Page 42 of What Boys Learn

The woman placed her hand on my forehead, then moved it to the back of my skull, cradling it as I leaned back again. Too dizzy to sit up yet. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

“It wasn’t something I took. It’s something Ididn’ttake. It was a stress reaction, or, or . . . my mother. She had . . .”

High blood pressure, and later, a lethal stroke. My blood pressure was high, too. I was careful about it, usually.

Someone said, “Get her a juice, maybe?”

My eyelids got heavy again. Doors opened and the entryway filled with too many bodies in high-vis vests. Strangers kept asking me the same questions. What’s my name. Did I know where I was. What did I take. Did I have any health problems they should know about it. Was I on any prescriptions.

“Hypertension. I take clonidine.”

“How many hours ago was your last dose?” a paramedic asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Why did you go off it?”

“I ran out of pills in my purse, and I have my regular bottle somewhere, but I couldn’t find it. We just moved to a new apartment.”

“What you’re experiencing is withdrawal. Your heart rate and blood pressure got elevated, that’s all. Next time, talk with your physician before you decide to go off your prescription.”

“I wasn’t trying to go off it. Life just happened.”

The paramedic smiled. He looked so young. I bet his mother was proud of him. “Let’s transport you just to be sure.”

“No, I need to be with my son. They can’t question him without me, can they? He’s a minor. Where’s the detective?”

The hallway lights no longer shimmered. I enunciated more clearly, “We came in voluntarily. Where did the detective take my son?”

17

When they let me into the interview room, I saw an open can of Coke and a flattened SunChips bag, Benjamin’s hand scraping for the last crumbs as he mumbled in a low monotone.

“Hey,” I said, even before the door closed behind me, waving my hands. “Stop talking. Benj. Hey!”

“Whoa there,” Hernández said, brow furrowed. “You can’t be here if you’re agitated.”

“I’m his mother. I have a right to be here, agitated or not.”

“Not necessarily. You have a right to be advised we are questioning your son—”

“You didn’t say anything about ‘questioning.’ This was not the impression I got from your call, Detective.”

The sweet chubby-cheeked detective who had interviewed me briefly the day after Sidney’s death looked like someone else, now. Thick eyebrowed, scowling. No dimple. Good cop and bad cop in one person.

“I asked you to bring Benjamin in,” he said. “And you did. Which was smart. It always looks better that way.”

I shifted my attention to Benjamin. “Did they explain what they’re doing? Did they offer you a lawyer?”

“Mom.”

“This isnotthe time for ‘Mom.’”

The detective pointed to a stackable plastic-molded chair several feet away from the interview table. When I tried to pull it closer to Benjamin, Hernández held his palm out. “Give us a little space, just until you’re settled. Please. I’m warning you a second time. Any erratic behavior, and you’re out of here. We can’t proceed this way if you’re under the influence of anything.”

“I’m not under any influence and you know that, Detective. God damn it.”

Benjamin’s shoulders were shrugged up, his chin tucked into his chest. Even in profile, I could see the shame overwhelming him. He knew I took a prescription legally, but it was still embarrassing to see your mother pass out and make a scene.