When He Fell (33 page)

I don’t think Ben would laugh at those shows any more. The funny, whinnying laugh he gives now touches my heart, because it might be strange sounding, but it is also genuine. It is a sound of joy. And we need some joy in our lives.

Dinner is the usual overwhelming scrum of noise and movement. Ben and I sit with Jacob and his mom Hannah and we chat for a few moments, sharing good-natured smiles and nods about the challenges of living the lives we now do.

A few months or even weeks ago I wouldn’t have been able to do this. I would have resisted talking to anyone, because it meant that I was like them. That this was my life.

Now I find myself laughing with Hannah as I wipe lemon meringue from Ben’s chin. The boys are eager to play a little more ping pong, and so I promise them a game after dinner. I clear our trays—they’re a mess of spilled food and drink—and as I’m dumping it on the counter Hannah stays me with one hand.

“You’re so good with him, Maddie,” she says quietly. “Really. You’re an inspiration to me.”

I want to deny it, because I feel it’s so patently untrue, but for once I decide simply to take the compliment.

“Thank you,” I say, and we all head into the rec room.

I stay at Peekskill until nine o’clock, and Ben and Jacob are both asleep in their beds. Hannah left an hour ago and the whole place is shutting down, staff off duty except for the night nurse and one doctor, the lights in the halls dim. It is strangely peaceful and I don’t want to leave. A few weeks ago I only wanted to get out of there, to run away from the smells and the moans and the endless toughness of it all. What has changed?

I know the answer. I have.
I’ve
changed.

I watch Ben sleep for a little while, smoothing the hair away from his forehead, quietly amazed by this boy of mine and how strong he is, how far he has come. There is a long, long road ahead of us, but I am not nearly as frightened of making the journey as I once was. I am almost looking forward to it, to meeting the challenges together, Ben and me.

Finally I leave to catch the last train back to New York. I’ve never stayed this late before, and the night nurse smiles and waves at me as I leave my home-away-from-home. As I get into the cab, I try Lewis again. No answer. Is he avoiding me? I can hardly blame him, considering all those awful texts I sent. I don’t remember what I wrote and I dread looking at my own phone to check. But maybe it’s better this way. Maybe I need to lose Lewis.

I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, trying to hold on to the fragile peace I had while I watched Ben sleep.

When I get back to the apartment Brian’s door is closed. I consider knocking, just to check in, but I decide not to. I go home and shower and change, and then move around, tidying up. The apartment doesn’t feel as quiet and empty as it used to. I haven’t talked to Dr. Spedding about when Ben comes home, but I know that day is coming, and maybe even soon.

I look around the apartment with a critical eye, wondering how Ben will manage. The doctors aren’t able to tell me yet if he will be able to walk on his own, but they are hopeful. Still I consider if a zimmer frame will fit through the doorways, if his alcove bedroom will be big enough.

And then I think about moving. Why not? I’ve been stuck in a deep rut for far too long already. Why not move uptown, somewhere tree-lined and child-friendly, with a public school in walking distance? Assuming, of course, that Ben will be able to be mainstreamed into a school one day.

I toy with the idea, my knees clasped to my chest, and then I hear a light knock on the door.

It’s Brian, coming to check up on me as usual. “Hey.” I open the door wider, hoping things won’t be weird between us. “I had a good day with Ben today.”

“Oh, yeah?” He steps inside. He’s recently showered and I can smell the soap on his skin. I turn away. Not going there now. “What did you guys do?”

“Oh, the usual. Therapies, Xbox, played a mean game of ping pong.”

“Ping pong? Really?”

“Yeah.” I’m grinning, my smile as wide and sloppy as my son’s. “I held the paddle with him. It was great.”

Brian’s face softens. “I’m happy for you, Maddie.”

“Yeah.” I nod, take a deep breath. “I never, ever thought I’d say this, but this whole thing…this whole accident…has been good in some ways.”

He cocks his head, alert and thoughtful. “How so?”

“It woke me up, I guess. Made me look at myself and see where I need to change. I wouldn’t wish this on anybody, and certainly not Ben, but…” I let my breath out in a rush. “Good things, surprisingly good things, have happened as a result. And for that I’m grateful.”

“I’m glad,” Brian says, and I know he means it.

“Me too.” I shake my head, let out a laugh. “I never thought I would say that.”

