When He Fell (23 page)

I’ve spent a fair amount of time there over the last year, daydreaming about the kind of life Lewis and I could have. I alternate between total fabrication: Lewis and I together, both boys ours, and a far more dangerous possible reality: Lewis leaving Joanna, moving in with me. Joanna would take Josh, of course. We could have him for weekends, maybe. But the real fantasy, the forbidden truth, is that I would like it to be the three of us. Lewis, Ben, and me. A family.

I know it won’t happen. I’ve always known; I’m not that deluded. But imagining something over and over again makes it feel more real. More possible, even as I tell myself it never will be.

The last four days, since Ben moved to rehab, have been intense in a whole new way. The ambulance ride from Manhattan to Peekskill seemed to take forever; I sat next to Ben and held his hand and he looked at me, his gaze so intent, and then tried to speak. The sounds he made were garbled, better than the moans, but I could see how frustrated he was getting with not being able to communicate.

I tried my best to understand his needs; I told him where we were going and how great it was going to be; I asked him to squeeze my fingers if he was uncomfortable or needed anything; I kept a running monologue about where we were, what I could see out the window. I tried to keep myself from tears.

How do people do this? I wondered silently. How do people cope with this, day in and day out? How will I?

One of Ben’s new doctors met him at the door of the rehab facility, and a kind nurse named Tami settled him into his room. He shares with Jacob, a thirteen-year-old boy who has a spinal injury. I look at Jacob, who is alert and communicative, who laughs at jokes and plays the Xbox in the recreation room, and I feel unbearably, painfully jealous. I want a son who is a paraplegic. I want a son who can still envision a life, a future, of some sort, no matter that it’s limited.

But after three days—three days of traveling to and from Peekskill, of flopping into bed exhausted only to stare gritty-eyed at the ceiling—I am amazed at how much Ben has progressed.

On Thanksgiving he said
No.
Clearly, or at least clearly enough that I understood him. Eric, the physical therapist who had been working his legs, took it in his stride.

“No more, Ben?” he said, smiling easily. “You done for the day? I don’t blame you. Two more reps and then we’re good, okay, buddy?”

Ben nodded. He actually nodded his head; he
communicated.
Tears crowded my eyes and I left the room so I wouldn’t bawl like a baby in front of my son.

Tami, the nurse, came up and put a hand on my shoulder. “You okay, honey?” she asked.

I took a deep breath, blew my nose, and nodded. “This is really tough,” I managed. “Even the good things…the progress… It’s tough.”

She nodded sympathetically. “It’s all tough,” she agreed. “But progress is good. Progress is always good.”

On Friday Ben started, with help to get him there, sitting up in bed. It was a shock to see him upright, looking almost as if he was convalescing from a cold. He still can’t control his body; his arms and legs jerk and he’s been able to push the button for the music a couple of times but he’s not in command of himself, and I can tell he hates that. I’ve started being able to read my son’s signs, and it occurs to me as I put a straw to his lips for a sip of water simply because he’d looked at the glass, that I know my son now better than I ever did.

On Saturday I help to dress Ben in his New York Mets T-shirt and a pair of loose sweatpants. Today, for Josh’s visit, I want him to look like he used to. I want him to be able to be himself, even if we’re not sure what that looks like any more.

Dressing him is a laborious process, painful and a little embarrassing for us both. The physical therapist, Eric, does his underwear; Ben has thankfully been out of diapers for a while now. I help to put on his shirt and pants, but it’s like dressing a huge and not always docile baby; his arms and legs jerk or suddenly stiffen; he moans and tries to speak in a garbled, frustrated voice that leaves us both near tears.

Finally he’s dressed and I smile and stand back, as if that wasn’t one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

“Right. Good. They should be here soon, Ben.” My stomach clenches with nerves. I both want and don’t want to see them. How will I handle Joanna? How can I look Josh in the eye, knowing he pushed Ben on purpose?

When they come in the room, I am shocked by how awful Josh looks. He is pale and thin—he was always pale and thin but now he is like a ghost—and there are deep shadows under his eyes. Lewis has a hand on Josh’s shoulder, as if he is steering him, and Joanna follows behind, looking awkward and uncertain, her gaze darting around as if she doesn’t know where to look.

