When He Fell (20 page)

16
JOANNA

Lewis and I don’t discuss the appointment with Will Dannon beyond what we said in the street. This is not surprising to me; in the six years since it happened, neither of us has ever brought up our separation or what caused it. When Lewis came back after three weeks, he stood in the doorway while I clutched Josh to my chest and tried not to cry.

Lewis dropped his duffel bag with a thud. “I’m back,” he said. “I shouldn’t have gone.”

I let out a shuddering breath of relief and bowed my head as tears slipped silently down my face. Lewis came inside and Josh scrambled off my lap and ran to him. And we all moved on.

Yet now I find myself thinking about that time more and more. I wonder if Josh really was affected the way Will seems to think he was. I wonder if we should have talked about it, exorcised the memories that still hold the power to hurt me, and maybe hurt Josh too.

After all these years, I haven’t let go of the hurt. I don’t think about it; I pretend it’s all forgotten. But now, as I remember, the pain rips the old wounds open and the anger bleeds and burns.

But do I really want to rake all that up with Lewis? Do I want to deal with all that mess? I’m afraid if we do, Lewis might leave me again, and I couldn’t bear that.

The days slip by and I observe Josh covertly; he’s eating his meals, practicing his knots—they seem to have taken the place of Lego books—and doing his homework. I tell myself that he is okay, even though I’m not sure I believe it. I sit with him at bedtime and chat about knots and Lego and meaningless trivia, wanting to make things feel normal for both of us.

My father calls to tell me he’s made appointments for him and my mother. Two separate appointments, on separate days, so I will have to come to Danbury twice. I close my eyes at this realization, and make arrangements to go.

“Don’t you think we have enough to be going on with?” Lewis asks one Monday night, after Josh is in bed. I am stacking dishes in the dishwasher and he is paying bills.

“Yes, I do, but these are my parents, Lewis, and I told you before, I want to be there for them.”

“Even though they’ve never been there for you?”

I close my eyes. “Yes.”

He sighs wearily. “I don’t mean to sound unkind. But I don’t want you to be hurt by them all over again, Jo.”

Over the last fifteen years Lewis has witnessed my parents’ little rejections and how they’ve hurt me: the bland picture frame they sent when Josh was born, rather than visiting; the delicate suggestion that we stay at a hotel rather than with them when we visited; the condo they bought that didn’t allow children to stay overnight. Pinpricks of hurt, but eventually, with enough pin pricks, you can bleed to death.

I gaze at Lewis now, trying to work up the courage to talk about the hurt he’s caused me. The little wounds that still bleed. I want to ask him the questions I never dared to six years ago, and yet just like our son, I am silent.

Lewis rises from the table and puts the checkbook away, and the moment has passed. When it comes to Lewis, I know I am a coward. I can’t risk losing him.

Two days later I take the train to Danbury, a taxi to my parents’ condo, and then drive them to Danbury Hospital for my mother’s appointment with the memory clinic. My head is aching as I wait with my mother while my father stands at the desk and fills out a ream of forms. The room is half-filled with elderly people in various stages of dementia; some look completely normal and self-possessed, but others are accompanied by carers or children, people who clearly need to manage them. The room smells like disinfectant and old age.

“This is ridiculous,” my mother huffs as she watches my father flip through the paperwork on a clipboard. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Just in case, Mom,” I say wearily. To my surprise she reaches over and takes hold of my hand. Her own hand feels cold and claw-like, and the sensation of actually touching my mother is strange. She has never been one for physical affection, and I am moved that she needs me now, even though she hasn’t for the last forty-one years, hasn’t seemed all that interested in me. I keep holding her hand.

Eventually they go into the doctor’s office, and I wait. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes. I am so tired. I don’t have the energy to worry about my mother. I am already worried about Josh, about Lewis, about my marriage. And what about Ben? I suppose I should be worried about him too. Perhaps I really should visit Maddie again.

My parents return after an hour; my mother is pale and fractious, my father silent and mutinous. I stand, look inquiringly at the doctor, but he’s talking to my father.

“See you Thursday,” he says and I blink.
Wait. What?

“What did he mean, Thursday?” I ask my father as we leave the clinic.

“There’s a support group for people suffering from memory loss or dementia. The doctor thinks it would be helpful for your mother to go.”

