Left Neglected

  “Because?” challenges Bob.

  “I can’t say.”

  Ms. Gavin stares at us and says nothing. I get it. I envision the policy memos stamped and signed by the school lawyers. No one is saying the words I think we’re all now thinking, Ms. Gavin for legal reasons, Bob and I because we’re talking about our little Charlie. My mother would be great at this conversation. Her next words would be about the nice weather we’re having or Ms. Gavin’s pretty pink shirt. But I can’t stand the unspoken tension.

  “Do you think he might have ADD or something?”

  “I’m not a physician. I can’t say that.”

  “But you think it.”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Then what the hell can you say?” asks Bob.

  I put my hand on Bob’s arm. This is going nowhere. Bob is gritting his teeth and is probably seconds away from walking out. I’m seconds away from shaking her and screaming, “This is my boy! Tell me what you think is wrong with him!” But my business school training kicks in and saves us all. Reframe the problem.

  “What can we do?” I ask.

  “Look, Charlie’s a sweet boy and he’s actually very smart, but he’s falling way behind, and the distance between him and the other kids will get worse if we do nothing. But nothing can happen fast enough here unless the parents initiate an evaluation. You have to ask for it in writing.”

  “Ask for what exactly?” asks Bob.

  I half listen while Ms. Gavin describes the red-tape-lined mountain climb to an Individualized Education Program. Special education. I remember when Charlie was born, checking him for all ten fingers and toes, studying his delicate pink lips and the conch-shell curviness of his ears. He’s perfect, I thought, amazed and grateful for his perfection. Now my perfect boy might have Attention Deficit Disorder. The two thoughts refuse to hold hands.

  Kids are going to label him. His teachers are going to label him. What did Ms. Gavin call him? Impulsive. The kids are going to throw names that are sharper and uglier than that at him. And they’re going to aim for his head.

  “I want him to see his pediatrician before we start doing anything here,” says Bob.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” says Ms. Gavin.

  Doctors give kids with ADD Ritalin. That’s an amphetamine, isn’t it? We’re going to drug our seven-year-old son so he doesn’t fall behind in school. The thought flushes the blood out of my brain, as if my circulation won’t support the idea, and my head and fingers go numb. Ms. Gavin keeps talking, but she sounds muffled and far away. I don’t want this problem or its solution.

  I want to hate Ms. Gavin for telling us any of this. But I see the sincerity in her eyes, and I can’t hate her. I know it’s not her fault. And I can’t hate Charlie. It’s not his fault either. But I feel hate, and it’s growing massive inside my chest and needs a place to go, or I’ll hate and blame myself. I look around the room for something—the innocent faces of the kids on the “Stellar Spellers” board, the painted hearts and moons and rainbows, the hamster running on its wheel. The hate stays trapped inside my chest, crushing my lungs. I have to get out of here.

  Bob thanks Ms. Gavin for informing us and promises that we’ll get Charlie whatever help he needs. I stand and shake her hand. I think I even smile at her, like I’ve enjoyed our conversation. How ridiculous. Then I notice her feet.

  In the hallway, after Ms. Gavin has shut the door to her room, Bob hugs me and then asks me if I’m okay.

  “I hate her shoes,” I say.

  Baffled by my answer, Bob decides not to ask any more questions of me at this point, and we walk to the gym in silence. Before the Bell is just about over, and the kids are lining up to go to their classrooms. After saying hello and good-bye to Lucy, Bob and I find Charlie in line.

  “Hey, bud, gimme five!” says Bob.

  Charlie slaps his hand.

  “Bye, honey, see you tonight. Do what Ms. Gavin says today, okay?” I ask.

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “Love you,” I say and hug him hard.

  The kids ahead of Charlie begin to walk, following one another in a line, inching out of the gym like a single caterpillar. The line breaks at Charlie, who doesn’t move.

  “Okay, bud, get going!” says Bob.

  Don’t fall behind, my perfect boy.

  CHAPTER 6

  Ricky’s mom, Mrs. Sullivan, tells us that the pool isn’t ready yet. Mr. Sullivan still needs to vacuum and backwash it. The water is cloudy and littered with rotten brown leaves and looks more like pond water than pool water, but we don’t care. It’s the first day of summer vacation, and we can’t wait for Mr. Sullivan.

