“Well, yeah, Eric, where else would she get suspended from?”
I ignore her sarcasm. “What for?”
Stephanie pauses. “She was caught smoking on school grounds.”
“Cigarettes?” I hiss, glancing at Latoya. She’s staring at me intently. I turn my back to her.
“Not exactly.”
“Pot?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus, Stephanie!”
“Calm down, Eric! It’s just a little weed. It’s not heroin.”
“Not today, it’s not.”
“Oh, don’t start with that gateway-drug crap. We smoked weed. It’s just something kids do.” I can’t believe she’s being so nonchalant about it.
“Not at fourteen!”
“Yes, at fourteen. We were seventeen. Not much difference. Look, I admit it was a bad choice, and I told her as much, but I don’t think we need to get apoplectic here.”
“No, I’m sure you don’t,” I say. “Put her on the phone.”
“No. She doesn’t want to talk to you,” she says. “And even if she did, she’s not here.”
I clench my teeth and speak in a low voice so Latoya can’t hear me. “She got suspended from school for drugs and you let her leave the house? What kind of mother are you?” As soon as it comes out, I know I shouldn’t have said it. I close my eyes and wait for the tsunami that’s coming.
“What kind of mother am I? Are you serious right now? I’m the kind of mother that’s here, which isn’t something that can be said for you, is it?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my free hand, recognizing the irony. No, I’m not there. I’m with my other child, who is currently in the hospital. “It’s only six months—and you agreed I should take it. That it would be the best thing,” I say wearily. “Look, let’s not— We promised we wouldn’t do this.”
“Yeah, well, we promised a lot of things to each other, didn’t we?” And then I hear a click as she ends the call.
I clutch the phone tighter, and resist the urge to chuck it down the hall and see it shatter into a hundred pieces. I hate when she does that—gets all pious about our divorce, as if she didn’t want it as much, if not more, than me. I take a deep breath and remember where I am. I compose my face and turn around to Latoya, who’s still sitting on the bench, wearing a worried expression.
“Where were we?” I ask, walking toward her.
She tilts her head skeptically, as if she wants to ask about the phone call, but then thankfully looks back down at her notes. “We’re concerned about your son’s emotional—”
“What exactly did he say to you?” I ask, cutting her off.
She lowers her eyes. “Well, not much,” she admits. “I asked him the standard questions: if he wanted to harm himself, if he had thought about it before, if he ever thought about harming others. He mostly ignored me.”
I nod, a little absurdly grateful that it’s not just me he ignores.
“But when I asked him if he meant to jump off that bridge, he said yes.”
I clear my throat. “I don’t think he meant that he was trying to commit suicide,” I say, and then pause, trying to figure out how to explain this. “He’s become quite interested in the idea of . . . mental powers recently. Telepathy, telekinesis, X-Men type stuff. I think what he was trying to do, last night—as ridiculous as it may sound—is levitate over the river.” I add a lame chuckle, trying to convey a Kids will be kids, eh? kind of tone, but the woman doesn’t smile.
She purses her lips and sits back. “I see,” she says. “You know those kind of delusions can be indicative of a larger psychiatric issue.”
“I know,” I say. “He’s been to counseling. A few times, anyway, and they were unable to commit to a diagnosis.”
“You also know that he may not be telling you the complete truth? I’m not saying your son’s a liar—not at all. But children aren’t always forthcoming with their parents.”
Ellie’s face flashes in my mind. “Tell me about it,” I say.
“And we can’t gloss over the real possibility that it was an attempted suicide,” she says.
I open my mouth to argue, but I’ve lost the will. I know Aja wasn’t trying to kill himself, but I also know what he was trying to do isn’t much better. We sit in silence for a few beats and then she picks up the briefcase beside her and opens it. She shuffles through the papers until she comes to the one she’s looking for. “OK, well, this is what I’d like to do, Mr. Keegan. Given the circumstances, I don’t think a psychiatric transfer for Aja is necessary at this point, but I would like to refer you to a number of pediatric mental health professionals—these are broken out by network. You’ll need to make an appointment within the week, and then that doctor will advise you on a further treatment plan.” She hands me a piece of a paper with a list of doctors’ names and telephone numbers. “I also think he’s in need of around-the-clock supervision. Do you work, Mr. Keegan?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Who brings Aja to school?”
“I do. I drop him off and then go to the train station.”
“Who watches Aja after school?”
“No one,” I admit, thinking of our routine the last few weeks. “He rides the bus, and I call to make sure he got in OK. Then he plays computer games and does homework until I get home. It’s only a couple of hours. I know it’s not ideal, but—”
“You’ll need to make other arrangements. He really should not be left alone, in case he decides to act again on these beliefs,” she says. “I’ll be drawing up a form that you’ll need to sign, stating that you agree with these requirements, before Aja can be released from the hospital. I’ll transfer the case to the Department of Children and Families, who will be performing follow-ups in the form of phone calls and a home visit to make sure you are adhering to these guidelines. Failure to do so could result in Aja being removed from your care.” She sounds like a typewriter moving at eighty words per minute—monotonous and perfunctory.
“Wait—slow down. Removed from my— You’re going to take him away from me?” Anger and fear are humming through my veins. I stand up so they have more room to circulate.
She puts her hand up. “Calm down, Mr. Keegan,” she says, her voice softer, as if she’s trying to soothe me with the tone. “I just need to make you aware of the standard procedures. If you follow these mandates, it’s very unlikely that will happen.”
“You’re damn right it won’t happen,” I say.