“A support group? At the hospital?” He nods. “How are you going to get there? A taxi?”
Why am I even asking?

My father juts his jaw, reminding me strangely of Lewis at his most stubborn. “You could drive us.”

“Dad, I have a
job.
And a family.”

“We’re your family, Joanna.”

I stare at him, disbelief and anger—no, rage—rising up in me so I can barely speak. The pinpricks of hurt are open now, bleeding freely. “You haven’t acted like my family,” I say in a voice that vibrates with anger.

My father jerks back a little. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Does he really not get it? Does he not look back and see all the years I was shuttled into childcare, ignored as a teen, and then rejected when I married the man I love? Does he not see any of it?

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say quietly. “You’ll have to take a taxi.” I am finally standing up for myself, but it doesn’t feel all that good. It feels like another loss.

When I get back to New York Lewis tells me he’s visiting Maddie the next night. His voice is casual, almost dismissive, but I can’t handle this information on top of everything else.

“Why do you need to see her again?” I ask, my voice coming out more querulously than I mean it to. Josh looks up from his homework, his expression turning alert. I smile reassuringly at him before I turn back to Lewis.

“It’s just,” I say as mildly as I can, “it would be nice to have an evening together.”

“We have every evening together,” Lewis answers, his voice as deliberately mild as mine. “Ben is being moved to a rehab facility in a few days. I want to check in with Maddie, make sure she’s okay.”

“I could go, too,” I say recklessly. “We all could. Josh hasn’t seen Ben—”

“No,” Josh says, and both Lewis and I turn to look at him.

“No?” Lewis repeats. “You don’t want to see Ben?” Josh shakes her head. “Why not?” Lewis asks, and his voice is still mild, but I see a trapped look come into Josh’s eyes and I tense.

“Lewis…”

“Why don’t you want to see your friend?” Lewis presses, his tone reasonable. “He’s doing better, Josh. I think it would make you feel better, to see how well Ben is getting on.”

Josh shakes his head, his gaze darting between Lewis and me as if he is at a tennis match, watching the ball. “No, I don’t want to see him.”

“Is that because you’re angry with him?” There is an edge to Lewis’s voice now. I hear it, and I think Josh does too. “Did something happen between you, that made the two of you fight?”

Josh shakes his head again, more insistently. “I told you, we weren’t fighting.”

“Then why did you push him, Josh?” Lewis demands. The question explodes out him, raw and angry. Josh blinks and jerks back a little. “Why did you push your best friend from the top of the rocks? Were you
trying
to hurt him?”

“Lewis,” I cry, a broken sound.

Josh stares down at his homework, his shaggy hair falling in front of his face. After a long, tense moment, Lewis blows out an impatient breath.

“I’m sorry for shouting, but you have to tell us at some point, Josh. We love you. We want to help you. But you have to tell us what happened.”

Josh looks up, his opaque gaze fastened on Lewis. “You know what happened,” he says, and it almost sounds like an accusation.

“What?” Lewis blinks. “Josh, what do you mean?”

“You
know
,” he shouts, and then he runs into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

The ensuing silence feels like the moment after an earthquake; everything has been reduced to rubble. “What did he mean, Lewis?” I ask, and too late I realize my words sound like an accusation too.

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Lewis retorts. “What do
you
think he meant?”

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I ask evenly, although inside I am trembling with terror. I don’t want to ask the question. I certainly don’t want to know the answer.

Lewis is silent for a moment. A long, terrible moment. “No,” he finally says, his voice firm. “Of course there isn’t.”

I don’t press him; I don’t have the strength right now. Instead I go into Josh’s room. He is on his bed, his head against the wall, his arms folded and his knees drawn up, his expression mutinous.

“Josh…”

“Are you angry at me?”

“No, of course not.” I sit down next to him on the bed. “And Dad isn’t, either. We’re just worried, Josh, and a little frustrated, if I’m honest. We want to help you, and we need to know what’s going on.” Josh doesn’t say anything. “What did you mean, that Dad knows?” I ask as gently as I can. “What does he know, Josh?”

Josh is silent for a long moment. “He knows why I pushed Ben.”

The words both chill and bewilder me. “He doesn’t think he knows, Josh. Couldn’t you tell him? Tell us?”

