And Then He Fell. Кейт Хьюит

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.