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7 MADDIE

That night I get another text from Lewis: I heard about Ben. I’m so sorry.

I stare at the words, torn between feeling pathetically grateful that he’s finally reached out to me, and angry that it’s just a text. After all the time we’ve spent together, the four of us, after what has happened to Ben, the hugeness of it, he sends one measly text?

Then another comes through: What can I do?

And I have no idea how to answer that question. I know what I want him to do, what I wish he wanted to do, and I know none of it is possible. But I can’t text him back, telling him things are fine, that he’s not needed. Because he is. He is. So I slip the toss phone aside without texting anything.

I hardly sleep that night. The silence stretches around me, worse than any noise Ben ever made. Lying there alone makes me realize how much noise Ben usually makes. Even at night, when he is sleeping, he is loud. He snores; he sighs; he tosses and turns. With only a few feet and one paper-thin wall between us, I hear everything.

Now I wish I could hear those noises that annoyed me so much. I wish I could hear Ben’s dirty clothes being tossed on the floor, cereal being scattered across the kitchen counter as he helps himself to a late night snack. I wish I could be hassling him to take a shower, to turn off the TV, to speak in an inside voice. Except I wouldn’t hassle him at all. I would hug him and tell him how much I loved him, how important he was to me. Because I know now I didn’t say that nearly enough.

A little after five I finally get up, having only dozed for an hour or two at most. My eyes are gritty, my body aching, and I feel light-headed with fatigue. I still haven’t answered Lewis’s text. I wish he hadn’t asked me; I wish he’d simply acted. I wish he’d dropped everything and come racing to the hospital for me, for Ben. But he didn’t, and I know he won’t. It was never like that between us, except in my head, in the forbidden fantasies I indulged in every so often, because that’s all I’ve ever had. Fantasies.

I shower and dress and am just locking the front door when the door to the apartment next to mine opens, and my neighbor steps out, bumping into my shoulder hard.

“Oh, sorry,” he exclaims. “No one’s usually out here at this time in the morning. Are you okay?”

I rub my shoulder and nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.” My neighbor is a runner. I’ve never learned his name in the five or so years he’s been in the building, but I’ve secretly nicknamed him Spandex Man for the impressive amount of Lycra running gear he wears when he goes out for a jog. He has the lean, kind of stringy build of the diehard runner, and his brown hair is cut short so it is bristly on top. We’ve never spoken beyond a few murmured pleasantries about the weather when we’ve shared the elevator.

Now he raises his eyebrows at me and nods towards my door. “You’re on your own?”

I nod, swallow hard. “Yes.”

“I just meant your son,” he clarifies as we walk toward the elevator. “He’s not with you.”

It shouldn’t surprise me that my neighbor knows I have a son; we’ve shared the elevator often enough, after all. He’s probably seen Ben and me go into our apartments dozens of times. It’s just that we’ve never really talked.

The elevator doors ping open and we both step inside. At a little after six in the morning it is empty except for the two of us.

“No, he’s not with me,” I say, and then to both my horror and shame, my mouth trembles and I can feel my expression wobbling as tears fill my eyes. Spandex Man’s face slackens in shock. I try to blink back the tears but it’s too late for that. They spill down my cheeks and I dash them away quickly.

“Sorry,” I mutter as I drag my sleeve across my face. “Sorry, it’s just that it’s been a really hard couple of days.”

I’m trying to get myself under control, but I feel like I’ve taken my finger out of the plughole in the dam of my emotions, and there’s no releasing the floodtide of feeling. The tears keep coming, and my shoulders start to shake. A raw, animal sound of pain escapes from my mouth. I am mortified.

The doors ping open again and an unsmiling woman in a severe brown trouser suit comes in. She takes one look at me and her whole body goes rigid. I am breaking so many unwritten New Yorker rules. You don’t fall apart in front of your neighbors, in an elevator. Definitely not in a building like mine. Elevators are for silence and staring straight ahead.

Spandex Man angles his body so I’m shielded from the woman, and I am grateful for his sensitivity even if I can tell he is almost as appalled as she is by my behavior. At least he is trying to hide it. He pats my shoulder once, awkwardly, and says, “Hey…hey.”

The doors open again and the woman hightails it out of the elevator. She’s out of the building before the doors have even closed again. I shuffle to the side of the lobby, all black granite and mirrors and shiny chrome, and wipe my face again. A few shuddering breaths later I’m starting to get myself under control. And Spandex Man is still there.

“Sorry,” I say again, and he frowns.

“Look, I know probably everyone is asking you this, but is there anything I can do?”

Just like Lewis asked. But I still don’t have an answer. “I don’t think so,” I say. “My son fell two days ago, on the playground at school. He’s in a coma.”

Spandex Man’s face slackens. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s a medically induced coma,” I explain quickly, as if this makes it better. “To help his brain to heal. They might start waking him up today.”

“That’s really tough,” he says, and I can tell he means it.

