Elephant in the Sky (4 page)

8

I looked down at my hands, which were clenched together so hard there were sweaty red lines tracing my grip. Nate was sitting just outside the closed office door with an ice pack on his head, and my iPhone, still tucked into the side pocket of my bag, hadn't stopped buzzing with work emails since I had sat down with Nate's principal, Mrs. Spencer, to discuss Nate falling off the desk.

“We're concerned, Mrs. Carter. Nate seems to be getting … well, more extreme. We don't see behaviour this intense in our other students. To be honest, we don't quite know what to make of it. And we're worried about what has happened to Nate in the past —”

“Has Nate been bullied again?” I jumped in. My heart began to race at the thought of anyone hurting my little boy again.

“No, no. I'm sorry to alarm you. It isn't that. And we've kept a close eye on Nate since he joined us. So far none of that has happened. But we're wondering if other proactive solutions might
help
him. And perhaps mitigate any future bullying problems.”

I nodded, wondering what, exactly, she was referring to. Beside me, my phone kept buzzing.

“Have you taken him to see anyone?” Mrs. Spencer asked gently. Despite her attempt to ask the question with a smooth voice that she'd purposely quieted, something bugged me about the way she said it. Her curtness, perhaps. It was as though she was pretending to care.

“I'm sorry … see anyone?”

“Yes, like a psychologist. Or even a family doctor. You know, just in case …”

Just in case? Just in case of
what
?

I shook my head and forced a smile. “No, we haven't taken him to see anyone. I know Nate is … well … he
is
sometimes more extreme, as you put it. But he's also a nine-year-old boy with a ton of energy. Boys are like that … right?”

“They can be, certainly. And Nate can also be a sweet boy. But he gets into these hyper moods and no one can seem to calm him down. I'm no doctor, but I do know of cases where Ritalin helps. Seems to calm the nerves. The extreme jitters Nate tends to have every once in a while. Perhaps it would be worth talking to your doctor about?” Mrs. Spencer peered at me through thick glasses lined in dark red. Partnered with her dated short haircut, I couldn't help but think of Sally Jesse Raphael.

“Well, Pete and I will certainly take your suggestions into consideration.” I strained to put another smile on my face. I knew Mrs. Spencer was hitting a nerve of truth, and I didn't want to face it head-on. “For now, though, if you'll excuse me, I need to get Nate to the doctor to get his head looked at. You know …
just in case
.” I rose from the uncomfortable faded pleather chair, and shook Mrs. Spencer's hand.

“Of course. I understand. We hope he didn't hit his head too hard.”

I nodded and followed Mrs. Spencer out of her office to greet Nate, who was slumped in his chair, the ice pack thrown aside.

Principal Spencer picked up the discarded ice pack and handed it to me. “Nate, it's probably just a bump, but your mother will take you to get it looked at just to be sure.”

Nate blinked at her. He opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, and then shut it before he let go of the words. He blinked again.

“Nate, you gave us quite a scare today. You can't be jumping on desks like that. Do you understand?” Mrs. Spencer pulled her red glasses down onto her nose and stared down at him.

More blinking.

“Nate, tell Mrs. Spencer that you understand,” I interjected. Internally, I begged Nate to respond. The awkward situation was growing in its prickly nature into something that felt more like all-out embarrassment.

“I'm waiting, Nate.” Mrs. Spencer's voice was firm and unsympathetic. The room filled with silence as she waited, subconsciously picking at a hangnail on her thumb with her pointer finger.

I touched Nate's shoulder and crouched down to his level, talking in a hushed voice. “It's okay, Nate. You're not in trouble. But please tell Mrs. Spencer that you understand that you can't jump on desks.”

“No, Mom.” Nate violently shook his head from side to side.

I sat next to Nate and placed my hand firmly on his knee. Looking straight into his eyes for as long as he'd let me, I explained quietly but firmly that we were going nowhere until he acknowledged what Mrs. Spencer had said to him.

