computer and his open notebook behind, he storms out of the kitchen. I hear the door of his bedroom slam.
This is not my boy. My boy is the one who carries groceries up three flights of stairs for old Mrs. Laska, without her even having to ask. My boy is the one who always holds open the door for a lady, who says please and thank you, who still keeps in his nightstand every birthday card I’ve ever written him.
Sometimes a new mother turns to me, a shrieking infant in her arms, and asks me how she’s supposed to know what her baby needs. In a lot of ways, having a teenager isn’t all that different from having a newborn. You learn to read the reactions, because they’re incapable of saying exactly what it is that’s causing pain.
So although all I want to do is go into Edison’s room and gather him up close and rock him back and forth the way I used to when he was little and hurting, I take a deep breath and go into the kitchen instead. Edison has left me dinner, a plate covered with foil. He can make exactly three dishes: macaroni and cheese, fried eggs, and Sloppy Joes. The rest of the week he heats up casseroles I make on my days off. Tonight’s is an enchilada pie, but Edison’s also cooked up some peas, because I taught him years ago a plate’s not a meal unless there’s more than one color on it.
I pour myself some wine from a bottle I got from Marie last Christmas. It tastes sour, but I force myself to sip it until I can feel the knots in my shoulders relax, until I can close my eyes and not see Turk Bauer’s face.
After ten minutes pass, I knock softly on the door of Edison’s room. It’s been his since he was thirteen; I sleep on the pullout couch in the living room. I turn the knob and find him lying on his bed, his arms behind his head. With his T-shirt stretched over his shoulders and his chin tilted up, I see so much of his daddy in him that for a moment, I feel like I’ve fallen through time.
I sit down beside him on the mattress. “Are we gonna talk about it, or are we gonna pretend nothing’s wrong?” I ask.
Edison’s mouth twists. “Do I really get a choice?”
“No,” I say, smiling a little. “Is this about the calculus test?”
He frowns. “The calc test? That was no big deal; I got a ninety-six. It’s just that I got into it with Bryce today.”
Bryce has been Edison’s closest friend since fifth grade. His mother is a family court judge and his father is a Yale classics professor. In their living room is a glass case, like the kind you’d find at a museum, housing a bona fide Grecian urn. They’ve taken Edison on vacation to Gstaad and Santorini.
It feels good to have Edison hand me this burden, to wallow in someone else’s difficulties for a while. This is what’s so upsetting to me about the incident at the hospital: I’m known as the fixer, the one who figures out a solution. I’m not the problem. I’m
never
the problem.
“I’m sure it’ll blow over,” I tell Edison, patting his arm. “You two are like brothers.”
He rolls onto his side and pulls the pillow over his head.
“Hey,” I say. “Hey.” I tug at the pillow and realize that there’s one single streak, left by a tear, darkening the skin of his temple. “Baby,” I murmur. “What happened?”
“I told him I was going to ask Whitney to homecoming.”
“Whitney…” I repeat, trying to place the girl from the tangle of Edison’s friends.
“Bryce’s sister,” he says.
I have a brief flash of a girl with strawberry-blond braids I met years ago when picking Edison up from a playdate. “The chubby one with braces?”
“Yeah. She doesn’t have braces anymore. And she’s
definitely
not chubby. She’s got…” Edison’s eyes soften, and I imagine what my son is seeing.
“You don’t have to finish that sentence,” I say quickly.
“Well, she’s amazing. She’s a sophomore now. I mean, I’ve known her forever, but lately when I look at her it’s not just as Bryce’s
This is not my boy. My boy is the one who carries groceries up three flights of stairs for old Mrs. Laska, without her even having to ask. My boy is the one who always holds open the door for a lady, who says please and thank you, who still keeps in his nightstand every birthday card I’ve ever written him.
Sometimes a new mother turns to me, a shrieking infant in her arms, and asks me how she’s supposed to know what her baby needs. In a lot of ways, having a teenager isn’t all that different from having a newborn. You learn to read the reactions, because they’re incapable of saying exactly what it is that’s causing pain.
So although all I want to do is go into Edison’s room and gather him up close and rock him back and forth the way I used to when he was little and hurting, I take a deep breath and go into the kitchen instead. Edison has left me dinner, a plate covered with foil. He can make exactly three dishes: macaroni and cheese, fried eggs, and Sloppy Joes. The rest of the week he heats up casseroles I make on my days off. Tonight’s is an enchilada pie, but Edison’s also cooked up some peas, because I taught him years ago a plate’s not a meal unless there’s more than one color on it.
I pour myself some wine from a bottle I got from Marie last Christmas. It tastes sour, but I force myself to sip it until I can feel the knots in my shoulders relax, until I can close my eyes and not see Turk Bauer’s face.
After ten minutes pass, I knock softly on the door of Edison’s room. It’s been his since he was thirteen; I sleep on the pullout couch in the living room. I turn the knob and find him lying on his bed, his arms behind his head. With his T-shirt stretched over his shoulders and his chin tilted up, I see so much of his daddy in him that for a moment, I feel like I’ve fallen through time.
I sit down beside him on the mattress. “Are we gonna talk about it, or are we gonna pretend nothing’s wrong?” I ask.
Edison’s mouth twists. “Do I really get a choice?”
“No,” I say, smiling a little. “Is this about the calculus test?”
He frowns. “The calc test? That was no big deal; I got a ninety-six. It’s just that I got into it with Bryce today.”
Bryce has been Edison’s closest friend since fifth grade. His mother is a family court judge and his father is a Yale classics professor. In their living room is a glass case, like the kind you’d find at a museum, housing a bona fide Grecian urn. They’ve taken Edison on vacation to Gstaad and Santorini.
It feels good to have Edison hand me this burden, to wallow in someone else’s difficulties for a while. This is what’s so upsetting to me about the incident at the hospital: I’m known as the fixer, the one who figures out a solution. I’m not the problem. I’m
never
the problem.
“I’m sure it’ll blow over,” I tell Edison, patting his arm. “You two are like brothers.”
He rolls onto his side and pulls the pillow over his head.
“Hey,” I say. “Hey.” I tug at the pillow and realize that there’s one single streak, left by a tear, darkening the skin of his temple. “Baby,” I murmur. “What happened?”
“I told him I was going to ask Whitney to homecoming.”
“Whitney…” I repeat, trying to place the girl from the tangle of Edison’s friends.
“Bryce’s sister,” he says.
I have a brief flash of a girl with strawberry-blond braids I met years ago when picking Edison up from a playdate. “The chubby one with braces?”
“Yeah. She doesn’t have braces anymore. And she’s
definitely
not chubby. She’s got…” Edison’s eyes soften, and I imagine what my son is seeing.
“You don’t have to finish that sentence,” I say quickly.
“Well, she’s amazing. She’s a sophomore now. I mean, I’ve known her forever, but lately when I look at her it’s not just as Bryce’s
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