“No.” Josh juts his lower lip out and shakes his head. “He knows.”

And I can’t get anything more out of him.

The next evening Josh and I are sitting on the sofa, looking at a Lego book together, when Lewis leaves to visit Maddie. It feels wrong; it feels like he is abandoning us. No matter how many times I tell myself not to be paranoid, I can’t shake the growing sense that Lewis really is hiding something from me…and Josh knows it.

Lewis hesitates at the door, one hand on the knob. “I won’t be long,” he says, and there is a resolute note in his voice that makes my insides clench.

“Bye,” I say. Josh doesn’t say anything.

We turn the pages of the book together, examining the Lego creations carefully, as if we haven’t both seen them a thousand times before. It isn’t until a teardrop falls on the book that I realize I am crying.

I take a deep breath and will the other tears back. Josh cranes his head to look up at me, and I manage a wobbly smile.

“Hey, honey,” I say, and he puts his hand against my cheek.

“It’s okay, Mom,” he whispers. “It’s going to be okay now.”

I nod, sniff. “I know, Josh,” I say, even though I don’t. “I know.”

We turn back to the book but I don’t think either of us is really paying attention. I ache with the thought of Lewis keeping secrets, talking to Maddie, and it breaks me apart to know that my nine-year-old son has to comfort me.

Lewis doesn’t come home until eleven. I’m in bed by that time, staring up at the ceiling when I hear the door creak open.

“I’m awake,” I say flatly, as Lewis tiptoes across the room. He hesitates, and then lets out a sigh. “How was she?” I ask, and I cringe at how jealous and bitter I sound.

“She’s holding up,” Lewis answers neutrally. I hear the snick and slither of his clothing as he undresses in the dark. I roll over onto my side, my back to Lewis.

He slides into bed and to my surprise he reaches for me. I resist for a millisecond before I relax against his body. He wraps one arm around my middle, rests his chin on my shoulder so I can feel his breath fan my neck. I can smell the hospital on him, that cloying scent of antiseptic and medicine.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“For what, exactly?” I answer before I can think better of it.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have gone tonight,” he says after a moment. “Since both you and Josh seemed bothered by it.” Which makes me feel like it’s my fault. Mine and Josh’s. “It’s just that she’s alone,” Lewis continues, “and I feel guilty. It’s because of us that her son is the way he is.”

Us.
Not just Josh, but us. I think again of what Will said.
Children’s issues are almost always closely related to those of their parents.

”We have another appointment with Will Dannon tomorrow afternoon,” I say. Lewis’s arm tightens around me.

“Okay.”

I pause, and then I plunge ahead, my heart starting to thud. “I want to tell him about…about Josie.”

Lewis doesn’t say anything for a long, long moment. Then he brushes a kiss on my shoulder. “Okay,” he whispers.

17
MADDIE

It is nearly the end of November, four weeks since Ben’s accident, and Dr. Velas sits me down to discuss moving him to a rehabilitation facility up in Peekskill.

“How long will he be there?” I ask, even though I know Dr. Velas can’t give me a definite answer. But I’m scared of this next step; I’ve grown oddly comfortable in the neurology department. I know the nurses, and they know my son. The routine is familiar. I’ve even learned to like the hospital cafeteria’s coffee. I’m afraid to move Ben, to start on a new stage of this journey I never wanted to take in the first place.

“It’s impossible to say, as I’m sure you know,” Dr. Velas answers kindly. “But Ben is progressing well, Maddie. That’s what you need to focus on.”

I nod. We have different definitions of
well
. Ben is conscious for longer periods now, and he can communicate through blinking his eyes or squeezing my fingers. The first time he squeezed my fingers when I asked him if he wanted some music on, I thought it was a fluke. Then I put on
Uptown Funk
and his mouth twitched in something almost like a smile. My eyes filled with tears. I cry so much now, I feel like I should be dried out, a hollow husk of a person. But more tears always come.

But blinking his eyes or squeezing his fingers doesn’t feel like Ben is progressing
well.
He still cannot move his limbs beyond a few spasmodic jerks or twitches. He makes no sounds other than a low moan that tears at my heart. Sometimes, when Ben starts moaning, I have to leave the room. I can’t take it, and the thought that he must realize that, is agonizing to me.