“I get it, okay? No jumping on desks.” Despite his words being laced with rudeness, I settled for his understanding and felt a sense of triumph to have outlasted him. For a moment, I hadn't been sure who would win the battle.

I rose from my chair and explained to Mrs. Spencer that Nate would return to school after he'd been cleared by a doctor. She nodded her head, pursing her lips, and said nothing more as I ushered my son out of the school.

I called Pete from the parking lot to let him know what had happened, and to tell him he needed to take Nate to the doctor.

“How long was he unconscious for? And why didn't they call me as soon as it happened?” Pete asked. I could hear the concern in his voice.

“Apparently he was only out for about a minute. And they didn't call because I walked in soon after it happened. They had just put the ice on his head, and said they were going to call home as soon as they got Nate settled.”

“I can't believe this. Seriously, you've got to be kidding.”

“Do I sound like I'm kidding? Can you take him? I'll drop him off in my cab. And can you pack a lunch for him? He hasn't eaten yet.”

“Yeah … sure, I'll take him. I'm assuming you can't do it yourself because you have meetings?”

“Starting at two o'clock, then back to back until six. I can't miss them. I'd take him if I could but —”

“I said that I'll take him,” Pete interrupted. His voice was tense, and served as a reminder of the strain that had recently pierced our relationship. For twelve years, we'd had a solid marriage, filled with as much hard work as there was adoration. And the result of our commitment to each other was strength in union — not only for the two of us but for our family as well. But in recent months, an unexplained tension seemed to repeatedly seep into our conversations, showing its unsightly face in what had previously been ordinary moments.

I freed myself of more uncomfortable banter by bringing up the excuse that I needed to call a taxi. When it arrived, I opened the door for Nate and pulled him close to me as the cab pulled away, heading in the direction of our house.

As I watched the storefronts on Bloor Street whizzing by us, I gently kissed the top of Nate's head and inhaled deeply, taking in the unmistakable scent of Johnson & Johnson shampoo. I knew Nate was likely getting too old for it, but I couldn't seem to part ways with the tiny reminders that Nate was my baby for just a little while longer.

Five minutes into the ride home, I noticed twitching in Nate's shoulders. His discomfort was obvious in every movement he made, and maternal instinct told me that it wasn't the blow to his head that was causing it.

“Are you okay, Bean?” I asked gently, calling him by the nickname I'd given him as an infant. He said nothing, and continued to stare out the window. Every few seconds, his shoulders would twitch.

My heart ached for my son, heightened by the fact that I couldn't be the one to take him to the doctor, to be there for him, as all mothers should be for their children.

When we reached our house, I walked Nate up the driveway, anxious about the time it was taking. He was sluggish, but I didn't want to hurry him. When we finally reached the porch, Pete opened the door to greet us, and ushered our son into the house.

“Are you coming?” Pete asked me, cranking his head to look at me as he walked through the front door.

I shook my head, blinking back tears. I was desperate to stay with Nate, but my two o'clock meeting was with Jack, and I couldn't miss it.

Instead, I was forced to wave a final time before returning to the cab. I gave the driver my work address. As he pulled away, I bitterly yanked out my iPhone and returned to the chaos of my workday, firing off answers to the challenges in my inbox.

9

Nate

I'm going to the hospital. Dad said I have to get my head looked at by some doctor.

I don't want to get my head checked. I want to play video games with Noah but Dad said
no way, boss
.

We walk in and see doctors. Lots and lots of doctors. And nurses.

Dad tells me to keep the ice on my head. I sit on the blue chair with lots of other people. Dad talks to a nurse. I wait.

I take off my jacket because I feel hot. Even with the ice on my head. I feel dizzy. I might fall over and hurt my head like I did before. Then Mom will be upset again.

My chest hurts. It goes up and down. Really fast. It won't stop. It's weird. I do not like it. I'm scared.

I can't breathe.

Everything hurts.

