At Risk Part 15

"No time for me," Ed says. "I have approximately three hundred office visits today."

He's going to get into his car and drive to his office. He's going to see patients all morning, then order a sandwich from the South Street Cafe and have it at his desk. At a little after six, he'll drive home. He knows what he's going to do and when he has to do it, and none of it includes running off. Not to New Mexico, or Martha's Vineyard, or France.

"Save your first smile without braces for me," Ed tells Amanda.

"Not a chance," Ivan says. "I've already got dibs on that."

"Good luck," Ed says to Amanda, but he's looking at Polly.

"Thanks for stopping by," Polly calls, as if it had been a social visit; she makes certain not to turn around until he's gone.

They drop Charlie off at school, then drive south on 1-93, toward Boston. At the office in Brookline, Dr. Rothstein takes longer removing the braces than they'd expected. Polly and Ivan hold hands in the waiting room. They're trying not to think about the bill he'll send them or what their insurance will and will not cover for the rest of Amanda's medical treatments. They'll sell the Blazer if they have to. Polly can always go back to photographing weddings and birthday parties. She'd be better at that now, she wouldn't feel so compromised.

Up until the very last minute, when Dr. Roth-stein actually came into the waiting room to welcome them, Polly and Ivan weren't certain he wouldn't change his mind. When he came out of his office he shook Amanda's hand, then led her along the hallway. Once she was in the chair, he put on two pairs of rubber gloves and a surgical mask and he got to work. He talks to Amanda mostly about his dogs,- he's a fanatic about West Highland terriers. He shows them all over New England, and he's about to breed them, in case Amanda knows anyone who's looking for a puppy with great bloodlines. Amanda's mouth hurts from keeping it open for so long, but she's used to that from visits to Dr. Crosbie. She grunts sometimes when Dr. Rothstein leaves places in his conversation for a comment. He used to have collies, but he couldn't take all their shedding. He can fit both his Westies into a shopping bag and sneak them onto airplanes and trams. They're so well behaved they never make a sound.

When he uses the drill to cut through the metal wires, Amanda closes her eyes. The noise goes right through her and she holds onto the arms of her chair because the braces hurt just as much coming off as they did going on. Dr. Rothstein is wearing protective goggles over his eyes,- he doesn't mention the fact that she's sick, but he's very nice to her. Never paper-train a dog, he tells her, if you do you'll just have one more habit to break him of. Amanda nods, agreeing with him. He puts something metal into a metal bowl and the sound sends s.h.i.+vers down Amanda's spine.

"Think about a Westie puppy," Dr. Rothstein says. "I'd give you pick of the litter."

When he's done, Amanda rinses out her mouth and spits into the little sink. She runs her tongue over her teeth. The naked enamel feels cold. Dr. Rothstein takes off his goggles, his mask, and his gloves. After he scrubs up he takes a mirror and faces Amanda.

"Ready?" he asks her. ; Amanda nods, although she's not sure she is. What if she's uglier than she was before? What if her teeth are just as crooked?

"You're sure?" the orthodontist asks.

"I'm sure," Amanda says.

He holds up the mirror and Amanda takes a deep breath, which she doesn't let out till she sees her face looming in front of her. She leans forward and tentatively opens her mouth. Then she smiles. And even though she tries to keep her mouth closed, she's still smiling when she walks out into the waiting room because now she knows. She would have been beautiful.

No one comes to their door on Halloween night. They can hear whoops of laughter as children outside go careening down the sidewalks, ringing doorbells and rattling their bags of candy. In the front hallway there's a bowl of Milky Ways and Almond Joys and a gla.s.s jar of pennies for UNICEE Charlie, who advised everyone he was too old for trick-or-treating, has the TV turned on. At a little after eight, Ivan sits down beside him on the couch and tosses him a Milky Way. They might as well eat them, no one else will.

"What are we watching?" Ivan says as he unwraps a candy bar for himself. Amanda and Polly are upstairs in Amanda's room playing Scrabble in bed,- Amanda has a sore throat, and every so often Polly comes downstairs for cough drops or tea.

"Halloween III," Charlie says flatly.

There's someone with a big knife and a lot of terrified teenage girls.

"I don't think you're old enough for this," Ivan says.