“Thanks. I’m sorry I fell apart back there.” I nod toward the bank of elevators. “I’m running on zero sleep and I’m pretty strung out.”

“It’s understandable,” he says and I take a step backwards. Time to restore some normality. Some distance.

“So, thanks,” I say again and then with a little goodbye wave, I turn and walk out of the building.

At the hospital Dr. Velas is waiting for me, with a group of nurses and specialists. We all crowd into Dr. Velas’s office and she goes through the next phase of Ben’s care: they are going to slowly start taking him off the medications that have kept him in a coma, and monitor his responses. If he experiences any distress, they will return to the earlier dosage and wait until he is stable again.

“We have to take this slowly, Maddie,” she tells me. “This isn’t Sleeping Beauty or Snow White, where a single kiss wakes someone up. Coming out a coma is a long, slow process.”

“And when he comes out of it?” I ask. Slow or not, I need to know what happens next. I want to be prepared.

“We will start to assess his capabilities. And then we’ll begin rehabilitation.” She pauses. “But let’s take one thing at a time. If he opens his eyes in the next forty-eight hours, that would be great.”

Disappointment swamps me. If he opens his eyes? That’s a lot slower than I expected, despite Dr. Velas’s warnings. I knew this was going to be a long haul, but the realization overwhelms me anyway.

“Okay,” I say, and I try to smile.

I set up a mini-office in a corner of the waiting room; there are a couple of other people there who look as tired and careworn as I do. We share weary, sympathetic smiles but we don’t engage. I can’t handle someone else’s story right now. I can cope with only so much pain.

For the next couple of hours I answer work emails; Elena has appointed a junior associate, Evan, to cover my work and he’s been firing queries at me since he started. Clearly he doesn’t get the concept of compassionate leave.

I don’t like my job and haven’t for years, but I’ve never had the luxury to consider retraining. I have zero savings beyond what I put aside for Ben’s tuition and no safety net. And the thought of someone doing my job for me, taking my place, is yet another thing that scares me. They can’t lay me off, I tell myself. I’m allowed compassionate leave. They can’t just fire me.

In any case, I’m only on my third day of the ten vacation days I haven’t yet taken. I have a week left to think about my options. For Ben to get better.

Around ten o’clock I get a call on my cell from Burgdorf. Maybe Mrs. James finally has some answers.

Taking a deep breath, I answer the phone. “Hello?”

“Ms. Reese?”

“Yes.”

“I wanted to update you on what happened on the playground,” she says, and my hand tenses around my cell.

“Yes?”

“I spoke to Mrs. Rollins yesterday and discovered that she had talked to some of the children who were on the playground when Ben fell.” A pause, and I can tell she’s considering her words carefully. “It appears Ben might have been pushed by another student.”

“Pushed?”

“Apparently they were having an argument.”

That doesn’t really surprise me, because Ben is always annoying other kids, elbowing them out of the way, shouting in their face. But I don’t like the thought that she might be blaming Ben. “Where was he pushed?” I ask. “How did he fall? What did he hit his head on?”

“I don’t yet know the answers to those questions—”

“A report must have been filed,” I cut across her, my voice sharp. I feel like Mrs. James is keeping something back, and I want to know what it is.

“I’ve looked at the report,” she says. “It says Ben fell from the climbing structure.” Which was what I had expected, but why didn’t Mrs. James tell me this earlier? Why didn’t Juliet tell me? Mrs. James continues briskly, “I can assure you, we have dealt with the matter. The student in question is being suspended for a week. Any further acts of aggression will result in expulsion.”

“Okay.” I feel slightly heartened that they’re taking this seriously, even as I recognize the double standard in play. Ben has committed a few acts of aggression during his time at Burgdorf, and thankfully he’s never been suspended. But clearly this is a more serious matter. Accident or not, Ben’s life has been changed. So has mine. Someone needs to pay the price besides me and Ben, even if it’s just some nameless kid.

“Of course, if there is anything else we can do…” Mrs. James says, trailing off delicately. “How is Ben?” I hear a slight nervous note in her tone, and I think she realizes she should have asked this earlier.

“They’re going to attempt to bring him out of the coma soon,” I say. “So hopefully in a few days we’ll know how much damage his brain has sustained.” I manage to say this without my voice wobbling.

“That’s good news,” Mrs. James says with more warmth than I’ve ever heard in her voice before, and I wonder how that could be considered good news. We don’t actually know anything yet.

“Yes, well.” I clear my throat. “We’ll see.”

With a few more pleasantries Mrs. James ends the call, and I sit there, the phone in my lap, wondering why I feel like I am still missing information. Why didn’t Juliet tell me Ben fell from the climbing structure? She must have been involved in the accident report. Or did the paramedics just assume? Did someone else see Ben fall?

What don’t I know?

After lunch I sit with Ben for a while and study his face for signs that he is swimming towards consciousness. The machines beep and his breathing is faint but even. He still seems deeply asleep, with no movement, not even a flicker under his eyelids.

