“He’s your father, after all,” I continue. “But, you absolutely have to tell them everything, okay?”
Toby blinks, the purple eye already closing and immobile.
An ambulance pulls up behind the police car.
“It’s here,” I say. “Ready?”
I step out the back door and wave down the paramedics.
“Here,” I yell, waving my arms. “Over here.”
Dust
In the room he shares with Alex, Toby sleeps on the bottom of the two bunks like he’s dead to the world. Every couple hours, I check on him. 9AM. 10. 11. He usually wakes around 7AM as soon as he hears me in the bathroom. Maybe he’s sick? I touch his forehead with the back of my hand. Cool, no temp. Oblivious, Toby continues to slumber. Alex is at Jeff’s, so the top bunk is empty except for a balled-up comforter. I climb the two steps, and kneeling, make the bed. When I come down, again, Toby rouses, only to turn toward the wall.
That’s enough. I draw open the shades. “Toby, wake up,” I say, nudging his shoulder. “Sweetheart, you okay?”
“Stop,” he groans, rolling and pulling the pillow over his head. “I’m tired.”
I step back. Typically, Alex is the moody one. Toby’s my helper, especially on weekends when Alex is at Jeff’s, and he has me to himself. While I make pancakes or eggs, he pours us each a mug of coffee. We talk about school or friends or maybe Amanda, his girlfriend. Sometimes, Alex. Last spring, the morning after William beat Toby so badly he broke a rib, Toby sat quietly on a stool beside me, and as I fried bacon in one pan and scrambled eggs in another, he asked in an almost childlike voice if I would please adopt him. The judge ruled that Toby remain in my care while William underwent private therapy sessions as well as another round of anger management training. We go back to court in September, and since Toby is 17 now, the judge may agree to his wish to be adopted by me instead of getting turned back over to William.
“You feeling okay?” I ask Toby.
“Yes.” His voice muffles in the pillow.
“Sure?”
“Fine.”
The phone rings. It’s in my room. I run to answer it. “Just picked up some tiles in Elmsford, so I’m in your neck of the Big Woods,” Ben says. He’s remodeling the bathrooms in his apartment. “I feel like matzo ball soup.”
“Ready in fifteen,” I say, hanging up and jumping in to the shower. Warm water rains over me, and I imagine it washing all the worry down the drain. Is such concern motherly instinct or is it the overbearing helicopter mom? I shut off the shower. Moodiness. Sleeping late. Lazing about. Toby’s being a typical adolescent. Maybe it means he feels safe enough—a positive sign. I feel myself relax.
Exactly fifteen minutes after Ben’s call, I’m practically dancing down the stairs to the front door. It’s been ages since Ben and I had a chance to catch up. I’ve told him I got into FIT, again, and now is the perfect opportunity to get his feedback on some new sketches.
“Ma,” Toby calls, as I’m checking that the folder with my drawings is in my purse. He’s at the top of the stairs. His chocolate curls lie flat against the left side of his scalp. “Where’re you going?”
“Uncle Ben’s stopping by. We may go for a drive. Get a bite somewhere.”
“Can I come?” Dark crescents shadow his eyes.
I stifle the urge to say no. “Okay, get changed,” I unlock the door and step outside. “We’ll wait.”
Ben’s already there, lounging on a patio chair, his fingers intertwined behind his head. He’s in a worn T-shirt, loose jeans, and Prada leather sandals. “I always forget how bucolic it is out here,” he says, staring at the row of colonials—replicated like Monopoly houses—across the street.
“Quiet, you.” I settle into the love seat facing him. It’s the dead heat of August, two weeks before Alex leaves for college, and the coolness of morning has already given way to heat and humidity. Cicadas sound like a symphony of shaking maracas.
“No, really,” he says. “I’m not being facetious.”
“Sorry, but the Hamptons is that way.” I point south in the direction of the Bronx River Parkway. “Love the Pradas, by the way.”
His lips purse into a smirk. He wiggles his manicured toes.
