Kate Hewitt - When He Fell

“What doesn’t feel right is that stupid headmistress,” Lewis retorts. “There has to be a reason why she’s coming down so hard on Josh.”

“Do you think Maddie Reese is pressuring her into it?” I don’t know Maddie at all. I’ve only met her a few times, all of them hurried occasions. My impression was of a petite, put-together woman who seemed reserved, a bit cool.

“Maddie wouldn’t do that,” Lewis says definitively, and I remember him saying I know Maddie . How well does he know Maddie? And how come? Just through Ben, through the play dates he and Josh have had, the pick ups and drop offs?

I sink slowly into the sofa. I don’t want to pursue that line of thought. Not now, not on top of everything else. “Why, then?” I ask and Lewis doesn’t answer for a long moment.

“I don’t know,” he finally says. “I feel like there’s something Mrs. James is not telling us. Something she’s hiding.”

“What could she be hiding?”

“I don’t know,” Lewis says again.

I sigh as weariness crashes over me. I’ve missed an entire afternoon of scheduled appointments. “And now Josh is off school for a week.”

Lewis shakes his head. “He’s not going back to Burgdorf.”

“What?” I stare at him. “Lewis, where else is he going to go?”

Lewis clamps his jaw. “Anywhere else.”

“You think we can get him into another private school in October?” I ask in disbelief. “You think he’ll thrive in some kind of cutthroat academic environment?”

“Public school, then.”

“We’re zoned for PS 84. You remember what we learned about that?”

“Test scores aren’t everything, Jo.”

I’m sure there are plenty of people who would say PS 84 is a very good school. It probably is a very good school, at least for Manhattan. But only a third of their students were proficient or better in both math and reading when tested in third grade. There are thirty-four kids in a class with one teacher.

That is not the place for Josh.

“Lewis,” I say and he gives a twitchy kind of shrug.

“We can figure something out. Homeschool him if we have to.”

“ Homeschool? And how on earth are we going to do that when we both work? Besides, homeschooling is the last thing Josh needs. He needs to be around people, to be drawn out—”

“Do you really think he was drawn out at Burgdorf?”

“ Yes . He’s been happy there, Lewis. Look at the way he’s opened up. He did a research project on Legos and he loved it. He gets fact books out of their library and memorizes them—”

“He can get fact books out of a local library, Jo.”

“Burgdorf is good for him,” I say firmly. “Do you remember what preschool was like?” We are both silent, recalling the year-long hell of Josh’s selective mutism. “This will blow over,” I say and Lewis lets out a hard laugh.

“You really think so? And what about Ben? If he really does have a serious brain injury…” He sinks into a chair, raking both his hands through his hair. “Poor Ben. I should call Maddie.”

Again I feel that shivery apprehension. “Yes,” I say, and rise from the sofa. “You should call Maddie.”

I go to Josh’s room, knocking softly on the door behind I open it and come inside. Josh is sitting by the window, at the little table and chairs set we got him when he was a toddler. He’s far too big for them now, and his knees are practically up by his chin. He’s studying one of his many Lego books; as I come to stand behind him I see he’s looking at an intricate design of a spaceship. It needs over a thousand pieces to be completed.

Inadvertently I glance at the many bins of Legos we’ve bought for Josh over the years, in every color, shape, and size. He’s never played with them. He just looks at the books and memorizes facts, but he won’t actually build anything. I think it frustrated Lewis the most; construction was something he could share with his son. But both of us have long ago stopped suggesting Josh use the Legos. He’s seemed happy with his facts and his books.

“Hey, Josh,” I say, and I cram myself into one of the little chairs. “How are you doing?” He shrugs. “I’m sorry about all this. I know it doesn’t feel fair. It isn’t fair.” He simply stares at the spaceship design and I take a deep breath. “Will you tell me what happened? Between you and Ben? You say you weren’t fighting, and I believe you. But did you push him?” No answer. “Whatever happened, Josh,” I tell him steadily, “we love you. Dad and I will always love you, no matter what. Nothing will ever change that.” I take another deep breath and rest my hand on his shoulder. He feels so small and vulnerable beneath my hand. “We want to help you. And to help you, we need to understand.” I pause. “Did you push Ben?” I ask in a slow, clear voice.

Slowly, so slowly, Josh nods. His eyes fill with tears and he lowers his head, his chin jutting his chest as he gives a loud sniff. “Oh, Josh.” Tears prick my eyes as I pull him into a hug; he doesn’t resist and I rest my chin on his head, his body melting into mine. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I know you didn’t mean to. I know it was an accident.” My heart aches as I think how he has been trying to bear this alone. “I know you must be worried about Ben,” I tell him, my arms still snugly around him. “Maybe we can visit him in the hospital. We can call his mom, at least, and see how he’s doing. I’ll ask Dad—”

Josh wriggles out of my grasp. “No,” he says, and his voice is firm, startling me with its tone of finality. “No,” he says again, and then he turns back to his Lego book.

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.