At Risk

by Alice Hoffman

  “You have to drink,” Polly tells Amanda, but Amanda insists she can’t swallow.

  All that night Ivan and Polly take turns sitting up with Amanda, forcing her to take small sips of water, carrying her to the bathroom whenever she has to go because her legs hurt too much to walk. Outside, it begins to rain, a cold rain that rattles the windows and shakes the last few leaves from the trees. At five-thirty in the morning Polly phones Ed Reardon and tells his wife that she needs Ed immediately. He’s at their house before six. He manages to talk Amanda into swallowing some water, and, as soon as he listens to her lungs, he knows it won’t be long until he has to check her back into Children’s. Polly has not mentioned anything to him about difficulty in breathing, but Amanda’s lungs are filled with fluid.

  “You’re having trouble breathing,” Ed says.

  “No, I’m not,” Amanda says stubbornly.

  “Okay,” Ed says to her. He knows she is inches from another case of pneumocystis. It’s this kind of recurrence he’s been afraid of all along.

  “Try to sleep,” he tells Amanda.

  “Can you send Charlie up?” Amanda asks. “Just for a minute.”

  “Sure thing,” Ed Reardon says.

  He goes downstairs to the kitchen, where Polly and Ivan are waiting. Charlie is at the table eating an English muffin with peanut butter. He’s still in his pajamas and he looks sleepy.

  “She wants to see you for a minute, Charlie old man.” Ed tells him.

  “Me?” Charlie says, surprised and a little frightened.

  “Go on,” Ed Reardon tells him.

  Charlie looks at his father, who nods at him. As soon as Charlie’s out of the room Ed says, “Get someone to stay with Charlie. She may have to go back into the hospital tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.”

  “No,” Polly says. “Not this time.”

  As long as Amanda is home she’s just a sick girl, down with the flu, like hundreds, thousands of other sick girls.

  “We all knew this might happen,” Ed Reardon says.

  Ivan turns to the wall and punches it. Bits of plaster fall onto the floor like white dust. Ivan is crying; he’s not making a sound, but he’s shaking all over. It’s a terrible thing to see; his fury paralyzes Polly. Ed goes over to Ivan and puts a hand on his shoulder, but Ivan jerks away. When Ivan finally does turn toward Ed his face is wet.

  “This is my daughter!” Ivan says. “She’s eleven years old.”

  Upstairs, Charlie stands at the threshold of Amanda’s room. He knocks once on the open door.

  “Come here,” Amanda says when she sees him. “Hurry.”

  Charlie swallows and walks inside.

  “I want you to see the coach. You have to tell him why I wasn’t at the meet yesterday.”

  Amanda’s voice is hot and hoarse. She sounds upset, crazy even.

  “Okay,” Charlie says.

  “You have to explain,” Amanda says.

  “All right. I will.”

  “You won’t forget?” Amanda says.

  Charlie shakes his head. She looks old lying there in bed. She looks too white.

  “Will you find out what the score was for me?” Amanda asks.

  “I’ll come home right after school,” Charlie tells her.

  Charlie feels scared all the way to school. He bikes hard and he’s sweating when he gets to his classroom. He watches the clock all morning. They’re still on the Civil War, but Charlie couldn’t listen even if he wanted to. At eleven they all get lined up to go to the art room. They have art every Friday, and Charlie has been working on a papier-mâché brontosaurus whose head keeps falling off. Charlie waits to make certain he’ll be at the end of the line. In the hallway, he lags behind the other kids, and when they start to file into the art room, he ducks into the boys’ room. He stays in a closed stall, his heart pounding, until he hears it grow quiet in the hall. Then he goes back out and heads for the gym. He passes a fifth-grade teacher, but Charlie just acts as if he has a right to be in the hall, and the teacher doesn’t bother to ask where he’s going.

  When he gets to the gym, Charlie feels even more scared. He’s been feeling like this all day, and he can’t shake it. There’s a class in the gym, but Charlie opens the door anyway and slips inside. The fifth-graders are here for their gym period, and Charlie recognizes some of the boys who are always giving the third- and fourth-graders a hard time. Some boys are practicing on the rings, and lines of girls and boys are taking turns tumbling. Charlie doesn’t see Coach Eagan because he’s way in the back, holding the tail end of the rope as a boy shimmies up toward the ceiling.