  I find an orange water wing and pull it onto my left arm up to my scrawny bicep. I rummage through the trunk of floats and water toys but can’t find the other wing. I look up, and Nate is wearing it like it’s an elbow pad.

  “Give it,” I say, and I strip it off his arm.

  He usually throws a hissy fit whenever he doesn’t get what he wants, so I’m surprised that he just lets me do this. Maybe I’m finally getting the respect an older sister deserves. I slide the orange wing onto my other arm, and Nate finds a mask and a kickboard.

  I dip my big toe into the water and jump back.

  “It’s FREEZING!”

  “Baby,” says Ricky as he runs past me and cannonballs in.

  I wish I could be just like him, but the water’s too cold.

  I go up onto the deck and sit on the stretchy plastic slat chair next to Mom. Mom and Mrs. Sullivan are lying on cushioned lounge chairs angled toward the sun. They’re drinking cans of Tab and smoking Marlboro Lights, and they’re talking to each other with their eyes closed. Mom’s toenails are painted Hot Tamale Red. I wish I could be just like her.

  I pull off my water wings and turn my chair to face the sun, too. Mrs. Sullivan is complaining about her asshole husband, and I’m embarrassed to hear her say “Asshole” because I know it’s a swear word, and I would get slapped across the face if I said it. I’m careful not to make any noise or fidget because I think Mom doesn’t notice that I’m listening, and I feel embarrassed, but I want to hear more illegal words about Mr. Sullivan.

  Ricky shows up on the deck, teeth chattering.

  “I’m freezing.”

  “Told ya,” I say, stupidly blowing my cover.

  “Towels are in the bathroom. Go play Atari,” says Mrs. Sullivan. “You want to go inside, too, Sarah?”

  I shake my head.

  “She wants to stay with the girls. Right, honey?” Mom asks.

  I nod. She reaches over and pats my leg. I smile and feel special.

  Ricky goes into the house, Mom and Mrs. Sullivan talk, and I close my eyes and listen. But Mrs. Sullivan doesn’t say anything bad about Mr. Sullivan, and I get bored of listening, and I think maybe I will go inside and play Pac-Man, but Ricky’s probably playing Space Invaders, and I want to be one of the girls, so I stay.

  Then all of a sudden, Mom is screaming Nate’s name. I open my eyes, and she is screaming Nate’s name and running. I stand up to see what’s happening. Nate is floating facedown in the pool. At first I think it’s a trick, and I admire him for fooling us. Then Mom is in the pool with him, and he’s still pretending, and I think he’s mean for scaring her. Then Mom turns him over, and I see his closed eyes and blue lips, and I get scared for real, and my heart falls into my stomach.

  Mom carries Nate onto the grass and is making wild sounds I’ve never heard come out of a grown-up and is blowing into Nate’s mouth and begging Nate to wake up, but Nate is just lying there. I can’t look at Nate lying on the grass and Mom blowing into Nate’s mouth anymore, so I look down at my feet, and I see the orange water wings on the deck next to my chair.

  “Wake up, Nate!” Mom wails.

  I can’t look. I stare at my selfish feet and the orange water wings.

  “Wake up, Nate!”

  “Wake up!”

  “Sarah, wake up.”

  F R I D A Y
>
  “One, two, threeeee, shoot!”

  My fingers are a pair of scissors. Bob’s hand is a piece of paper.

  “I win!” I yell.

  I never win the shoot. I snip the air with my fingers and dance a ridiculous jig, a cross between the moves of Jonathan Papelbon and Elaine Benes. Bob laughs. But the thrill of my unexpected victory is short-lived, stolen by the sight of Charlie now standing in the kitchen without his backpack.

  “The Wii won’t save my level.”

  “Charlie, what did I tell you to do?” I ask.

  He just looks at me. The strings of my vocal cords wind a little tighter.

  “I told you to bring your backpack in here twenty minutes ago.”

  “I had to get to the next level.”

