Page 102 of What Boys Learn

I kept trying to remember how I’d felt when Benjamin first started therapy—that, like my friend Marta, whose daughter, Camila, was in an inpatient program, I could appreciate the feeling of handing over control to another responsible adult, one who knew much more than I did—and on top of that, didn’t have my shameful past. I kept trying to locate a feeling of resolution, acceptance, or some kind of optimism. But instead, I only felt a sense of emptiness and foreboding.

I wanted to hear Benjamin’s voice. I wanted to see him. I wanted to tell him I loved him. Maybe he wasn’t an easy kid to love, but I did, even his wiseass remarks, even his impatience. I had always felt he might grow into his personality, or that he’d find new interests, or a purpose, or love, and all of that would make him feel more comfortable in his own skin, more tolerant of others, so that he’d no longer seem belligerent, only confident. I’d seen that happy, relaxed confidence at times.

I washed the few dishes I’d dirtied—a single plate and fork from dinner, a coffee cup from earlier. The garbage hadn’t needed emptying all week—one person, less waste—and I hadn’t checked the mail daily since Monday evening. I’d already changed into an oversized nightshirt that went down to my knees. Half dressed and barefoot, I walked around to the side of the house, where the mailbox and garbage cans were.

As soon as I opened the mailbox flap and saw the envelope—the third of its kind in two weeks—I tensed up. But then I told myself:Ewan can write all he wants to write. It doesn’t matter. Benjamin isn’t even here.

I walked slowly back around the house, opened the door, and continued to the kitchen, where I held the letter up to the light. The note inside was smaller than the previous ones had been, not even the full width of the envelope.

I could simply not open it. I didn’t have to give him the power of my immediate attention.

And then again, if I never read it, I’d think about it even longer.

I opened the envelope and took out the folded piece of unlined paper. In the very center was the briefest note Ewan had ever written.

Did it work?

I turned the note over. That was all of it.

Only three words, all in block letters. Three words that made my heart pound. I wanted to rip up the letter, but I knew I shouldn’t.

Didwhatwork?

God damn him!

I returned the folded note to its envelope, which I left on the kitchen counter. I willed myself to continue with my bedtime routine. I tried not to think about it, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it now.

Did it work?

The answer came to me in the bathroom, just as I stuck my toothbrush in my mouth. I remembered the day in the car, on the way home from the police station. The discussion about the naked photo of Izzy. Benjamin’s assertion that he’d kept it as a way to threaten Manny. His cocky assertion that it had been smart.

Good advice.

Good advice from who?

Benjamin hadn’t answered while we were in the car, but not much later, I’d decided it had to be Ewan.

Advice given, advice taken. Stupid. Enraging. But it was over. At least Benjamin hadn’t read this latest note. At least Ewan wouldn’t get the satisfaction of an answer.

I finished brushing, shaking my head and breathing hard through my nose.

If it was really over, why was my heart still beating too fast, my chest tight and my vision starting to dim around the edges?

I washed my face and resoaked the washcloth in cold water before placing it on the back of my neck. I walked back to the front door to check one last time that it was locked.

In the kitchen, I took the recently washed glass from the drying rack and filled it with cold tap water. I reached into my purse. I pulled the clonidine bottle out and set the pill on my tongue, hand on the water glass I was about to bring to my mouth.

Did it work?

The pill dissolved, bitterness coating my tongue.

It wasn’t about the photo of Izzy.

When I felt the glass slip through my fingers, I didn’t yelp. I didn’t curse. I just stared at the exploded shards and spilled water at my feet. Then I carefully stepped over the mess and proceeded to the far corner of the living room.

My feet were wet from the water. My mouth was abnormally dry. The bitter chalky taste remained.

I looked down to the bottom shelf, at the thickPhysician’s Desk Reference—the book that had gone missing, though I hadn’t been able to figure it out at the time. It was back in place now, in the middle of my college psychology textbooks, filling the slot that had puzzled me.