy options.

Lewis comes home a little while later, and he smiles to see Josh doing the puzzle. My heart lifts as I watch my husband sit down with my son, and they fit a few pieces together. When was the last time Lewis has sat down with Josh like this?

I wonder again if Josh’s suspension wasn’t actually a
good
thing. Maybe we all needed this to push the reset button on our family life.

Then I remember Ben, and guilt pours through me like acid. How can I see
anything
good about a boy who might be brain damaged? And my son is the one, accident or not, who caused it?

“I was thinking,” I tell Lewis. “Maybe I should visit Maddie in the hospital.”

Josh stills and Lewis glances over his shoulder. He hasn’t mentioned whether he’s called her or not, and I haven’t asked. “Maybe,” he agrees, but he doesn’t sound particularly enthused.

“Just to see how she’s doing. How Ben’s doing. Considering…”

I can see Josh’s shoulders tense, and I curse myself for not having this conversation with Lewis in private. But part of me is glad to have it now; we can’t
not
talk about Ben. We can’t pretend he doesn’t exist, that he wasn’t Josh’s friend.

Isn’t
Josh’s friend.
Is
.

“I could go tomorrow evening,” I say. “I’ll have to call the school to find out which hospital—”

“He’s at Mount Sinai Roosevelt,” Lewis says. He’s turned back to the puzzle.

“Oh.” Then I can’t keep myself from asking, “How did you know that?”

“I texted Maddie. She’d called me, anyway.”

I suppress the flicker of unease this offhand admission causes me. He told me he was going to call her. This is not really a surprise. And yet there is something so familiar about the way he talks about her. I don’t think he even realizes it, how he says her name like he
knows
her.

“I’ll check the visiting hours online,” I say.

“Okay,” Lewis says as he fits a piece into the puzzle. He is not looking at me. “That’s a good idea.”

I watch him for a moment, covertly searching for some reaction, something that will reveal how well he knows Maddie. I know I’m being paranoid; I know Lewis hasn’t really said anything to make me think he knows Maddie better than as the parent of his child’s friend. But I can’t help being afraid, because I’ve often wondered if Lewis loves me as much as I love him.

Someone once told me that relationships are always unequal; one person loves the other more. I’m not sure what basis they had for that devastating bit of trivia, but in my and Lewis’s case I know I’m the one who loves more. I’d die without Lewis. For the three weeks he left me, when Josh was three, I felt as if I were dying. I
wanted
to die. I even thought about it, I’m ashamed to say. But we never talk about that time; we drew a line across it and it’s as if it never happened. We both wanted to move on, to forget.

But I’ve never been able to forget.

“Great,” I say into the silence, and the oven timer pings to tell me dinner is ready.

Later, when I go into his room to tuck Josh into bed, I find him curled up on the window seat, his bony knees tucked into his chest as he stares out at the darkness.

“Josh?” I try to keep my voice light, upbeat. “So, what do you want to do tomorrow?”

“Go to the Lego Store.”

Again?
“What about the Bronx Zoo? Or skating in Bryant Park? Or the Children’s Museum?”

He turns to me, and I see that gleam in his eyes that I know well. My son can be silent, but he is also stubborn. “The Lego Store,” he says again, and I smile.

“The Lego Store it is, then.” I pull back his duvet and beckon him. “Time for bed.”

Slowly Josh uncurls himself from the window seat and walks towards the bed, dragging his feet.

He slides into the bed and lies on his back, staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling. I tuck the duvet around him and wait; I sense he wants to say something, but I’m not going to push. I’m
not.

“Josh?” I ask gently. “Do you have something you want to say?” So much for my resolutions.

He takes a deep breath, and I brace myself, although for what I don’t know. For more silence? For a refusal? Or for something worse?

“We were on the rocks,” he finally says, his voice so soft I strain to hear it.

On the rocks?
It takes me a second to realize he means the rocks at Heckscher Playground, the towering rocks above the play structure that the children are never, ever allowed to climb on. They’re read the riot act about the rocks every day before they go out to recess; the playground supervisors specifically look for anyone clambering on those high boulders, the tops littered with drunks and broken glass.

I sit on the edge of the bed, resting one hand on his rigid leg. “Why were you on the rocks?”

“Ben wanted to climb up there.”

I take a careful breath, my mind racing as I try to figure out how to handle this. “Have you gone up there before?”

“No,” Josh says after a moment. “We never did. We know you’re not allowed to.”

“Why did you that day?” I’m trying to keep my voice light, gently curious, as if this isn’t really that important.

“I told you,” Josh says, his voice becoming a little strident, “Ben wanted to.”

“Why?” I feel Josh tense under my hand and I know I’ve asked too many questions. But the realization that Josh pushed Ben from the rocks makes my insides clench with horrified shock and an even worse fear. If Ben fell from the rocks…that feels different than a shove off the slide or swing. It feels… malevolent.

“But it was an accident,” I say, and then curse myself for the note of uncertainty in my voice. “You didn’t mean to push him.”

“I did mean it,” Josh says, and there is an almost savage note in his voice that utterly chills me.

“But, Josh,” I protest, my tone turning pleading, “you didn’t mean for him to
fall.
”

Josh doesn’t answer.

9
MADDIE

I’m at the hospital by seven the next morning, and there is no change. I sit with Ben for a while, and then I attempt to do some work in the waiting room. I finally steel myself to call Alwin’s HR and discuss my length of compassionate leave. I’m dreading this conversation, because no matter how good the policy for leave is, I know instinctively it will not be good enough. It never is.

“Maddie, good to hear from you.” Sheila, the woman I talk to in HR, is someone I’ve smiled at on occasion at the office, and no more. But now her voice is warm with concern, and I realize the news about Ben must have traveled around. I am officially the object of pity.

“I wanted to talk about my compassionate leave,” I say.

“Of course.” I can hear the rustle of papers and the click of a mouse. I realize Sheila must have a file on me, a file that is going to become thick and unwieldy as Ben’s care continues. “I see you are on the fourth day of your ten remaining vacation days in this calendar year,” she begins, all unemotional professionalism now.

“Yes.”

“And after that you have ten further days of extraordinary compassionate leave.”

“Ten days?” I repeat. “That’s it?” In total that will be four weeks of work that I’ll have missed. Ben hasn’t even opened his eyes yet. There’s no way that’s enough.

“Most companies only allow three days,” Sheila answers, and I can tell she is trying not to sound defensive.

“And after the ten days? What happens then?”

“Then you can take up to six months’ unpaid leave, and we will hold your job for you. After that…” She pauses, and I close my eyes.

“After that, I’m out of luck.”