LITMIR.BIZ

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are cringingly, shamefully lame. And I don’t understand why Juliet is failing me like this, because I’ve always considered her a good friend.

      I don’t have a lot of experience with friends of any kind, but I’ve known Juliet for ten years, since Ben and Emma were babies. For the last three years she has treated me to a ticket to the school’s annual charity gala, and made sure I sit at her table. She’s given me her castoff clothes even though they’re not my style at all. They’re still good quality. She’s had me over for Thanksgiving when they’re in the city and she knows I have nowhere to go. Why didn’t she call me when she knew my son was in the ER, in a coma?

      “He’s going to be okay, though,” she says, and her tone is deliberately upbeat. Maybe she’s trying to mimic Burgdorf’s environment of positivity, but I feel none of it now.

      “I have no idea,” I tell her flatly. “The doctor told me the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are critical.” I pause. “As to whether he lives or dies.”

      “Oh, Maddie…” Juliet’s voice is like the cry of a small animal, as if I’ve hurt her with this information, and suddenly I can’t take any more.

      “I have to go,” I say abruptly, and I hang up. I walk back from the little waiting room to the doors of Ben’s room—a journey I already feel I’ve made a thousand times—and peer in the window. Ben is still restless and agitated, his body jerking spasmodically as the doctors and nurses attempt to subdue him. I can’t bear to see him like this, and yet I can’t look away either. All I can do is wait.

      Wait and wonder, because as I replay the conversation with Juliet something doesn’t feel right. Juliet would call me. She’s the type of person who calls, who cares.

      Why didn’t she see how Ben fell? Why didn’t she give me any details at all?

      I can’t help Ben now, and so I focus on what happened. On finding out what happened. I call Juliet again. She answers after the fourth ring, her voice a little wary.

      “Maddie?”

      “I just want some details,” I burst out. “About how it happened. Was it on Heckscher Playground?”

      “Yes…you know that’s where they go for recess when it’s nice out.”

      “Where was he? On the climbing structure? Or the swings—”

      “I…I’m not sure.”

      “But if you were on duty,” I persist, trying to keep my voice reasonable, “you were looking. You must have some idea.”

      Juliet hesitates. I can hear her breathing, and for some reason it makes me angry. “On the climbing structure,” she finally says. “I think.”

      You think? I bite the words back. “Okay,” I answer, managing to keep my voice even. “Okay. Thanks.” And then I hang up.

      I feel prickly with suspicion, with hurt. Juliet saw my son fall, or at least was there when it happened. She saw him taken away in an ambulance. Why didn’t she call me? I don’t understand how she could be so callous. Ballet exams.

      I press my fists to my gritty eyes. I met Juliet in a mother and babies group, when Ben and Emma were both eight weeks old. I went to save my sanity, because dealing with a fussy, disgruntled baby in my box of an apartment all on my own for twelve hours a day was testing the limits of my endurance. Juliet was there, looking beatific and Botticellian, nursing her chubby, pink-skinned daughter with an ease that I was too tired to envy.

      Juliet took me under her wing that first day; she told me about cabbage leaves for sore boobs—I just smiled, since Ben was firmly on the bottle by then—and how it was okay to still be wearing maternity jeans. “The fourth trimester,” she said cheerfully. She looked beautiful with her long, curly golden-brown hair, her generous, unapologetic figure, her expensive yet careless clothes. She basked in motherhood, reveled in it, while I sat there clutching Ben as if he was a stick of dynamite that had been super-glued to my fingers.

      Juliet has guided me through the choppy waters of motherhood ever since then, always offering me the latest advice on healthy snacks and limiting screen time and intelligent play; I don’t really take any of it on board but I appreciate her earnestness. She popped out two more babies while I struggled alone with Ben, and I watched from afar as she took her growing brood on holidays to Florida and the south of France. I was never jealous, or at least not that jealous. Our lives were too far apart for me to envy her penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue, or the succession of au pairs, nannies, and aides that paraded through her household ‘just to give her a little help’, or even her silver-haired hedge fund manager husband Bruce, who worked fourteen-hour days and still was a doting dad.

      No, I didn’t envy her any of that, at least not more than was natural, because I knew if I let myself I’d drown in a sea of jealousy. I’d destroy myself by wanting what I knew I could never have, and I’m smart enough—mostly—to keep myself from that toxic cycle.

      But I still wish now that she’d called me. It makes me wonder why she didn’t, and then it occurs to me that no one from Burgdorf has called me. Ben has been a student there for three years, since first grade, and not one person has reached out. Not even Mrs. James, who knows I’m here. The insensitivity of it, for a school that prides itself on being so caring, burns. Don’t any of them care about me, about Ben?

      Ben. Just this morning he was bouncing around the apartment, kicking his soccer ball against the doorway even though it annoys my neighbor on the left, a single woman with a boyfriend I suspect is married to someone else. I know the signs.

      I yelled at him for kicking his soccer ball, and as I bolted a cup of coffee and stuffed a browning banana into his lunchbox, I relented and let him go on his DS for five minutes before we left for school. I am always relenting.

      Did we talk on the way to school? I search my memory, trying to conjure up some meaningful conversation when in my heart I know there wasn’t one. I might have scolded Ben, told him to slow down or keep up or not to jump up and try to touch the tops of the street signs because someone knew someone who lost a finger that way. But we didn’t talk. Sometimes I wonder if we ever do.

      And when he went into school? I try to picture the moment; me standing on the sidewalk on Fifty-Fourth Street, not even hiding the fact that I am checking my phone, that I am worried about getting to work on time.

      Did I watch Ben go in through the double doors? Burgdorf is in an old office building in midtown but they’ve tried to make it look more child-friendly. They painted the doors bright blue and they hung a banner outside, with the school’s logo: three blue interconnecting circles that symbolize heart, hand, and mind.

      As I search my memory now I acknowledge the hard truth: I didn’t watch him go through the doors. I didn’t even wave goodbye. I have a horrible feeling that I was already turning around, walking in the other direction before he’d even gone inside.

      The night stretches on and Ben starts to storm again; Dr. Stein tells me this but advises me not to look in the window. I swallow hard, because I don’t want to imagine what my son is doing that I shouldn’t witness, and yet I do. Of course I do.

      Sometime around dawn they settle him again and I finally get an update. If Ben can remain stable today, without any more storming episodes, they will transfer him to the neurology department tomorrow morning. Next they will see if he can breathe without the ventilator and then, in a few days, ‘all things going well’, they will attempt to take him out of the induced coma. That’s the best case scenario.

      “And then,” Dr. Stein says, “we’ll begin to assess how much trauma his brain has sustained.”

      Which is something I’m desperately afraid to discover. Dr. Stein briefly lays a hand on my shoulder.

      “This might be a good time to recharge yourself,” he says. “Get a cup of coffee or better yet, a meal. Go home for a few hours.”

      I blink at him in near-incomprehension.

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