I eye her assessingly; she is wearing clearly expensive charcoal-gray dress trousers and a pink cashmere sweater, an outfit that should look good on anyone, but the trousers are slightly short—she must be about six feet tall—and the sweater is creased. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail that is slightly off center. She wears no makeup, and she looks tense and unhappy.

Lewis is dressed in faded jeans and a dark green crewneck sweater. He looks tired too, but he smiles when he sees me, and I do too. Too much, maybe, but I’m so glad to see him.

And then, from nowhere, Ben bursts out with “
Hi!
” His voice sounds funny, his mouth too wide, his vowels too elongated, and I can tell all the Taylor-Davieses are shocked.

I am too, but for an entirely different reason. Ben
spoke
.

“Hey, Ben,” Lewis says, easily enough, while Joanna and Josh hang back. He waves, and to my amazement, Ben’s hand jerks in a spasmodic wave back.

“That’s the first time he’s done that,” I say, my voice trembling. I turn to Josh. He is standing by the door, his expression shuttered, his arms folded. I try to summon the fury I felt before, when Lewis told me Josh pushed Ben on purpose, but I can’t. All I see is a small, sad, nine-year-old boy.

“Hey, Josh,” I say and his gaze flicks to me. I nearly step back at the burning look of hatred in his eyes. My breath catches in my chest, and I glance wildly at Lewis, at Joanna, to see if they’ve noticed.

Lewis hasn’t; he’s looking at Ben. But Joanna has. And her look for me is just as bad as Josh’s.

For a second I feel sick, faint, and I almost sway where I stand. What do they know? I open my mouth to say—what? That it was one lousy kiss? But I can’t say that now. And in any case, it wasn’t just one kiss, not for me. But they can’t know that.
Josh
can’t know that. It’s impossible.
I didn’t hurt anyone.

“Loo,” Ben says, and I realize Ben is trying to say Lewis.

I turn from Josh and Joanna with relief. “That’s right, Ben,” I say with as much matter-of-fact cheer as I can. “Lewis has come to visit again. Isn’t that great?” I force myself to include the others. “And Josh is here too, and his mom, Joanna.” I point to both of them without actually looking at them. Joanna murmurs hello. Josh says nothing.

Ben grins and tries to wave again.

Joanna steps forward. “Hey, Ben,” she says quietly, “I like your T-shirt. I’ve always been a New York Mets fan.”

Ben grins and I feel a mixture of relief and panic, because I have no idea what she thinks, what she knows. What Josh knows. But at least we’re all trying to make this feel normal.

“Maybe we could all go into the rec room,” I suggest, and my voice comes out a little loud. “Hang out there for a while.”

Lewis steps forward. “Sounds like a good idea.” He nods to the wheelchair next to Ben’s bed. “Can I help with that?”

“Sure—” I begin, but Lewis is already striding forward, pulling back Ben’s sheets and then gently sliding his arms underneath his inert form. My heart squeezes painfully and I do not look at Joanna or Josh.

Lewis talks to Ben the whole time, joking a bit, making it easier, and everything in me aches with longing because why can’t I have this? Lewis is so good with Ben. It feels so unfair.

With Ben settled in the wheelchair we head toward the rec room. I’m pushing the chair and Lewis walks beside him, Joanna and Josh a bit behind us, which is fine by me. For a few minutes I can have Lewis to myself, and I’m too desperate and selfish to keep from craving that. From reaching for it, for a little while.

“How are you?” Lewis asks in a low voice. “Really?”

“Okay,” I answer. “Ben’s been doing really well here.”

“I’m glad.” Lewis glances back at his wife and son. “Maddie…” he begins but I shake my head and look pointedly at Ben. Lewis falls silent.

Fifteen minutes, I think. Let me have fifteen lousy minutes being happy, pretending, and then you can go back to your wife and son. They get to have you forever. I only get an afternoon.

The room is crowded on a Saturday afternoon; there are patients playing games, watching TV, reading, talking, even singing. The room is loud, and not every person in there is totally in control of their body or voice.

I wheel Ben in. Lewis follows, and so does Joanna. Josh stands by the door.

“Josh,” Lewis calls. “Why don’t you and Ben play the Xbox?”

For a second I want to tell Lewis that Ben can’t play the Xbox now; he can’t control his hands that much yet. But then I think, why should I put limits on him?