  I grind my teeth. I know if I open my mouth, I’m going to lose it. I’ll yell and scare him, or cry and scare Bob, or rant and throw the damn Wii in the trash. Before yesterday, Charlie’s inability to listen or follow the simplest instruction annoyed me but in the typical way that I think most kids annoy most parents. Now, a tidal wave of fear and frustration rises inside me, and I have to fight to contain it, to keep it from spilling out and drowning us all. In the few seconds that I struggle to stay silent, I watch Charlie’s eyes become wide and glassy. The fear and frustration must be leaking out of my pores. Bob puts his hands on my shoulders.

  “I’ll take care of this. You go,” says Bob.

  I check my watch. If I leave now, I can get to work early, calm, and sane. I can even make a few phone calls on the way. I open my mouth and exhale.

  “Thanks,” I say and squeeze his piece of paper hand.

  I grab my bag, kiss Bob and the kids good-bye, and leave the house alone. It’s raw and raining hard outside. Without a hood or an umbrella, I run like hell to the car, but just before I throw myself into the driver’s seat, I notice a penny on the ground. I can’t resist it. I stop, pick it up, and then duck into the car. Chilly and drenched, I smile as I start the engine. I won the shoot and found a penny.

  Today must be my lucky day.

  RAIN IS COMING DOWN IN sheets, splashing onto the fogged windshield almost faster than the wipers can keep pace. The headlights click on, its sensors tricked by the dark morning into thinking that it’s nighttime. It feels like nighttime to my senses, too. It’s the kind of stormy morning that would be perfect for crawling back into bed.

  But I’m not about to let the gloomy weather dampen my good mood. I have no kids to shuttle, buckets of time, and traffic is moving despite the weather. I’m going to get to work early, organized, and ready to tackle the day, instead of late, frazzled, grape juice stained, and unable to kick some inane Wiggles song out of my head.

  And I’m going to get some work done on the way. I fish in my bag for my phone. I want to make a call to Harvard business school. November is our biggest recruiting month, and we’re competing with all the other top consulting firms, like McKinsey and Boston Consulting Group, to pluck the best and the brightest from this year’s crop. We never lure in as many graduates as McKinsey does, but we usually beat out BCG. After our first round of a hundred and fifty interviews, there are ten particularly impressive candidates whom we plan to woo.

  I find my phone and begin searching for the Harvard number in my contact list. I can’t find it under H. That’s odd. Maybe it’s under B for Business School. I glance up at the road, and my heart seizes. Red brake lights glow everywhere, blurry through the wet and foggy windshield, unmoving, like a watercolor painting. Everything on the highway is still. Everything but me. I’m going 70 mph.

  I slam on the brakes. They catch the road, and then they don’t. I’m hydroplaning. I pump the brakes. I’m hydroplaning. I’m getting closer and closer to the red lights in the painting.

  Oh my God.

  I turn the wheel hard to the left. Too hard. I’m now outside the last lane of the eastbound highway, spinning between east and west. I’m sure the car’s still moving very fast, but I’m experiencing the spinning like it’s happening in slow motion. And someone turned off the sound—the rain, the wipers, my heartbeat. Everything is slow and soundless, like I’m underwater.

  I hit the brakes and turn the wheel the other way, hoping to either correct the spinning or stop. The landscape bends into an unmanageable slant, and the car begins to tumble end over end. The tumbling is also slow and soundless, and my thoughts while I’m tumbling are detached and strangely calm.

  The air bag explodes. I notice that it’s white.

  I see the loose contents of my bag and the penny I found suspended in air. I think of astronauts on the moon.

  Something is choking my throat.

  My car is going to be totaled.

  Something hits my head.

  I’m going to be late for work.

  Then suddenly the tumbling stops, and the car is still.

  I want to get out of the car, but I can’t move. I feel a sudden crushing and unbearable pain on the top of my head. It occurs to me for the first time that I might’ve wrecked more than my car.

  I’m sorry, Bob.

  The dark morning gets darker and goes blank. I don’t feel the pain in my head. There is no sight and no feeling. I wonder if I’m dead.

  Please don’t let me die.

  I decide I’m not dead because I can hear the sound of the rain hitting the roof of the car. I’m alive because I’m listening to the rain, and the rain becomes the hand of God strumming his fingers on the roof, deciding what to do.

  I strain to listen.

