When He Fell by Kate Hewitt Page A

in her voice before, and I wonder how that could be considered good news. We don’t actually
know
anything yet.
    “Yes, well.” I clear my throat. “We’ll see.”
    With a few more pleasantries Mrs. James ends the call, and I sit there, the phone in my lap, wondering why I feel like I am still missing information. Why didn’t Juliet tell me Ben fell from the climbing structure? She must have been involved in the accident report. Or did the paramedics just assume? Did someone else see Ben fall?
    What don’t I know?
    After lunch I sit with Ben for a while and study his face for signs that he is swimming towards consciousness. The machines beep and his breathing is faint but even. He still seems deeply asleep, with no movement, not even a flicker under his eyelids.
    How can this man-boy of mine, who has so much irrepressible energy, who has driven me crazy because he is always bouncing and careening around, be so incredibly
still?
Sitting there I tell myself if Ben comes out of this,
when
Ben comes out of this, I will never begrudge him his hyperactivity, his endless energy. I will never scold him for knocking into furniture or kicking his ball in the apartment or shouting inside.
Never.
    But then maybe I won’t get the chance.
    At six o’clock that evening I get a meal courtesy of Juliet, a Styrofoam carton of chicken Marsala with angel hair pasta. It smells delicious, and yet I can’t make myself eat it. She can send me meals, but she won’t call or visit, and I need a friend, not a meal service. She texted me once today:
hope there’s good news.
I didn’t text back.
    I give the meal to the nurse on duty. The ward has started to quiet down. The night nurse switches off overhead lights and it almost feels peaceful. Peaceful but lonely. I ache with loneliness, with the need to share what I am going through with someone. For a second I imagine a husband,
my
husband, coming in the room and putting his hand on my shoulder, rubbing my neck. Letting me lean into his strength. I imagine someone being there who loves Ben like I do, who is as invested and frightened and emotionally exhausted as I am. But there is only emptiness around me.
    I sit by Ben’s bedside until ten o’clock, when I decide to go home for the night. The nurse on duty promises she’ll call me if anything changes, good or bad.
    Outside it is dark, this area of midtown shut down for the night. A few taxicabs cruise the near-empty streets, but I ignore them and start walking.
    I am just turning into my street when I get another text, and my heart lurches to see it is from Lewis.
    How are you doing?
    Not great
, I text back.
Pretty awful, actually.
    How’s Ben?
he texts, and as I don’t want to launch into a lengthy explanation via text, I just type,
Still in a coma.
    Which hospital?
Lewis texts back, and my heart lifts. Maybe he’ll visit.
Finally.
    But when I text back
Mount Sinai Roosevelt
, I get no response. I walk into my building and get in the elevator, and my phone remains dark and silent even as I stare at it, willing it to light up with an incoming text from Lewis.
    It’s almost eleven by the time I reach my apartment. I dread its quiet solitude, even though I once would have reveled in a Ben-free evening. The thought makes tears sting my eyes. How could I have been so
selfish?
Because I recognize that now; I have not been a great mother to Ben. Perhaps I haven’t even been a good mother.
    I’ve been tired and cranky and overwhelmed, struggling to figure out to handle this boy of mine who is so different from me in so many ways. He doesn’t even look like me, with his sandy brown hair and big, gangly frame. I am petite and dark-eyed, dark-haired. In another year or two, God willing, Ben will be taller than me.
    I am just fitting the key into the lock when the door next to mine opens, and Spandex Man stands there. He’s not in spandex now, and I realize I’ve never seen him in casual clothes. Running clothes, yes, and the snazzy suits