“Just two more years,” I say. Toby’s going to be a Junior. “Can you believe it’s been 18 years that I’ve been out here?”
“Oh my God! Stop that,” Ben says, covering his ears with his hands. “We can’t possibly be that old.”
“It’s just a number,” I laugh.
“Easy for you to say, Miss Perpetually Young Asian Girl.”
Just then, my neighbor, Jenna appears at her front door. She’s a root-dyeing redhead with a high-pitched voice. Her son Stevie is the same age as Alex, and even though Alex now attends private school, they’re friendly through Toby. Jenna bears an oversized purse larger than a diaper bag. Most women’s handbags get incrementally smaller as their children grow older. Jenna is the rare exception; as if to compensate for her son’s growing independence, her purses increase proportionately, matching the size—and bearing the weight—of her gossip. Last year, she was the one I called during the William incident. I was grateful, but then the day after, Toby said everyone at his school heard about what happened. Toby doesn’t go to the same school anymore, but he attends the same sports programs, so I knew it had to be Jenna.
Jenna heads toward the Volvo parked in the street, but instead of getting into the car, she starts across toward us.
“Toby asked if he could join us,” I tell Ben.
Ben’s brows lift with surprise.
“I know—major strangeness lately.” Since Jenna is now upon us, I switch the subject: “How’re the bathrooms going?”
“What strangeness?” Jenna asks, sitting in the chair between us. “You talking about that hockey dad from Crestwood who’s having an affair with the guy at the flower shop?”
“Ben, Jenna,” I introduce. “Jenna, Ben.”
“We were speaking about my bathrooms,” Ben says. “What a remodeling nightmare.”
“Contractors,” she says, digging through her bag. “They’re the worst.”
I’m just about to ask Ben if he went with the white marble tile with the bluish veins or the brown ceramic planks that look like wood, but Jenna adds, “Connie Williams is renovating her kitchen and bathrooms, isn’t she?”
Connie is Toby’s girlfriend’s mother. “Is she?” I ask.
“That’s what I heard.” Jenna removes her wallet and continues digging through the bowels of her bag. “Is it true the cancer came back?”
Something lodges in my throat. I’m not close with Connie, but we’re friendly enough, given the kids’ year-long relationship, and Connie most certainly hasn’t mentioned this. Neither has Toby, though it is the kind of thing he usually shares with me.
“Amy was just telling me about Toby,” Ben says, noticing my discomfort and attempting to switch the subject again.
“Toby?” she says, her ears perking up.
“Right, Toby,” I say, cautiously. I describe the behavior—oversleeping, lethargy, moodiness. “He sees Amanda, but only if she comes over. I haven’t seen him with other friends in a while. Like today? It’s beautiful out and he’s in his room.”
“Oh, that,” Jenna says, waving off my concern. “Stevie’s like that. Isn’t Alex?”
“Maybe Alex was born a teenager,” I say wearily.
“Well,” Ben says. “It’s a major transition when an older sibling goes off to college. After my sister left for Wesleyan? I must have been the loneliest, most heartbroken person on the planet.”
“That’s true for moms, too,” Jenna says, a hand over her heart. “I remember the first day of Kindergarten. And suddenly, my baby’s leaving me. He’s going off to college!”
“All I can say is finally,” I blurt, rolli
ng my eyes. Maybe my voice carries a little too loudly; the entire street seems to go silent. “Alex’s bags are packed and waiting by the door.”
She chuckles and punches me softly on the arm. “You don’t mean that.”
I cross my arms. “Uh, yeah, I do.”
Jenna shifts uncomfortably. “I better go. I’m meeting Gwen at Bloomingdale’s.”
I wave her off and watch her cross back to the car and can only imagine the judgements she might be holding: “And then she said” … “Can you believe she’d be like that?” … “What kind of mother would…”
Ben smirks and shakes his head at me. “Bad mommy.”
“At least I’m honest.”
From around the street corner, a young woman appears. She’s pale-skinned with light blue eyes and has dark brown hair that’s almost black. It’s a striking contrast. She also stands out because she’s at least 5’8 and lanky thin. “That’s Toby’s girlfriend.”