  Keep listening.

  Listen.

  But the sound fades, and the rain is gone.

  CHAPTER 7

  The hazy bright whiteness above me focuses into a fluorescent light fixture on the ceiling. Someone is saying something over and over. As I study the brightness and shape of the light, I come to realize that someone is saying something over and over to me.

  “Sarah, can you take a deep breath for me?”

  I assume that I can, but as I do, my entire throat grips around something rigid, and I gag. I’m sure that I’ve stopped inhaling, but my lungs fill with air anyway. My throat feels bone dry. I want to lick my lips and swallow some saliva, but something inside my mouth won’t let me. I want to ask, “What’s happening?” but I can’t gather the reins of my breathing, lips, or tongue. My eyes fill with panic.

  “Don’t try to talk. You have a tube in your mouth to help you breathe.”

  There is a fluorescent light on the ceiling above my head, a tube inside my mouth to help me breathe, and a woman’s voice.

  “Can you squeeze my hand?” asks the woman’s voice.

  I squeeze, but I don’t feel a hand in my hand.

  “Can you squeeze your other hand?”

  I don’t understand the question.

  “Can you show me two fingers?”

  I spread my index and middle finger.

  Scissors.

  I won the shoot. The shoot, the rain, the car. The crash. I remember. I hear electronic beeps and the whirring of mechanical equipment. The fluorescent light, the tube, the woman’s voice. I’m in a hospital. Oh my God, what’s happened to me? I try to think past the crash, but a searing pain slices through the top of my head, and I can’t.

  “Good, Sarah. Okay, that’s enough for today. We’re going to put you back to sleep so you can rest.”

  Wait! The shoot, the car, the rain, the crash, and then what? What happened? Am I okay?

  The fluorescent light on the ceiling grows brighter. The edges of the light dissolve. Everything blurs white.

  “OKAY, SARAH, BREATHE OUT as hard as you can.”

  I blow as a nurse yanks the breathing tube out of me, and it

  Feels like she’s dragging a sandpaper-coated speculum up the tender lining of my throat. There’s nothing delicate or hesitant about her approach to this procedure. The removal is ruthless, and the relief I feel when she’s done borders on euphoria, a bit like giving birth. I’m good and ready to hate this woman,
but then she tips a Dixie cup of melting ice chips to my lips, and she’s my angel of mercy.

  After a minute, she folds my hand around the cup.

  “Okay, Sarah, keep sipping. I’ll be right back,” she says and leaves me alone.

  I sip the cold water. My cracked and dusty lips, mouth, and throat are grateful sponges, like earth soaking in rain after a long drought. I just had a breathing tube removed. I needed a tube to breathe. That’s not good. But I don’t need one now. Why did I need a breathing tube? How long have I been here? Where is Bob?

  My head feels strange, but I can’t identify the sensation at first. Then it comes to me in full Technicolor, the volume turned all the way up. My head is scorching hot. I let go of the cup of ice and touch my head. I’m stunned and horrified by the mental image drawn by what my fingers feel. A large portion of my scalp, about the size and shape of a slice of bread, is shaved, and within that bald space, my fingers discover about a dozen metal staples. Somewhere just below the staples, my brain is the temperature of volcanic magma.

  I grab the Dixie cup and pour the watery ice onto my stapled head. I actually expect to hear the water sizzle, but it doesn’t. The ice doesn’t lessen the fiery pain, and I’ve just used up all of my chips.

  I wait and breathe in and out without the help of a tube. Don’t panic. The nurse wouldn’t have left you alone without a breathing tube and holding a disposable cup of ice if your brain were melting. But maybe it is melting. Check to see if it works.

  Who are you? I’m Sarah Nickerson. Good. You know your name. My husband is Bob. I have three kids—Charlie, Lucy, and Linus. I’m the VP of HR at Berkley. We live in Welmont. I’m thirty-seven years old. Good. Sarah, you’re fine. I touch the staples and trace the shape of the bald patch. They don’t shave your head and insert metal hardware into your scalp if you’re fine.

  Where is Bob? someone should tell Bob where I am and what’s happened. Oh God, someone should tell work where I am and what’s happened. How long have I been here? What happened?