When He Fell. Кейт Хьюит

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СКАЧАТЬ Josh bowling,” Lewis explains. “After school. But I’ve got an appointment uptown.” He glances at Josh whose expression has not changed. I cannot read it at all. “That okay?”

      “Yeah.” The word is barely audible.

      “Everything’s okay with Ben, isn’t it?” Lewis asks, his voice deliberately light. “You guys haven’t argued or anything?”

      Josh’s eyes widen and I see his hands clench on his knife and fork. “No,” he says after a moment, but I feel as if he is hiding something. But why would Lewis think Josh and Ben had argued? Is that why he canceled their plans? What does he know that I don’t?

      I feel like I’ve missed a scene in a movie, as if someone pressed fast forward without telling me.

      Josh rises from the table. “I’m going to go brush my teeth.”

      After he’s left, I turn to Lewis. “What was that about?”

      Lewis takes a sip of coffee, shrugging. “What do you mean?”

      “Why do you think Josh and Ben have argued?”

      “I thought that might have been what made Josh upset.”

      “But they don’t argue usually, do they?” In that moment I realize how little I know about Josh and Ben’s friendship. Lewis is the one who handles the play dates, who picks the boys up from school. I’ve never considered just how ignorant I am about the details. I’ve just been happy that Josh has a friend.

      “Not often,” Lewis says, and reaches for the newspaper. “But I thought it might be a possibility. In any case,” he adds as he snaps the paper open, “Josh will tell us in time. We’ve just got to be patient.”

      Josh comes back into the room and so I don’t press Lewis. Instead I smile and ruffle Josh’s hair. For once he doesn’t duck away from my hand; instead he leans a little into me, and my heart melts and yearns with mother love.

      “Ready for school?” I ask, and he nods.

      Lewis heads to his workshop uptown while Josh and I wait for the subway on Ninety-Sixth Street. It is another beautiful autumn day, crisp and clear, the sky a brilliant, hard blue. In the distance the leaves on the trees in Central Park are just starting to turn. Everything dazzles.

      We don’t speak on the subway; the morning commute makes conversation impossible anyway. At Seventy-Second Street Josh gets a seat and I remain looming over him, hanging onto one of the straps. We make it to Burgdorf with just two minutes to spare before the doors close; being late costs twenty dollars a pop, a fact that outrages Lewis, considering the over thirty grand price tag the school has already. So far this year we’ve paid over a hundred bucks in late fees.

      I bustle Josh towards the door; parents are encouraged to stay outside so children can ‘value their independence’ and get to the classrooms by themselves. Of course, most parents ignore this rule. We Manhattan mothers are a pushy lot. I consider going into Josh’s classroom, introducing myself to Mrs. Rollins, and mentioning that I think something is bothering Josh. But then the bell rings and the doors close and I know his teacher—whom I haven’t even met yet—will be annoyed at having a parent wanting a private word when the school day has already started. Plus I have an appointment at nine.

      Still I take a moment before Josh goes in to hold him by the shoulders, look into his eyes. “I love you,” I say, and Josh blinks rapidly. For a second I wonder if he is going to cry, and the thought makes me want to cry. “You know that, don’t you, Josh?” I press, my voice choking a little. “I really, really love you.”

      He nods, still blinking, and then he twists out of my grasp and goes into the classroom. I turn away from Burgdorf and head downtown to my office on Forty-Second and Sixth, trying to banish my lingering fears.

      Two years ago I opened my own private dental practice, after working for a larger practice uptown. In theory it was meant to give me more flexibility so I could spend more time with Josh, be there for drop offs and pick up and the sports games that have never actually materialized, because Josh hates sports. In reality operating a private practice is a ton more work. I’m responsible for everything, and the bills and maintenance costs I have to heft by myself mean I never turn away business. I rarely get home before seven at night, and I’ve even had to go in for emergency appointments on weekends since they pay the best.

      Still, I enjoy my work. I went into dentistry by default; my parents, retired now, were both cardiothoracic surgeons and although they’d never said it out loud, I always knew they wanted me to go into the same field. Their disappointment in my life choices has always been conveyed by silence rather than words.

      I would have gone into cardiothoracic surgery just to please them, but I couldn’t stand the intensity, and the idea that you might, quite literally, have someone’s heart in your hands made me feel sick and faint.

      So I applied to dental school instead, and spent four years training to become a dentist with a specialty in periodontics at Columbia with my parents acting as if I were learning how to clean toilets. Of course, they never said that. But their silences have always been eloquent.

      The surprise for me was that I actually enjoyed it. Defaults are usually disappointments, but I’ve never regretted becoming a dentist. I like being able to fix problems, and usually relatively easily. A cavity can be filled; a broken tooth can be capped.

      Of course, there are the usual hassles: patients come in with an abcess or dentures or a need for multiple root canals. Sometimes there are worse problems, white spots or bumps on the gums that indicate oral cancer. I’ve had several cases where I’ve had to refer a patient to an oncologist. But at least I was there at the start. I don’t want to be the one who is there at the end.

      Normally, though, my day is one of scheduled appointments, fillings and root canals and restorations, along with the cosmetic work our culture of airbrushed beauty demands. I’ve said on more than one occasion that I can see the charm in a crooked smile. In point of fact, my own teeth are not perfectly straight, but I don’t have any fillings, either.

      Barbara, my receptionist, raises her eyebrows at me as I come into my small office on the second floor of a Brownstone across from Bryant Park. I’m not usually this late, and my nine o’clock is already waiting, flipping through one of the magazines in the waiting room.

      “Everything okay?” Barbara asks in a murmur after I’ve greeted the patient and go back to take off my coat.

      I nod. “I just wanted to take to Josh to school. He’s having a bit of a tough time.”

      Barbara clucks sympathetically. She has no children, has never married, and I’ve only given her sparing details about Josh because I know she won’t understand. I don’t know if anyone will understand; so many people want to either label or fix Josh, or just leave him alone. I want none of those and all of them at the same time.

      I’ve just finished my third appointment, a straightforward filling, when my cell rings. I check the screen and my heart seems to hang suspended in my chest when I see it is Burgdorf calling.

      “Mrs. Taylor-Davies?” a woman asks and I clear my throat.

      “Yes?”

      “This is Mrs. James from The Burgdorf Institute for Committed Learning.” Mrs. James, I’ve noticed, always refers to the school by its full and rather ridiculous name.

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