And so we go over to the TV and Xbox and I set up a racing car game. I put the controller into Ben’s hands, moving his thumbs over the button. He looks at me and gives me a wide, drooling grin and my heart breaks all over again.

Lewis glances back at Josh. “Come on,” he says and Josh folds his arms, shakes his head. For a second I am furious. For a second I feel like marching up to Josh and shaking him by the shoulders. Demanding to know what gives him the right to refuse my son a simple game, when it’s Josh’s fault that Ben is here at all.

But then I force the fury back and shrug. Josh doesn’t want to play? Fine. Lewis and I and Ben will play instead, the three of us.

We set up the game and Lewis helps Ben push the buttons, cheering when they manage, together, to make it work, and laughing and groaning good-naturedly when it doesn’t. I perch on the armrest of Ben’s wheelchair, cheering them both on, my back to Joanna and Josh. I’m purposely excluding them and I don’t care.

Lewis glances at me, and I smile and mouth ‘thank you’. He smiles back, and then reaches over and touches my shoulder. It’s a light touch, hardly anything, and yet my whole body reacts like a Roman candle has been lit inside me.

Lewis turns back to the TV, and inadvertently, instinctively, I glance back at Joanna. She is staring at us both, her eyes burning, her jaw tight. Looking into her face I feel like she can read my mind. My heart. And she knows exactly what I’m been dreaming about for months.

I look away quickly and that is when I realize Josh is gone. Joanna catches the direction of my gaze and I watch as her eyes flare in alarm and she hurries from the room in search of her son.

But my son is right here, with me, with Lewis, and so I turn back to the Xbox. “You almost made that turn,” I say to Ben, resting my hand on his shoulder. I glance at Lewis and smile.

Ten minutes later Joanna returns alone. Lewis glances back and frowns and since I can see Ben is getting tired I take the controller from his hands and turn off the TV.

“We probably should go back to the room,” I tell Lewis, even though I don’t want this time to end. I smile at Ben. “You’re looking a little tired, buddy.”

His head jerks and I can’t tell if he is trying to agree or disagree. Knowing Ben, he wants to stay. This is the Xbox, after all, and I think he really liked being with Lewis. Just like I did.

“Maybe tomorrow,” I say gently, and start to steer him towards the door. I ignore Joanna. I don’t care about Josh. Today has been a triumph for Ben. He got out; he spoke; he played the Xbox. If Josh is having a few issues because he’s the one that put Ben here, then Joanna can deal with it.

I can hear Lewis talking to Joanna in a low voice behind me, but I ignore it. Ben seems a bit morose as we go back to the room, his arms jerking as if he is trying to resist getting back into bed. Lewis helps settle him and then turns to give me a tense, unhappy smile.

“We should probably go.”

I nod tightly, and Lewis turns to Ben. “Hey, buddy. I’ll come again soon, all right?” He lightly fist bumps Ben’s hand that rests on top of the bed covers. “We’ll burn some serious rubber next time.”

He turns to leave and Joanna steps forward. Her face is pale and her gaze seems to burn into mine. I know she is angry with me and while I understand why, I feel like shaking her.
You have him
, I want to cry.
You have a loving husband and a son who is whole even if he is unhappy. How can you begrudge me fifteen minutes?

“Goodbye,” she says abruptly and I nod.

And then they are gone.

By the time I head back to the city that evening, I am exhausted. I lean my head against the window of the train and watch the suburbs blur by. I spoke to Ben’s doctor before I left and asked him if he thought it would be all right if I went back to work three days a week. It means only seeing Ben two days during the week and on weekends, but we’re living on what’s left in my bank account and even if the settlement conference goes well, the money won’t actually come through for weeks or even months.

I need to work. And Ben is getting better faster than I ever expected. And when he comes home?

I have no idea what I’ll do then, what kind of care he’ll need, what sort of school he’ll be able to attend. When I spoke to Dr. Spedding I saw judgment in his eyes, and I understood it. He thought I was going to park Ben in rehab and go live my own life. And if I’m honest, maybe there is a little of that. A
little.
I have been living and breathing Ben’s injury since it happened. My life has been sucked into a vortex of bedpans and hospital food and endless what-ifs.

The thought of sitting at my little laminate-wood desk and popping off the top of a large Starbucks latte, staring at a computer screen and thinking about how to market Symmetrel, well, that sounds like a little bit of heaven right about now. To think I used to hate my job.