How can this man-boy of mine, who has so much irrepressible energy, who has driven me crazy because he is always bouncing and careening around, be so incredibly still? Sitting there I tell myself if Ben comes out of this, when Ben comes out of this, I will never begrudge him his hyperactivity, his endless energy. I will never scold him for knocking into furniture or kicking his ball in the apartment or shouting inside. Never.

But then maybe I won’t get the chance.

At six o’clock that evening I get a meal courtesy of Juliet, a Styrofoam carton of chicken Marsala with angel hair pasta. It smells delicious, and yet I can’t make myself eat it. She can send me meals, but she won’t call or visit, and I need a friend, not a meal service. She texted me once today: hope there’s good news. I didn’t text back.

I give the meal to the nurse on duty. The ward has started to quiet down. The night nurse switches off overhead lights and it almost feels peaceful. Peaceful but lonely. I ache with loneliness, with the need to share what I am going through with someone. For a second I imagine a husband, my husband, coming in the room and putting his hand on my shoulder, rubbing my neck. Letting me lean into his strength. I imagine someone being there who loves Ben like I do, who is as invested and frightened and emotionally exhausted as I am. But there is only emptiness around me.

I sit by Ben’s bedside until ten o’clock, when I decide to go home for the night. The nurse on duty promises she’ll call me if anything changes, good or bad.

Outside it is dark, this area of midtown shut down for the night. A few taxicabs cruise the near-empty streets, but I ignore them and start walking.

I am just turning into my street when I get another text, and my heart lurches to see it is from Lewis.

How are you doing?

Not great, I text back. Pretty awful, actually.

How’s Ben? he texts, and as I don’t want to launch into a lengthy explanation via text, I just type, Still in a coma.

Which hospital? Lewis texts back, and my heart lifts. Maybe he’ll visit. Finally.

But when I text back Mount Sinai Roosevelt, I get no response. I walk into my building and get in the elevator, and my phone remains dark and silent even as I stare at it, willing it to light up with an incoming text from Lewis.

It’s almost eleven by the time I reach my apartment. I dread its quiet solitude, even though I once would have reveled in a Ben-free evening. The thought makes tears sting my eyes. How could I have been so selfish? Because I recognize that now; I have not been a great mother to Ben. Perhaps I haven’t even been a good mother.

I’ve been tired and cranky and overwhelmed, struggling to figure out to handle this boy of mine who is so different from me in so many ways. He doesn’t even look like me, with his sandy brown hair and big, gangly frame. I am petite and dark-eyed, dark-haired. In another year or two, God willing, Ben will be taller than me.

I am just fitting the key into the lock when the door next to mine opens, and Spandex Man stands there. He’s not in spandex now, and I realize I’ve never seen him in casual clothes. Running clothes, yes, and the snazzy suits he wears to work. He has a slightly ostentatious gold and silver Rolex and in the confines of the elevator his aftershave, although not unpleasant, can seem overpowering at seven o’clock in the morning.

Now he just wears faded jeans and a gray t-shirt. His feet are bare.

“Hey.” He gives me an uncertain, lopsided smile. “How are things? Has your son started to wake up?”

It touches me, way more than it should, that he’s taken the time to come out of his apartment and ask. I shake my head. “No, not yet. But he’s not reacting badly to the reduced medication, so…” I shrug and spread my hands, unable to say any more, or offer some optimism I don’t really feel. I am so, so tired.

“Maybe tomorrow, then?” Spandex Man says hopefully, and I shrug again.

“I have no idea. The doctors don’t deal in promises.”

“If they did, they’d make a ton more money,” he says, and I manage a smile. He winces. “Sorry, that was a lame joke, especially considering…”

“I’m not made of glass,” I say, even though I feel like I am. Broken glass. “I can handle a joke.” At least I think I can. I want to be able to. I want to be normal again, even in just some small way.

“It’s hard to know what to say in these situations,” he says. “When my mom died people avoided me rather than have to deal with the awkwardness.”

I think of Juliet. Is that what her staying away is about? Awkwardness? “When did your mom die?”

“I was seventeen. She had cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs it off. “It was a long time ago.” He braces his shoulder against the frame of his front door. “But how are you doing? How are you coping?”

“Coping is the right word, I guess. It’s not easy. I don’t…I don’t have any backup.” I give him a quick, tense smile, because I’m sure he’s wondering why that is. “Ben’s dad isn’t in the picture.” And then I feel like I’ve said too much. I see a change on Spandex Man’s face, a discomfort, and I turn back to my door. “Anyway, thanks for asking.” I push open the door. “I appreciate it. But it’s late and I’m really tired. So…”

He nods and steps back into his apartment. “Let me know how it goes with Ben,” he says. “If you want to, that is.”

I nod, and then we both close our doors. My phone buzzes, but it’s just a reminder for a dentist appointment next week. And as I stand there alone in my darkened apartment, I realize that this is the most emotional support I’ve received from anyone since this happened, and I don’t even know his name.