“Hey little guy … are you okay?” a woman wearing purple asks me. She is sitting too close to me. I tell her to go away.

She stops talking to me. For one minute. Then she comes closer and asks where my mom is. Her breath stinks. Like cat pee and coffee all mixed up. I want her to go away. I yell at her to go away.

“Is everything okay here?” my dad asks. He isn't talking to the nurse anymore. He puts his arm around me. “Are you okay, Nate?”

My arms twitch. Dad hugs harder.

“Is this your son?” the woman asks. “He doesn't seem okay. He was breathing really quickly and he won't stop shaking.”

“Nate? Are you okay? You're sweating … are you hot?” He sits on the chair next to me.

I can't breathe. I'm scared. I might be choking. My chest hurts.

I hate it here.

I have to go outside.

I run for the door. Fast. Faster. Like my gym teacher tells me to do.

“Nate? Nate!” I hear Dad yelling behind me. He is following me.

I need air. I can't breathe.

I slam into the door. But I'm not fast enough. Dad grabs me. He picks me up. He is holding me too tight. My arms feel all tingly. It's weird.

I'm so scared.

“No, no, no …” I scream. I need to get away. I punch Daddy. I don't want to. I love Daddy. But I punch him. I need to go outside. “No Daddy … no, no,
nooo!
Leave me
alooone
!”

My dad holds tighter. I kick hard. As hard as I can. Daddy calls for help. He yells so loud it hurts my ears.

Two doctors rush over. “What's going on here?” one asks.

“I don't know,” Daddy answers. “I've never seen him like this before.”

I'm more scared now that the doctors are asking questions. I need to get out of here. I bite Daddy. Hard. He drops me.

“Code white!” I hear one of the doctors yell loudly as I try to break away from my daddy. I don't know what a code white is.

Two policemen find me. They grab me. They carry me to the back. They put me on a bed and hold me down. I don't know where my daddy is. I'm so scared. I'm going to die.

“
Get awaaay from meee
! Where's my daaaddy?”

“Right here, Nate. I'm here, buddy.” I hear my dad's voice but I can't see him. I feel a squeeze on my shoulder. I think it's him. But maybe it's the policeman.

A new doctor comes in. He shuts the curtain and sits beside me on the bed.

“Nate? Is that your name?” The doctor sits very close to me. “Listen to me, Nate. You are going to be okay.”

“I … I … c-c-c-can't … breathe.”

“We know you're breathing because you're talking. And that's great. But we're going to work on your breathing to help you feel better. Can you do that for me, Nate?”

I can't do that.

“I will help you. I want you to push your stomach way out. Just like a basketball is in there. Take a big breath and push your stomach way out, okay?” The doctor is holding both of my hands. I try to do what he tells me. My stomach starts to go out.

“Good job, Nate. You're doing great.” The doctor smiles at me. “Now, let's count to five. I'm going to count to five, and I want you to breathe in … really deeply … and turn your stomach into that big basketball. Don't stop until I get to five. Ready? One … two … three … four … five …”

I try to push my stomach out like a basketball. I try really hard.

“Fantastic! Good job. Now I want you to breathe out slowly for five more seconds. Ready? One … two … three … four … five …”

The police officers step away from me.

“Ready to do it again?” the doctor asks. “We're going to do it until I get to three this time. Okay? Here we go. One … two … three …”

I keep breathing with the doctor. Over and over. I think it is weird. But then I feel better. I'm suddenly fine. I feel normal again. Except for my headache that is pounding in my brain.

The policemen leave. The doctor asks to speak to Daddy outside.

“Will you be okay if I talk to the doctor for a minute?” Daddy asks me.

I shrug my shoulders. I will be okay if Daddy goes. It doesn't matter. Because I feel like I am alone whether Daddy is with me or not.

10

Ashley

The night of Nate's hospital visit, I made sure that I was home in time for dinner. I had called Pete to let him know that I would pick up Swiss Chalet, Nate's favourite, on my way home.

