Glen calls our orthopedic surgeon.
“No, it’s Max, not Alex,” I hear him say. Alex has separated his shoulder, broken his collarbone, and had his knee repaired. Maxhas had stitches only once. “This is the second time he’s fallen out of a tree,” I say to Glen.
I drive through the night, a cup of bitter coffee from the gas station beside me. In the hospital waiting area Max is slumped in a chair, his arm in a sling, a twitchy young man who I assume is a counselor beside him.
“Hey honey,” I say, sitting next to him and putting my arm around his shoulder. There are grubby paths on his cheeks from tears. The counselor leaves for the bathroom.
“I have to go home, don’t I?”
He does. His things are already packed. At the steps to his ramshackle cabin stands a tiny girl, a little Tinkerbell of a person, with hair dyed a horrible harsh black. She has a diamond on one side of her nostril. Max disappears around the side of the cabin with her while I load the car with his duffel bags and his boxes of drumsticks. Despite the arm and the tears, I’m thrilled. Max has a real girlfriend. They embrace in the shadow of the cabin, and I look away.
“You should come visit us,” I say, turning as we get into the car, and the girl sobs by the passenger door.
“Mom, chill,” Max mutters.
The next day the orthopedic surgeon repairs the arm, which has broken in a way that requires a pin. I can tell by Max’s breathing, short and shallow, that he’s afraid. His hair is almost to his shoulders, and his shoulders are squaring off in a way that looks familiar, that reminds me of Glen. But once the sedative has taken effect and his full lower lip has relaxed, he looks almost exactly as he did when he was a toddler, waking on a summer day like this one, his eyelids heavy over his dark eyes, his small bandy chest glossy with sweat.
“I love you, baby boy,” I whisper as they wheel him away.
“Love you, too, Mom,” he whispers back.
It is almost the last nice thing he says to me for the rest of the summer. It is almost the last thing he says to me for the rest of the summer. He lies on the couch in the den, watching nonsense TV, ignoring the stack of required school reading I’ve put on an end table. He grows thin, grows thinner, and becomes sullen and sad. The girlfriend’s cell phone doesn’t work at camp, and when she calls from the pay phones by the canteen he can hear the raucous sounds of the life he’s missing. Dishes pile up on the coffee table beside him, and he leaves them there until someone else puts them in the sink.
“He’s not a paraplegic,” Glen hisses angrily one evening in the kitchen.
“He’ll hear you.”
“I hope he does,” replies Glen.
“I hate my life,” Max says one day as I leave for work. It’s a sentiment I’ve heard from Ruby before, but Max says it as though he really means it. I call the therapist who helped Ruby to see if she knows someone for Max.
“He’s depressed?” she asks.
“I’m no expert, but I would say yes.” Max has no writing on his cast. What could be more depressing than that? The fingers curling out of the plaster look as though they had been living in some underground burrow, as though, exposed to direct sunlight, they would shrivel.
“Any suicidal thoughts?” the therapist asks.
“Do kids who have suicidal thoughts share them with their parents?” I say angrily. I was always angry when she was treating Ruby, too, always sure she was passing judgment on us, on our family, on our happiness. Always afraid of what she was going to say.
“Come to work with me,” I say to Max. “You’ll feel better if you get some fresh air.” I have become Glen’s father, who thinksand talks always in clichés: A little hard work never hurt anyone. Make hay while the sun shines. Early to bed, early to rise.
Max shakes his head. Glen wants him to start cleaning up after himself, to get a haircut. “He’s not going back to school looking like
“No, it’s Max, not Alex,” I hear him say. Alex has separated his shoulder, broken his collarbone, and had his knee repaired. Maxhas had stitches only once. “This is the second time he’s fallen out of a tree,” I say to Glen.
I drive through the night, a cup of bitter coffee from the gas station beside me. In the hospital waiting area Max is slumped in a chair, his arm in a sling, a twitchy young man who I assume is a counselor beside him.
“Hey honey,” I say, sitting next to him and putting my arm around his shoulder. There are grubby paths on his cheeks from tears. The counselor leaves for the bathroom.
“I have to go home, don’t I?”
He does. His things are already packed. At the steps to his ramshackle cabin stands a tiny girl, a little Tinkerbell of a person, with hair dyed a horrible harsh black. She has a diamond on one side of her nostril. Max disappears around the side of the cabin with her while I load the car with his duffel bags and his boxes of drumsticks. Despite the arm and the tears, I’m thrilled. Max has a real girlfriend. They embrace in the shadow of the cabin, and I look away.
“You should come visit us,” I say, turning as we get into the car, and the girl sobs by the passenger door.
“Mom, chill,” Max mutters.
The next day the orthopedic surgeon repairs the arm, which has broken in a way that requires a pin. I can tell by Max’s breathing, short and shallow, that he’s afraid. His hair is almost to his shoulders, and his shoulders are squaring off in a way that looks familiar, that reminds me of Glen. But once the sedative has taken effect and his full lower lip has relaxed, he looks almost exactly as he did when he was a toddler, waking on a summer day like this one, his eyelids heavy over his dark eyes, his small bandy chest glossy with sweat.
“I love you, baby boy,” I whisper as they wheel him away.
“Love you, too, Mom,” he whispers back.
It is almost the last nice thing he says to me for the rest of the summer. It is almost the last thing he says to me for the rest of the summer. He lies on the couch in the den, watching nonsense TV, ignoring the stack of required school reading I’ve put on an end table. He grows thin, grows thinner, and becomes sullen and sad. The girlfriend’s cell phone doesn’t work at camp, and when she calls from the pay phones by the canteen he can hear the raucous sounds of the life he’s missing. Dishes pile up on the coffee table beside him, and he leaves them there until someone else puts them in the sink.
“He’s not a paraplegic,” Glen hisses angrily one evening in the kitchen.
“He’ll hear you.”
“I hope he does,” replies Glen.
“I hate my life,” Max says one day as I leave for work. It’s a sentiment I’ve heard from Ruby before, but Max says it as though he really means it. I call the therapist who helped Ruby to see if she knows someone for Max.
“He’s depressed?” she asks.
“I’m no expert, but I would say yes.” Max has no writing on his cast. What could be more depressing than that? The fingers curling out of the plaster look as though they had been living in some underground burrow, as though, exposed to direct sunlight, they would shrivel.
“Any suicidal thoughts?” the therapist asks.
“Do kids who have suicidal thoughts share them with their parents?” I say angrily. I was always angry when she was treating Ruby, too, always sure she was passing judgment on us, on our family, on our happiness. Always afraid of what she was going to say.
“Come to work with me,” I say to Max. “You’ll feel better if you get some fresh air.” I have become Glen’s father, who thinksand talks always in clichés: A little hard work never hurt anyone. Make hay while the sun shines. Early to bed, early to rise.
Max shakes his head. Glen wants him to start cleaning up after himself, to get a haircut. “He’s not going back to school looking like
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