“Beautiful dog,” Ben says, noticing the silvery little Shi Tzu accompanying her off leash.
“The parents gave it to her at Christmas the year Connie got diagnosed. She’s the woman Jenna was talking about.”
“Cancer?”
“Breast,” I nod.
The dog notices us on the porch and runs straight to me on its stumpy legs. I pick her up. “Hi, Santa.” She licks my cheek. “Thank you, I love you, too.”
Amanda steps onto the porch. “Something tells me Toby’s got better things to do now than come out with us old farts,” I say.
“Hi, Ms. Wong,” Amanda says, blushing.
“He’s upstairs. Go on up.”
Ben and I head toward the driveway to his car as Amanda lets herself into the house. Barely a minute later, just as we’re pulling into the street, Toby races from the house and runs toward us.
“Wait,” he yells. “Wait!”
Ben breaks suddenly. My neck cranes forward and back. I open the door and jump out. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“You can’t leave,” he says.
“You want me to bring you back some matzo ball soup?”
He glances up the street, then down, nervously.
“Toby,” I say, my hands at his shoulders. He’s crying. He’s actually crying.
“You said you’d wait—” he says.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I say, trying to hug him. “I just thought—”
He opens the back passenger door, jumps inside, and shuts the door.
What the fuck is going on? Ben shoots me a bug-eyed look affirming that Toby’s behavior is definitely strange. Could he be doing drugs? I glance at Amanda, who appears from the house now. Her face is tomato red and shrouded with confusion. She seems ruffled, too, as if Toby knocked her over to get outside. Did the two of them have a fight yesterday? I’ve never seen Toby treat anyone rudely, never mind like this. Whatever this is, it’s way out of my depth. Inside the house, the little dog starts yapping.
“Toby?” I say, leaning into the car. “Amanda came to see you.”
“I know. She can come if she wants,” he stutters.
“Well, um, would you like to ask her?”
Toby rolls down his window. “We’re going to breakfast, wanna come?”
“Where are you going?” she asks, the dog in her arms now.
“Village diner,” I say, getting back into the car and buckling myself into the seat.
“I have Santa,” she says.
“We can drop her off at your house,” I say, turning to Ben. “That okay?”
Ben nods. She picks up Santa and gets into the car. Ben points out the front door is ajar, so I release the safety belt and get out. As I walk toward the house, I decide Toby’s going into therapy whether he wants to or not. He’s asked me to adopt him; as his mother, I’m not giving him a choice. I don’t have money for therapy, but maybe Jeff can help. Ever since the divorce, he’s been paying me a “salary.” It was the only way I could take over the responsibility of Alex’s care—taking him to and from appointments, keeping track of and re-ordering medications and therapy devices, scheduling appointments—when Jeff needed to get back to work. What I get from him isn’t much, but it pays the bills, gives me mornings to work on designs or go for a long run, and, of course, spend time with Alex. Now that Alex is leaving for college, however, I get a new start.
I draw the front door shut and slide the key into the lock. If. As the key turns, there’s a metallic snap of the bolt latching. If everything works out okay. The car idles in the driveway, beckoning me to hurry.
That night, Alex arrives home just before dinner. He’s playing Minecraft on his phone. Without as much as a hello, he makes his way like a zombie to the living room sofa. He sits. Toby’s been there all afternoon with Amanda and has to shift positions to avoid getting sat upon. As soon as Alex is beside Toby, Toby gets equally transfixed by the game. I’m setting the table—cheeseburgers with french fries and dill pickles—when I hear Amanda say, “Call me.”
“Five minutes and it’s dinner,” I announce, hurrying onto the patio after her. “Amanda? Everything okay between you and, um—” I nod over my shoulder at the house. “I mean, Toby has a lot going on right now.”
“I know.” She stares down at the ground. Fidgets with a loose strand of hair.
Shit, I’ve put her on the spot.