I doled out the chicken and ribs. Everyone ploughed in except for Nate, who did nothing but push chicken and french fries around on his plate.

“What's wrong, Bean? Don't you feel like eating? It's your favourite.”

Nate shrugged, showing no interest in taking his first bite.

“Do you want more sauce?” I asked, forcing a smile and trying to pretend that it was our typical Friday night, which always included takeout and a family movie.

Nate ignored me.

“Is it your head? Does it still hurt? Are you sure there's no concussion?”

“Ash, why don't you stop with the twenty questions and focus on your own dinner?” Pete asked. His voice was flat and slightly irritated. “I told you, the ER doc said Nate will be fine. No concussion. There's nothing to be worried about.”

I nodded and took a small sip of my wine. Tears sprung to my eyes and I blinked hard, wishing them away.

“Pete? Can you help me for a minute? In the family room … I need to speak to you.”

“What? I'm eating. Can't it wait?”

I shook my head, motioning for him to follow me. Thanks to our years of in-sync parenting, Pete instantly knew not to question it again. He followed me so we could talk out of earshot of our kids.

“Are you
sure
Nate's okay?” I asked him in a hushed voice. “I'm so worried. He's not himself at
all.
”

“The doctor said he'll be fine. They checked him for a concussion and everything is normal.”

“And what about the other thing that happened? How he got all weird and bit you?”

“I told you already. The doctor thinks it was a panic attack brought on by the hospital, which Nate clearly hates. The doc said he sees it occasionally with kids who don't want to be there. So let's not worry about it. Okay?”

“Okay … I guess that makes sense.” I could hear the uncertainty in my voice.

“Let's go back and finish our dinner with the family. I think the best thing to do is make things as normal as possible for Nate.”

I nodded and followed Pete back to the table, forcing a smile as I sat down with our kids. I turned my attention to Grace. “How about you, hon? How was your day?” I stabbed a piece of chicken with my fork. I hate Swiss Chalet.

“Amazing! I just
love
Fridays. Especially
this
Friday because Luke passed the ball to me in gym class. Well, really he threw it at me. We were playing dodgeball, you know? But then he told me afterwards he felt absolutely
awful
because he hit me so hard. Right here, on my arm. See? Look at my bruise … don't you
love
it?” I nodded at Grace, half listening to her drone on about her twelve-year-old crush of the week. I was grateful for the distraction and happy when my chatterbox daughter filled the rest of our dinner with constant babble. She was the perfect fix to our uncomfortable family silence.

After dinner, of which Nate ate almost none, we let him pick our Friday night movie. As he always did, Nate asked for
Spider-Man
. But twenty minutes into the movie he stood up, said nothing, and walked out of the room as though he couldn't get out of there quickly enough.

“What's with him?” Grace asked, nodding towards the door. I glanced at Pete, who shrugged.

“I cannot
stand
this movie. And Nate
always
picks it,” Grace continued, rolling her eyes. “So, like, if we're not watching
Spider-
Man
, can I go too? I want to text Emma and Keira to tell them my bruise is getting
bigger
.”

I closed my eyes, digging deep for patience with my overly dramatic daughter, and let her go so she could text her best friends. Against my better judgement, Pete and I had recently given in and bought her an iPhone. Although it was for emergencies only during the week, we became a bit more lax with it on the weekend.

“And then there were two …” I said. With our children gone from the room, Pete and I sat across from each other on facing couches. We were both still drinking from the bottle of wine we had opened at dinner.

Pete nodded, knocking back his wine. He turned his attention back to the movie, clearly ignoring me.

“Are you … are you mad at me?” I asked sheepishly. I felt too exhausted to get into the conversation, but couldn't stop myself from asking.

Pete shrugged, reminding me of Nate in the cab ride home earlier that afternoon.

“Well?” I pressed him. If we were going to have it out, I wanted to get it over with so we could enjoy the rest of our weekend.

