• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 766 0

first official day back to work. She arranges all the ingredients on the counter—four slices of challah bread, eggs, milk, cinnamon, powdered sugar, and syrup. Even freshly cut strawberries. She takes out a small bowl, a whisk, and a can of nonstick spray. She is nervous and calm at once, the way she feels before a big case when she knows she’s done everything she can to prepare but still feels worried about things out of her control. She tightens the belt of her fleecy white robe and shuffles over to the thermostat, turning it up to seventy-four, wanting Charlie to be warm when he comes down for breakfast, wanting everything to go right for him on this critical morning. Then she returns to the stove, where she whisks together the ingredients and sprays the bottom of her skillet as worrisome images flash in her head: Charlie falling off the monkey bars, tearing his new skin. Getting teased about his mask—or worse, teased if he chooses to take it off.

She shuts her eyes, tells herself what Nick has been telling her for days—that nothing is going to go wrong. That she has done everything she can to prepare for this day, including phoning the headmaster and school nurse and guidance counselor and Charlie’s lead teacher to let them all know that Charlie will be back, that she will walk him in rather than dropping him off in the usual car-pool line, that she wants to be contacted at the first hint of a problem—whether emotional or physical.

“French toast!” she hears Charlie say behind her. Surprised that he woke up on his own when she usually has to drag him out of bed, she turns around to see him in his pajamas, barefoot, holding his mask in one hand, the gold coin in the other. He is smiling. She smiles back at him, praying that he stays in this mood all day.

And he does, at least that whole morning, showing no signs of worry or fear as they go through their morning ritual—eating, dressing, brushing teeth and hair—then driving to school, listening to the disc of soothing music Nick burned for him last week.

When they arrive in the parking lot, Charlie puts on his mask, quickly and quietly, as Valerie debates whether to say something to him. Something momentous or at least comforting. Instead, she follows his lead, pretending that nothing is out of the ordinary on this day, coming around to the backseat, opening the door for him, resisting the urge to help him unbuckle his seat belt or take his hand.

As they walk in the main entrance, a cluster of older kids—Valerie guesses fourth or fifth graders—look up and stare at Charlie. A pretty girl with long, blond pigtails clears her throat and says, “Hi, Charlie,” as if she not only knows who he is, but knows every detail of his story.

Charlie whispers a barely audible hello, nestling closer to Valerie, taking her hand. Valerie feels herself tense, but when she looks down at him, she can see her son smiling. He is okay. He is happy to be back. He is braver than she is.

A few moments and hellos later, they arrive in his classroom, his two teachers and a dozen classmates gathering affectionately, enthusiastically, around him. Everyone but Grayson, that is, who is in the corner by the hamster cage with an expression she can’t quite place, the expression of a child who has overheard one too many adult conversations.

She lingers for as long as she can, casting occasional glances Grayson’s way, until Charlie’s lead teacher, Martha, a kindly grandmother type, flicks off the light, the signal for the children to go to the rug. At this point, Valerie hesitates, then leans down to kiss Charlie good-bye, whispering in his ear, “Be nice to Grayson today.”

“Why?” he says. His eyes flicker with confusion.

“Because he’s your friend,” she says simply.

“Are you still mad at his mommy?”

She looks at him, feeling shock and shame wash over her, wondering how he has interpreted such a thing, what conversation he overheard, what else Charlie has picked up over the past few weeks, unbeknownst to her.

“No. I’m not mad at his mommy,” she lies. “And I really like Grayson.”

Charlie reaches up