“Toby tells me you’re leaving for summer school,” I say. “That’s so exciting.”
She shrugs. “I told Toby to do it too so we could be together, but…”
“Oh, the cost might have had something to do with it.”
“No, his Dad was going to give him money, but Toby didn’t want it.”
“Dad?” There’s a restraining order against William. “When did he see his Dad?”
Amanda cringes and backs away. “I, uh, I mean, well, I better go, now, Ms. Wong. My mother’s going to kill me if dinner gets cold.” She rushes off, her long legs carrying her swiftly down the street. William. Of course.
Toby appears at the front door. His eyes dart one way, then the other. He’s like a soldier on watch for an ambush. “What are you doing out here?” he asks. “Let’s, eat, okay?”
“When did you speak with your father?” I ask.
He stiffens. “Who—” His gaze freezes on Amanda as she disappears around the corner.
“Don’t blame her,” I say. “I made her tell me.”
Toby storms back into the house, slamming the door in my face.
“Hey! I’m talking to you.”
He turns, his arms crossed in front of him. “It wasn’t anything.”
“Just tell her,” Alex says from the couch.
“Tell me what?” I ask.
“There’s nothing to tell,” Toby says, enunciating each word, and glaring at Alex. “It was just a couple minutes.”
“A couple actually means ‘two,’ you know,” Alex mutters.
“That’s it,” I say, marching toward the house phone. “I’m calling Child Protective Services.”
“Don’t, wait!” Toby says, blocking my way. “Mom, please.”
“Has he threatened you?” I try to dodge around him. “I’m not letting him terrorize you any more.”
“He’s not,” Toby says, clasping his hands together. “I swear.”
Alex shakes his head, just slightly, just enough that I catch it peripherally.
“Where did you see him?” I cross my arms and plant my feet firmly on the floor. “What did he say to you?”
“Nothing.” Toby’s gaze falls to the floor.
“Toby, I need—”
“I said nothing, all right?” he yells, kicking the leg of the coffee table. “He didn’t say anything.” He marches to the dinner table and plops himself in his seat. “Can we eat now?”
I turn to Alex for an explanation, but his mou
th pinches. He’s sworn to secrecy. He shoves his phone into his pocket, and together, we move to the table. Toby’s pale, sweating so profusely that translucent beads shimmer over his nose.
“Maybe I overreacted,” he says.
“To what?” I ask, sitting beside him. Then it dawns on me. He’s talking about the fight last spring. Toby told William he wanted to live with me after the divorce. William beat him up for it.
“He didn’t mean it,” Toby says, now.
“Oh, man,” Alex says, stuffing a fry into his mouth. “You’re calling that an accident?”
“Yes,” Toby states, and he’s trembling. “It was an accident.”
“He broke your fucking rib,” Alex says.
“So?”
“So? You know what it takes to break a rib? Shit, man, the velocity of the punch had to have been the equivalent of a minor car crash.”
Toby’s jaw clenches. He stares down at his plate. “He’s my dad.”
“He’s an asshole,” Alex says.
“Alex,” I snap.
Toby jumps to his feet. “Like your dad’s so much better?”
“Toby!”
“Yeah, actually he is,” Alex states, getting up from his seat. “He doesn’t need to beat up a kid to feel like a real man.”
“Stop it, both of you!” I yell. “Both your dads are flawed, each in his own particular way, okay? Happy now?”
“Not really,” Alex says.
“Well you should be! And you—” I say, jabbing a finger in Toby’s face. “No one has the right to hurt you, understand? Not your father or anyone else.”
Toby opens his mouth, but nothing comes out except short, throaty sounds. Finally, he rasps, “I miss him.”
We sit there a moment, no one uttering a word, the greasy burgers going cold and congealing on the plates. How is it that in a single moment, a situation can flip around and be the exact opposite of what one initially believed? All this time, I’ve badmouthed and demonized William without stopping to consider that for better or for worse, William is his father.
“Would you rather not proceed with the adoption?” I ask, the smell of burgers making my stomach turn.
Beauty Page 19