  “Hey, you!” the coach yells from across the gym.

  Charlie turns to him, rigid.

  “That’s right, you! Are you supposed to be here?”

  Some of the fifth-graders snicker.

  “Well, go on,” the coach says to Charlie. “Out.”

  Charlie stands where he is.

  The coach hands the rope over to a tall boy, then walks toward Charlie.

  “Listen, son,” the coach says. “This is no joke. Get to where you’re supposed to be now.”

  “Amanda sent me to talk to you,” Charlie says. He wishes now he had peed when he was in the boys’ room.

  The coach looks at Charlie carefully. He doesn’t know many of the kids from the lower grades; Rose usually teaches their gym periods.

  “I’m her brother, Charlie.” Charlie’s voice breaks. “She couldn’t come to the meet because she was sick. She just wanted you to know that.”

  The coach nods and stands next to Charlie. He puts one hand on Charlie’s head. His hand is heavy. Charlie could swear it weighs ten pounds.

  “She’s a great kid,” Jack Eagan says.

  “Yes, sir,” Charlie quickly agrees. He doesn’t know if he’s ever actually called anyone sir before. He looks straight ahead, afraid to move. Directly across from him, a boy fumbles on the rings.

  “That was my best event,” Jack Eagan says when he notices Charlie staring at the rings. He takes his hand off Charlie’s head. “Ever try it?”

  “No, sir,” Charlie says.

  “Come on,” the coach says. When Charlie doesn’t follow him, he turns back and says, “Come on,” again, as if Charlie were deaf. When they get to the rings the coach says, “Get off, Simpson.”

  The boy having trouble drops to his feet.

  “Let’s see you get up,” the coach says to Charlie.

  Charlie looks at the coach. Then, terrified, he leaps as high as he can and grabs onto the rings.

  “Good,” the coach says. “Now pull yourself up.”

  Charlie can feel every muscle in his body as he pulls himself up.

  “Stick your legs straight out,” the coach says.

  Charlie does it, even though his legs are shaking. It’s crazy, but he could swear he feels himself growing stronger. His legs stop shaking and then he lets go and falls to his feet.

  “Not bad,” the coach says. “Ever think about gymnastics?”

  “No, sir. I hate sports. Except for soccer.”

  Jack Eagan nods, displeased. As far as he’s concerned, soccer isn’t even an American sport.

  “What grade are you in?”

  “Third,” Charlie says.

  “Well, let me know if you change your mind by fifth,” the coach says.

  “All right,” Charlie says.

  The coach gets his clipboard and writes Charlie a note.

  “Just give this to your teacher if she asks where you’ve been.”

  “Amanda wanted to know what the score was last night,” Charlie says.

  “Tell her we won,” Jack Eagan says.

  Charlie gets home at a little after two. His father is home and his grandparents are already there, even though it’s only Friday. Charlie knows things are bad because it’s so quiet in the house, and when he tries to go upstairs, his father stops him.

  “We don’t want any noise up there,” Ivan tells him.

  “I have to tell her
something,” Charlie says.

  “It can wait,” Ivan says.

  “No, it can’t!” Charlie insists.

  Charlie starts to run up the stairs, and when his father follows him and yanks him by his arm, Charlie pulls free and hits Ivan. He hits him hard, and then, terrified by what he’s done, Charlie backs away. His breathing is raspy and his chest hurts. “Sorry,” he says. Charlie can’t look at his father, but he can hear Ivan breathing hard, too.

  Ivan sits down on the stairs. He looks tired and he looks old and that just makes Charlie feel worse.

  “What do you have to tell her that’s so important?” Ivan says.

  “She asked me to find out if her team won,” Charlie says. “Last night.”

  “Well?” Ivan says.

  “Well, they did,” Charlie says. His face is hot and he feels as if he’s going to cry. “That’s all.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Ivan says. “Do your homework downstairs today.”

  “Why?” Charlie says, nervous.

  “Because I said to,” Ivan tells him. He gets up and starts to go upstairs, then he thinks better of it. He goes back down to the bottom of the stairs. “Because Amanda is very sick,” he says.