Pete refilled his glass and took another gulp of wine before looking at me with icy eyes. “You say you put this family first, Ash. Is that right? No matter how crazy your schedule is … or how high on the ladder you climb? Well, our son had to go to the
hospital
today and you couldn't even take him to get checked out. And why? Because you had some
very important
meeting at work.” Pete snorted. “I think you should take another good look at those priorities you claim to have established.”

I swallowed hard, listening to my husband dump more weight onto the feelings of self-reproached guilt I'd been carrying on my shoulders all afternoon. My pulse quickened as his words danced on my insecurities as a working mother.

But soon into the silence that followed, I switched gears and started to feel defensive. Pete was being unfair. When we had decided Pete would stay home with the kids, we had agreed that the bulk of the appointments, games, illnesses, and anything else that popped up would fall onto his plate. Pete knew what the corporate world was like. He lived in it for
years
before staying home to freelance and take care of our children during the day. There was no reason he couldn't — or shouldn't — have been the one to take Nate to the hospital that afternoon.

“Come on, Pete … please don't do this again. We both agreed that you would be the primary caregiver during the week. I had a video conference call with Jack and New York. There was no way I could miss it.”

“Not even for your son? The one who had to go to the hospital?”

“Look, if you would like to discuss changing our agreement … if you would like to consider going back to work so we can more evenly divide the responsibility for these types of things when they come up, then let's do that. But you goading me? Pestering me with something you know I'm sensitive about? Well, it isn't healthy for any of us.”

Pete didn't respond. The room filled with sounds of the movie, with Uncle Ben saying to Peter Parker, “I don't mean to lecture and I don't mean to preach. And I know I'm not your father …”

The irony of Uncle Ben's words didn't go unnoticed.

“Pete?”

He continued to ignore me.

“Well, if you won't talk to me, and we're clearly done here, I'm going to check on Nate and then go to bed. I'm exhausted.”

“Whatever … suit yourself.”

I left quickly, climbing the stairs to Nate's room, only to find him lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling with wide, haunted eyes. He looked very sad.

“You okay, Bean?” I asked. I motioned for him to move over, and climbed into bed with him. He immediately curled up into me, and shook his head.

“Anything I can help with?” I asked him gently. “You can talk to me about anything. You know that, right?”

Nate shrugged.

“Well, I'm here for you when you're ready to talk.
If
you want to talk. Or I can just lie here with you … if that's what you prefer?”

He shrugged again. But he didn't kick me out as he sometimes did.

I snuggled into his single bed, rubbing his arm with the tickle strokes I knew he loved. Just when his breathing slightly changed and I thought he was about to fall asleep, he popped up. I immediately sensed his urgency.

“Where's Noah? I need to find Noah! I want my best friend.”

“Shhh … shhh. It's okay, Nate. I'm here with you. Noah isn't here, but I am. Come back and cuddle with me. I'll tickle your arm until you fall asleep.”

Nate looked uncertain. Unwilling. Hesitantly, he crawled back into my arms, and I noticed his breathing was quick and rapid. My own pulse matched his as my worry escalated.

“It's okay, sweetie. Close your eyes and think happy thoughts. Like … hot chocolate on a snowy day. With marshmallows. You love that, right? Or a puppy's wet little nose? One who likes to kiss you hello. Let's think of the happy thoughts and I'll stay here until you fall asleep, okay? Close your eyes …”

Nate didn't answer, but I kept my promise anyway. I lay beside my son in silence, tickling his arm and trying to make the pounding in my heart stop. I knew in my soul that something was very wrong with him.

Somewhere in the night, I fell asleep, hugging Nate as I lay beside him in his single bed. I stayed there, just like a mother of a sleeping newborn who is nestled into her. Except my baby was nine and broken, like a wounded little bird.

The sleep I desperately needed kept me glued to Nate's bed all night, uninterrupted. And by the time I woke up early the next morning, my baby was gone.