“I bet you didn’t.”

After Brian leaves I’m still feeling happy, almost buoyant, and I decide it’s as good a time as any to call Lewis and apologize for my glut of emotional texts last night. First I scroll through them on my phone, groaning aloud at all the emotion I cyber-spilled. I’m embarrassed for myself, and sorry for Lewis, who had to deal with it. Hopefully he realized I was drunk. He must have known not to take it seriously.

I call his number and the phone rings and rings. Just as I think it’s going to click over to voicemail, Lewis answers.

“Maddie?” His voice sounds hoarse and haggard, unnerving me. It contains none of the vibrancy or assurance I’m used to hearing from Lewis.

“Lewis, I just wanted to call and apologize for the texts I sent last night,” I say in a rush. “I’m so, so sorry. I never should have… I was drunk and lonely and it was just stupid. I’m sorry,” I say again, and then wait. Lewis does not reply. Uncertainly I prompt, “Lewis…” and then everything in me freezes when he makes a sound like a sob.

“Oh, Maddie,” he says, and he lets out another sob, shocking me to the core. “Maddie, it’s Josh.”

28
JOANNA

The six minutes it takes for the ambulance to get to our building feel like forever. I watch in horror as Lewis cuts the rope away from Josh’s neck. I can see where the bright yellow rope—the rope Lewis bought him, to practice his knots—has cut into his flesh. There is a terrible red mark, a thin, enflamed line, all the way around his neck.

Lewis is cradling Josh, tears spilling down his cheeks. “He’s breathing,” he chokes as he holds him. “He’s breathing. Just.”

I stand and stare, because I am frozen in shock, in horror. I cannot believe this is happening. My brain rewinds to when Lewis was going to go after Josh and I told him to wait. To give him a minute.

Guilt breaks through my numb horror and I can’t handle it. I have a terrible fear that if I let myself feel anything I will tip over into an abyss of grief, guilt, and despair. And I can’t go there, not yet. Josh still needs me.

The paramedics come and put Josh on a stretcher. He is inert, his face still blotchy, the awful red mark around his neck so prominent and visible. But he is still breathing. I cling to that, as if it is a guarantee that he will be okay. That things will finally get better for us.

Lewis and I both ride in the ambulance to Mount Sinai, kneeling on either side of Josh as he is strapped into the stretcher. A paramedic crouches next to him, taking his vitals. I watch in stunned disbelief as he hooks Josh up to oxygen, snaps out statistics about blood pressure and heart rate to the other paramedic.

I hear the wail of the siren and I think
this can’t be happening. This can’t be happening to me. To us.

The hospital is a blur of light and sound as the paramedics load Josh out of the ambulance, his body so small and still on the stretcher. Lewis and I follow, clutching each other, half-running as if afraid we will lose sight of Josh.

And we do lose sight of him; he is wheeled into a room in ER and we are shepherded into a private waiting room, small and smelling of old coffee, and told that the doctor will see us shortly.

Lewis collapses into one of the seats, and I lower myself next to him. I’m still in denial; my mind is simply refusing to accept the events of the last—what? Twenty minutes?

Twenty minutes and my life has been changed.
As for Josh’s…

It occurs to me then that Maddie went through this. Maddie went through almost exactly this, where she sat huddled, waiting, bracing herself for bad news. And she was alone. I almost feel sympathy for her, except…

Maddie caused this. Maddie and her loneliness and her stupid texts. And me, my response to them. And Lewis…
all of us.
A sob escapes me and I press my fist to my lips.

Lewis’s head is bowed. “He’ll be okay,” he half-mumbles, but he doesn’t sound the way he usually does, so relaxed, so certain. And I know that Lewis isn’t certain, that neither of us can be, and I’m not at all sure that Josh, or any of us, will ever be okay again.

After an endless half-hour the doctor on call comes into the waiting room. He looks tired and haggard and serious, too serious for good news. Lewis and I blink at him, terrified and silent.

Now
we are silent.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s not good news.” I tune him out. I have to; I simply cannot listen to this. I hear words floating by me, tossed out like so much flotsam.
Vegetative state. Very little brain function. Without oxygen for too long.

No,
I think.
No.
An hour ago Josh was yelling at us, tears streaking down his face. A day ago he was doing a puzzle. A week ago I took him out of Burgdorf. No. This is not right.
This is not right.
A nine-year-old boy, even a quiet, shy nine-year-old, does not try to kill himself. He does not succeed.