  “Sick enough to die?” Charlie says.

  “Yes,” Ivan says. “Sick enough to die.”

  Ivan stands there on the stairs, crying.

  “Okay,” Charlie says, after a while. “I’ll do my homework downstairs.”

  Ivan wipes his eyes and nods. “Good boy,” he says.

  Upstairs, Polly and Claire are trying to keep Amanda’s fever down. Amanda has strictly forbidden her father’s and grandfather’s presence in the room when she’s undressed, and as soon as she sees Ivan she tries to grab the sheet to hide herself.

  “Charlie has a message for you,” Ivan tells Amanda. “You won last night.”

  Amanda smiles and holds the sheet tighter.

  “Out of here,” Claire tells Ivan. “No men allowed. Isn’t that right?” she says to Amanda.

  Amanda nods and Ivan backs out of the room.

  “This always helps,” Claire says. She soaks a washcloth in a basin of water, then runs the cloth along Amanda’s bare arms.

  “Ooh,” Amanda says, and she shivers.

  Claire and Polly look at each other across the bed. Claire didn’t have time to pack the way she usually does, and she’s borrowed a dress from Polly that pulls across the front where it buttons. As soon as they’re done sponging her down, Polly and Claire quickly pull the covers up over Amanda. Polly is fine until she thinks of a time, long ago, when she had a fever and her mother sponged her down all afternoon; she never once left the room, except to get more cool water.

  “Go lie down for a few minutes,” Claire tells Polly. Polly nods and goes to her room, but she doesn’t lie down. When Ivan comes looking, she’s still sitting on the edge of the bed. Ivan sits down next to her and runs his hand down her back. Polly looks at him as if she didn’t know him.

  “Come downstairs,” Ivan says. “Your mother’s made coffee. You know your father always says she makes the best coffee in the world.”

  Polly shakes her head; then she gets up and goes to the closet. She rummages on the shelves, behind the shoes, until she finds what she’s looking for. Her old Polaroid. There are two boxes of film cartridges beside it.

  “Polly,” Ivan says.

  She ignores him. She flips open the flash.

  “The last good picture I took of her was before the summer.

  I don’t have time to develop film, so this way I’ll have the photograph right now. What if it was happening and I didn’t have a picture of her?”

  “It is happening,” Ivan says.

  “I haven’t taken one picture of her with her braces off, but you don’t give a damn,” Polly says. “Nobody gives a damn.” She rips open the box of film and slides it into the Polaroid. “Stop looking at me,” Polly says to Ivan when she’s loaded the camera. “I’m not insane.”

  Ivan tries to laugh, but his voice cracks. He gets up and starts to walk to Polly.

  “Stop where you are!” Polly says.

  Ivan stands in the center of their room. His hands reach down as though gravity were claiming him. He’s wearing a blue shirt, a pair of brown corduroy pants, an old sweater that has leather patches on the elbows. Polly lifts the camera and takes his photograph. There is a Hash of light, then a wrenching sound as the Polaroid spits out the photograph.

  “There you are,” Polly says.

  She walks to Ivan and hands him the photograph. As his photograph develops, from a blank white space to his image, Polly holds Ivan tightly. He smells good, and he feels good, too, the way he always has; this could be years ago, this could be the first day they met. She has never told anyone, but she knew as soon as she saw him that she’d marry Ivan. It was less love at first sight than some deep knowledge that he was the man she would someday fall in love with.

  Polly goes out into the hall with her camera. She stops outside Amanda’s room and looks in. Al is sitting on a chair by the bed. He’d been reading the comics to Amanda, but she’s fallen asleep and the Globe is open on his lap.

  “Hi, kid,” he says softly to Polly when he sees her.

  Amanda’s hair is fanned out on the pillow. She’s curled up, knees to chest, and her breathing is thick and loud. When Polly leaves this room she will phone Ed Reardon and ask him to meet them at the hospital. But right now she lifts the Polaroid and takes her daughter’s photograph. The night Amanda was born there was lightning. Polly could feel the air pressure pushing down inside her body, and the first thing she thought when her water broke was, “Oh, no. I don’t want to lose this baby,” because that’s what it felt like. Giving birth, no longer having her child within her, seemed like a terrible loss. And when they held Amanda up and Polly saw her for the first time, she burst into tears. All these years later she can still remember what that moment felt like, she can still remember the lightning in the sky.