"I've already seen it," Charlie tells him. "It gets really gross."

"What do you say we go trick-or-treating together?" Ivan suggests.

"Dad," Charlie says tiredly. "I really don't want to. Really."

When the doorbell rings, Charlie and Ivan look at each other.

"Trick-or-treaters,"- Ivan says triumphantly.

He grabs a couple of candy bars and goes to the door. There's a grown-up' witch out there, in a black cape and tall black hat. Ivan stares at her and holds fast to the Milky Ways.

"It's all right," Laurel Smith tells him. "I'm a good witch."

Ivan laughs and opens the door. When Laurel comes inside there's a rush of cold, sweet air. There are some yellow leaves stuck to the bottom of her black boots. Over each eyelid Laurel wears a streak of silver shadow.

"It's a witch," Ivan calls to Charlie. "What's this?" he says to Laurel when he notices the wicker basket on her arm.

"Treats," Laurel says.

"You're a little confused," Ivan says. "We're supposed to give you something."

Charlie stands in the living room doorway, his mouth open. His feet are bare and his s.h.i.+rt is small for him; a line of skin shows along his stomach and his wrists look too narrow. Laurel Smith reaches into her wicker basket and pulls out a paper bag marked with his name; inside there are chocolates and a yo-yo that glows in the dark.

"This is for you," Laurel Smith says.

"That's okay," Charlie says. He hasn't moved from the doorway. "I don't need anything."

Ivan takes the paper bag. "I'll save it for him," he tells Laurel. "In case he changes his mind."

Charlie backs up, so that Laurel Smith can get past him and go up the stairs. Even dressed all in black, she's really pretty. Charlie wants whatever she's brought him, but he wanted to go trick-or-treating, too. He and Sevrin had both planned to steal shaving cream from their fathers and attack every parked car on the street. Charlie goes back into the living room and throws himself on the couch; he turns up the volume on the TV until he can no longer hear Laurel's footsteps upstairs in the hallway.

Laurel knocks, twice, then opens the bedroom door. She's already talked this surprise visit over with Polly, but Polly acts just as surprised as Amanda when Laurel swirls into the room.

"Trick or treat!" Laurel grins.

"Oh, my goodness, a witch!" Polly shouts.

Amanda gets- out from under the covers and jumps up so quickly that the Scrabble board tilts and letters fall all over the floor.

"You're so beautiful!" Amanda says in a hoa.r.s.e, whispery voice.

"Well, thank you!" Laurel says. "And just for that, I've got a basketful of treats for you."

Polly gets up. "I'll make some tea," she tells them. "Don't eat everything before I get back."

Laurel sits down next to Amanda on the bed, the wicker basket on her lap. Amanda's nightgown is too big for her and her hair is knotted. She moves closer to Laurel.

"Are there a lot of kids out trick-or-treating?" Amanda asks.

Laurel Smith nods.

"I'm afraid," Amanda says.

"I know," Laurel says.

Laurel leans down and puts her wicker basket on the floor. Inside there are chocolate tarts, and strands of plastic beads that look like rubies and pearls. There are chocolates made in Holland in the shape of apples and oranges and a gold headband with rhinestone chips. Tonight, as Laurel drove along the marsh road, there was a big full moon, so perfect and white it was like a child's drawing of a moon.

"I'm really afraid," Amanda whispers in a small, raw voice.

As Laurel Smith puts her arms around the girl, her black cape makes a rustling sound. They hold fast to each other, rocking, and they stay that way for a long time, not because they think it will change anything, but because they don't want to let go of each other just yet.

Amanda's temperature doesn't begin to rise until midnight. Once it begins, her fever keeps on climbing until the following afternoon, the day of the Clarkson meet, when it reaches 103. Amanda has awful pains in her joints, especially in her wrists and her knees. When she breathes it hurts, when she tries to turn over she cries. She's miserable and upset about missing the meet, and she refuses to eat or drink. Polly, who's afraid of dehydration, brings up gla.s.ses of water and lemonade.

"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 m.u.f.fin with peanut b.u.t.ter. 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 hoa.r.s.e. 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 cla.s.sroom. 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-mache 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 pa.s.ses 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 cla.s.s 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 hoys 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 s.h.i.+mmies 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.