A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (56 page)

And now here we are again. This picture thing goddamn. I should start packing his stuff up. Will the foster family be nice? Will he take good pictures for them? Foster families. Foster families.

“
Toph, this is so bad. You know what people will think. You just know. I won
’
t be able to go to the school now.
”

He
’
s making a milkshake.

“
Can you turn that thing off?
”

“
It
’
s almost done.
”

“
Jesus, Toph. I can
’
t do the next open house, I can
’
t see them now because now they
’
ve got the proof they want. Your teachers! They must think I
’
m beating you. Do they talk to you like I
’
m beating you?
”

“
What are you talking about?
”

“
This is so bad.
”

“
Why?
”

“
You
’
re not unhappy.
”

“
Yeah, so.
”

“
So you
’
re not allowed to look or sound unhappy.
”

“
Fine.
”

“
Because that
’
s what people expect.
”

“
Sorry.
”

“
And you didn
’
t tell me the pictures were even happening.
”

“
They sent a notice.
”

“
They did not.
”

“
Fine.
”

This could be the time to escape. We should pack and go. They might be on their way already, the child welfare people. What kind of car would they drive? A big truck or something.
Or undercover!
We
’
re surrounded already. We could go out the other door, by the laundry room. We go out the door, wearing disguises—what disguises? Capes! We
do
have capes!—we go out and get to the car and then
get
provisions, some fruit, salted meats, yes, then we head for where? Mexico? Central America? No, no—Canada. Then we do home-schooling. We farm and do home schooling. Oh, but Canada. Will he start saying
aboot?
We both will. And
sorry
like
sore-y.
Can
’
t have that. We
’
ll have to be vigilant...

“
I just don
’
t
get
why you didn
’
t smile.
”

“
I thought I did. I did for some of them.
”

“
And they picked this one?
”

“
I guess.
”

Maybe this was part of their plan. They pick the sad picture so they can take him away. Or else the photographer is some kind of child slave trader. He
’
s hooked in with the child welfare agency and he gets them to give him the kids and then sells them to white slavery operations in.. .where are the white slavery operations, anyway? And what kind of cars do
they
drive?

“
I just wish you
’
d help me out here, Toph.
”

“
I said sorry.
”

“
I mean, you know how bad this makes me look, makes us look? They
’
re going to be bringing over more fruit baskets now. They
’
re going to be baking us bundt cakes.
”

“
What
’
s a bundt cake?
”

“
It
’
s like a big donut.
”

“
Huh.
”
He
’
s halfway through his milkshake. Trying to put on some weight.

I look at the picture again. So pretty, in a way. The yellow shirt
matches his hair, so blond after that sunny September and all the time at the beach.. And the background, light blue, just right, matches his eyes. The eyes that say
Help Me!
And there
’
s not one but six of these pictures, a grid of them, then four bigger ones below, and then this huge one Jesus christ! All these pleading Tophs, Eleven Tophs saying
Look at my sad life, you people, you viewers of junior-high pictures! Class, teachers, see my eyes, which have seen too much! Erase my past, start me over, let me be like you and everyone, normal and happy happy. Watch me smile for my school picture! Save me from him, because every night before dinner he
’
s asleep on the couch and so dead to the world, and when he can
’
t get up he tugs on my shirt and begs, he makes me cook for us and then later, once awake, he
’
s so tense, staring at the screen, writing something he won
’
t let me see, and he falls asleep in my bed and I have to push him out and then he
’
s up half the night and
—

“
So what do you want for dinner?
”

“
Taco.
”

“
We had taco Sunday.
”

“
So?
”

“
If you cook it you can have taco.
”

“
Do we have meat?
”

“
No. You have to get it.
”

“
Can I get something else?
”

“
Like what?
”

“
Root beer.
”

“
Fine. Wake me up when it
’
s ready.
”

Will I ever get this picture out of my head? Will we ever live it down? Is it as sad as it looks? I know it means nothing but how can it look so transparent? Do any of the other kids look so sad? The girl whose mom and dad are getting divorced—is she crying? God no. These kids, they know the score. They know to protect their parents. But not Toph. All I do—I changed his sheets last week!—all that, and he gives me this.

My mom used to kill us when we took school pictures without
her knowledge, before she would approve of our outfits. Of course, there
’
s a reason we didn
’
t tell her about Picture Day, and that reason is spelled P-L-A-I-D. Did everyone wear that much plaid in the early 70s? It
’
s uncanny, but it seems like every picture we took before fifth grade featured plaid in some way, mostly in the pants category. And we matched, all three of us.