  Polly stands beside her father, her hand on his shoulder, until Amanda opens her eyes.

  “Hi,” Amanda says when she sees them watching her.

  “We’re going to the hospital,” Polly says.

  Amanda nods and sits up a bit. “I just want to do one thing,” she says. “I want to make out a will.”

  “Absolutely not,” Polly says quickly. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Amanda looks at her grandfather, and she’s relieved when he nods.

  “Dad!” Polly says when he gets up and goes to Amanda’s desk.

  Al gets a notebook and a Bic pen. He comes back to Polly and puts his arm around her.

  “Let her do this,” Al says, softly, so Amanda will not hear.

  Polly bites her lip and nods. She has to turn away when Al sits down and opens the notebook, but she doesn’t leave the room.

  “I want Jessie to have all my jewelry,” Amanda says. “Most of it’s in my jewelry box, but I have some hidden in my top drawer. I want you and Grandma to have my art folder.”

  “Ah,” Al says. “An art folder.” All he has to do is write down the words and not think about them.

  “I want Laurel to have all my cassettes and my cassette player.”

  “Laurie?” Al asks. He knows how important it is for him to get this right.

  “Laurel,” Amanda corrects him. “I don’t have too much that Charlie would want, but he can have my gym bag, for collecting specimens. I want my mom and dad to have everything else.”

  “I’ve got that all down,” Al says. He finishes writing and puts down the pen.

  “I think I have to sign my name to it,” Amanda says.

  “You’re right,” Al says. He brings the notebook over to the bed and puts the pen in Amanda’s hand so that she can sign her name. That’s when Polly turns to look, so she can always remember Amanda as she is right now, straining to sign over everything she owns, still finding something worth giving.

  Charlie and Al and Claire stand in the fro
nt yard for a long time. Across the street there are still pumpkins on the porches and black cats taped to the windows. After she’d been carried into the Blazer, Amanda looked out her window and waved to them. Charlie can’t stop remembering that, the way her hand moved like a piece of white paper.

  “It’s cold out here,” Claire says.

  “You’re right,” Al agrees.

  They start for the house, then stop.

  “Charlie?” Al says.

  “I’m not going in there,” Charlie says. He’s still looking at the place in the driveway where the Blazer was parked.

  “Charlie,” Claire says.

  “Let him be,” Al tells her.

  Charlie stands on the lawn while his grandparents go inside. In a little while the door opens again and Charlie winces. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, but it’s not his grandmother, it’s just Al. Al comes up behind him and stands out there with him.

  “Amanda left something for you,” Al says. When Charlie doesn’t answer Al asks, “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you,” Charlie says.

  “I think she’d want you to have it now.”

  Charlie faces Al, and when he sees his sister’s gym bag he takes it and walks into the house. He goes down to the basement and gets the Minolta, the light meter, the flash, and a new box of film, puts them all into the gym bag, then goes back upstairs.

  “I know what we’ll do,” his grandmother says when she sees him. “We’ll play canasta.”

  “I’m going to go for a ride,” Charlie says.

  “Does your mother allow you to do that?” Claire asks, worried.

  “Of course she does,” Al says. “Give the boy a break.”

  “I want you back here in one hour,” Claire tells Charlie. “Don’t stay out any later than that.”

  Al squeezes Charlie’s shoulder, then lets him go. Charlie runs out to his bike, gets on, and pedals as hard as he can. He rides for a long time. He goes past the marsh, and out on the road to the beach where he’s not allowed to go. The salt air here makes his eyes sting; it hurts his lungs when he breathes too deeply. He goes farther than he’s ever gone alone. By the time he circles around to the pond, more than an hour has passed. His grandmother is probably going crazy, but he doesn’t care. The path he follows is covered with wet leaves; last night’s rain has made the path slick, it’s dangerous for bike riding, but Charlie just goes faster. This is the time of year when it’s easy to see deer. The time, too, when there are likely to be fresh bullet holes in the DEER CROSSING signs.