The doctor withdraws, and I don’t know what he said. I turn to Lewis to help me understand, and I see tears streaking silently down his face.

“
Lewis…
”

“Do you know,” he says, his voice shaking, “it was a bowline.”

I stare at him blankly. “What…?”

“The knot he used to—to hang himself. It was a bowline.” His shoulders start to shake. “I taught him that, Jo. I
showed him how
.”

“Oh, Lewis.” Something in me breaks right open then, and all the worry and fear I’ve felt spills out, useless, so unnecessary. I put my arms around him, comforting him in a way I never have before, because he never seemed to need it. I thought he was the strong one, but he needs me now. He needed me all along. I rest my cheek against his back as his body shakes with the force of his sobs. I can’t think about Josh yet. I can’t begin to accept what the doctor said.

I close my eyes and hold on to Lewis.

We sleep at the hospital, in chairs in Josh’s rooms, slumped against one another. Josh lies in bed, looking very still and peaceful except for the livid red line around his neck. A machine beeps gently, almost a calming sound, letting us know that his heart rate is steady. Nothing is changing.

I doze in and out all night, coming to consciousness with a jerk as reality crashes over me. I stare at Josh and shake my head, still unable to accept this new, terrifying reality. I feel like someone is going to walk in and say “Cut”. The take will be over, the sad family drama we’re filming for Hallmark wrapped up. And I’ll go back to my life, the life I realize now I took for granted . The life I had that was so precious and good. Why didn’t I see that? Why didn’t I enjoy what I had, instead of always being so afraid I’d lose it?

Dawn breaks over the city, cold and gray. Lewis wakes up and goes to get us both coffees. I sit by Josh and hold his hand. His skin is cool, his hand limp. I study his face, noting the way his lashes brush his cheeks. His lips are pursed the way they are when he’s thinking. Then I see the muscles under his eyelids twitch and I jerk forward, watching him, hoping…

“He moved,” I say when a nurse comes in to check on him. She eyes me with obvious sympathy. “His eyelids twitched—really! I saw it.”

“That can happen,” she says quietly. “It’s not indicative of significant brain function.”

I hate her words. I hate
her.
I swallow hard and turn away.

Lewis comes back with the coffees and we sip in silence, both of us watching Josh. I don’t think either of us wants to speak, to say or suggest what will happen now. If I could live in this moment for the rest of my life I would, awful as it is. I don’t want to go forward. I don’t want to
know.

“I’m sorry, Jo,” Lewis finally says. “This is all my fault.”

“No,” I answer quickly, because it isn’t, I know it isn’t, and Lewis can’t bear the burden for this alone. No one can. “It’s my fault for reading the texts on your phone.” I take a shuddering breath. “For confronting you about them in that way.” The words burn my throat. I close my eyes against more tears.

“It’s my fault that there were texts in the first place,” Lewis says in a low voice. “This whole thing with Maddie…it was nothing, Jo. I swear it. It was one evening, one kiss. I know that’s not nothing, but in light of what we have together, it
was.
It was nothing.”

I believe him, but it’s too late. We are here, in this awful place, and Josh lies before us, inert, unresponsive. It is too late for all of us to make it all get better or go away. To move on

The day passes in a blur. We sit, we wait, we hold Josh’s hands. Doctors come and go, checking on him but leaving us alone, which I decide is a good thing. I can’t bear to hear their words, more grim prognoses. And maybe something will happen. Maybe Josh will wake up, just like Ben woke up. He was in a coma, wasn’t he? Josh can come out of this. He
can.

Because I can’t believe I am going to lose my child. Again.

In the late afternoon Lewis says we should go home and change. We’re both sweaty, dirty, in rumpled clothes that we’ve been wearing two days straight. I don’t want to leave Josh, but there has been no change for nearly twenty-four hours and so I go.

Back at the apartment Lewis and I move around like sleepwalkers, taking turns in the shower, changing into clean clothes.

Lewis says we should eat, and I slump on the sofa while he orders something. I can’t imagine eating; I can’t imagine doing anything ever again. The mundane minutiae of life, eating, dressing, cleaning, working, suddenly feel overwhelming, like scaling mountain after mountain with no end, no relief, in sight.