“
You know, we can
’
t send this out to anyone. I can
’
t even show it to Bill or Beth.
”

“
Then don
’
t.
”

“
I won
’
t.
”

“
Then don
’
t.
”

It might be right then that Marny calls. It might be the day before, or the day after, or the next week. I am at home, and Toph is on the couch, sighing through his math homework. The stereo
’
s on, and I have one speaker against the wall fighting the neighbors
’
must-see Thursday night lineup. The phone rings.

“
Shalini
’
s been in an accident.
”

“
What? A car?
”

“
No, no. You know that deck that collapsed in Pacific Heights?
”

“
Oh. No.
”

“
She
’
s in a coma. She fell four stories and landed on her head. They don
’
t know if she
’
s going to make it.
”

We go. I think we go right then. Maybe we wait until the morning. No, it must have been then, it must be right then that we go. Maybe it is not night that Marny calls. Maybe it is day, and I leave Toph alone. Or maybe I lock—

This is it:

It is midnight. Toph is in bed. Carla calls me from L.A.—she and Mark have moved to L.A. Shalini
’
s mother has called her, and Carla has called me. I leave. Shalini could be gone.

As I walk down the stairs, I know that someone will take this
opportunity to do something to Toph. I know it every time I leave Toph home alone, which I do often now, no more baby-sitters because he is thirteen and can be left, as long as the door to the apartment is locked, and the door to the building is locked, and the back door, that which leads down to the laundry room, is locked, then he
’
s fine, although that lock is weak and worthless, and so of course that
’
s the way through which the bad man will come. He will come through the back, because he has been watching, has been waiting for me to leave, knows I will be gone for a while because he has been listening to my phone conversation, and watching me through binoculars or a telescope. And when I leave he will come in, with his rope and wax—he is friends with Stephen, the Scot,
of course]
—and will take Toph and do things to him, because he knows I am out to look at Shalini, who is in a coma, who fell from a building.

I pick up Marny. Moodie meets us at the hospital.

Shalini
’
s family is there, the parents, her sister, a dozen cousins, uncles, aunts, some in saris, some not, other friends. The halls, shabbily shiny, are filled with people in small clumps, sitting on the floor, walking in and out of the waiting room, which has been entirely commandeered. One of the girls there had been at the party. We learn more details. It had been in Pacific Heights. Shalini had gone with a friend. They had walked around, ended up on the back deck, outside. There were maybe twenty people on it when it went, the supports giving way, and all the young people floating down. The friend Shalini had come with was dead. A dozen others were hospitalized, or had been and were released. Shal the worst among them. By all accounts she was lucky to be alive. Her head had broken her fall.

We wait in the hall, sitting on the floor. Then standing, walking, whispering. They are operating. Or maybe they have already operated. They have done many operations maybe—twenty, thirty, a hundred. At some point—maybe it is the next day—we are told
we can go inside the closed ward where Shalini is being kept. At the entrance to the ward we pick up a receiver, and a nurse answers and another comes to open the door. We walk past other rooms and then there she is—

Her face is broken, her eyes closed, inflamed, huge, red and purple, blue and red and purple and yellow and green and brown, her eye sockets black. She
’
s on a ventilator. They had told us about the knit cap, and there it is, covering her head because they shaved her head and removed part of her skull to alleviate the brain
’
s swelling. Her legs stick straight out, as if in splints, and are wrapped with fluid-filled leggings, blue and soft, like the masks worn during sleep—

Christ, they haven
’
t even cleaned the blood off her, at least not all that shit over her eye, I mean that
’
s—

But her arms are perfect. Her arms are smooth and brown, without a mark or bruise or blemish.

There is no one else in the room. Marny and Moodie and I don
’
t know what to do—if we are allowed to touch her, whether to touch her or whether to talk or just stand nearby, or just say hello, or pray, or walk by and leave— Don
’
t you talk to the comatose? They hear, correct? Like an unborn child they hear.

We stand on the other side of the room with our hands over our mouths, whispering sideways, unblinking, until an Indian woman, a cousin or friend, comes in and, without acknowledging us, walks straight to the sink, washes her hands, dries them, walks straight to Shalini and picks up her hand, holds it in both of hers and talks to her.