“How did it happen?” I ask.
“I don’t know . . . I swear she must be going through post-traumatic stress syndrome where she sort of blanked out the details.”
“She doesn’t remember anything?”
“Not really . . . No specifics, although she was right there, along with Daniel, carefully supervising . . . But at some point, Daniel ran in to get more Hershey bars or graham crackers or marshmallows . . . and Romy was alone with the boys .. . and I guess a few of them started to roughhouse . . . and somehow Charlie must have tripped and fallen . . . She can’t remember anything after that, other than yelling at Daniel to call 911 . . . God, it’s just so awful.”
“Horrible,” I murmur, picturing the gruesome, terrifying scene.
“I mean, I’ve never seen Romy so upset. She’s usually cool as a cucumber about everything. . . But now. . . She’s mostly worried about Charlie, of course, but Grayson, too. She said he cried himself to sleep—and then woke up with nightmares. She’s going to make an appointment with a child psychiatrist to deal with everything.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I can imagine.”
“And of course this is totally off the record, but Romy and Daniel are freaking out about a potential lawsuit. . .”
“Do you really think they’ll sue?’ I say, thinking of the drama chat would unfold if one parent in a class sued another. And I thought it was bad when a little boy in Ruby’s class bit another child last week.
“She,” April says. “There is no father. She’s a single mother . . . And nobody really knows her too well. . . Of course, I sent out an e-mail to the other mothers and teachers, letting everyone know what happened . . . But so far, nobody has spoken to her . . . at least as far as I know . . . So it’s really anybody’s guess what she’ll do.”
“Right,” I say, feeling myself tense for a reason I can’t quite place. “I’m sure she’s not even thinking along those lines right now.”
“Of course not,” April says, realizing that her focus, too, might be insensitive. As such, she quickly adds, “So how’s he doing? Charlie?”
“Um . . . I’m not really sure,” I say. “Nick and I haven’t really discussed the specifics . . . I didn’t realize there was... a connection.”
“Oh. Well. . . can you ask him?”
“Uh . . . yeah . . . hold on a sec,” I say. Then I look at Nick who vehemently shakes his head, clearly sensing the direction of the conversation. This is no surprise; when it comes to ethics, Nick is by the book.
Sure enough, he whispers, “C’mon, Tess. You know I can’t discuss my patients like that. . .”
“Should I tell her that?”
“I don’t know . . . Just tell her something general—you know, that I haven’t declared the burns yet. That it’s too soon to tell.”
“Declared?” I say, recognizing the terminology but forgetting the exact meaning.
“Whether they’re second or third degree. Whether he’ll need surgery,” he says, his voice becoming impatient.
I nod and then walk into the family room, just out of Nick’s earshot, and say, “Hey, I’m back.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, from what I understand,” I say, clearing my throat, “the boy’s face and hand are burned pretty bad . . . but that’s off the record. You know, patient confidentiality and all.”
April sounds the slightest bit defensive as she tells me she totally understands. “I just hope he’s okay. I feel so bad for everyone involved . . .”
“Yeah. It’s really awful. Things can happen so quickly,” I say, wondering why I feel conflicted in this conversation. I tell myself that there are no sides to be taken.
“I think Romy’s going over to the hospital tomorrow,” she says. “To bring a care package and try to speak to the boy’s mother . . . And I’m going to organize a dinner drop-off or something. Pass along a sign-up sheet over at the school. People will want to help. It’s such an amazing community—a really tight-knit place.”
“Have you met her? Charlie’s mother?” I ask, identifying with her rather than Romy, although I’m not sure why.
“No. Although I remember her from the open house the other night.” April then launches into a physical description, saying, “She’s very petite . . . and pretty in a plain sort of way. Dark, straight hair—that slippery wash-and-go kind. She looks young, too . . . so young that you wonder if it wasn’t a teenaged-pregnancy sort of thing . . . Although I could be totally wrong about that. She could be a widow for all I know.”
“Right,” I say, feeling sure that April will get to the bottom of things soon.
She continues, as if reading my mind. “I don’t want to get overly involved, but I am involved . . . You know, as Romy’s friend and a mother at the school. . . And, in a way, as a friend of yours and Nick’s. Jeez, I can’t believe what a small world it is. . .”