“Shut up, Ethan.”
This time, my voice had no edge. It had the cold, absolute weight of steel. He fell silent, surprised again. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he heard me speak to him with something other than contained irritation or cold indifference. It was an abyssal distance, as if I weren’t even in the same car, on the same planet.
I drove home in sepulchral silence. The lights of the city twinkled, indifferent. I left Ethan with the housekeeper without a word and went up to my study. I closed the door, leaned against it, and for a moment, just one moment, I let the tremor run through my hands. Then I took a deep breath. The fear, the confusion, the incipient panic—I compressed them into a remote corner of my mind.
There was a problem. A problem of colossal magnitude. And problems are analyzed, dissected, and solved.
I shook my head. No. First, I had to verify. The doctor could be mistaken. She could be confusing me with another patient. It was possible. Everything was possible. But then, like a flash of lightning in the dark, I remembered Ethan’s expression when he saw the doctor. There was no curiosity. None of the normal shyness of a child before a stranger. There was disdain, as if he were evaluating her and finding her inferior. Exactly the same look William gave waiters, sales clerks, anyone he considered beneath his status.
A look I had always attributed to poor paternal influence. But now, now that look seemed like a seal. A seal of authenticity.
The phone rang. William. The photo of his perfect smile lit up the screen. I swiped to answer.
“Hello.”
My voice sounded so normal it astonished even me.
“Honey, how are you? I just got a message from the school. What happened with Ethan?”
His tone was one of theatrical concern, slightly weary, as if his son’s troubles were a minor but constant annoyance in his busy life.
“Yes, he hit a girl. Or rather, a girl hit him for bullying other kids.”
I kept the information concise, clear.
“My God. Is he okay? Did they hurt him?”
The alarm in his voice sounded genuine. Too genuine. Focused only on Ethan.
“A swollen lip. Nothing serious. I took him to Mount Sinai just in case.”
“Well, thank God. That boy is so active. You know how boys are. Is the other girl from a good family? I hope there won’t be any trouble.”
I ignored his question.
“By the way,” I said, letting the words drop with the casualness of someone commenting on the weather, “at the hospital, I ran into the doctor who delivered the baby. Dr. Reed. Do you remember her?”
From the other end of the line, there was only silence. A silence so dense and sudden it seemed to absorb even the background noise of the Chicago street that always filtered through his calls. It lasted a second, maybe two. Too long.
“Reed?”
His voice finally returned, but it had changed. Higher. Forced.
“No, doesn’t ring a bell. There were a lot of doctors. It was all a mess. Honey, why? What did she want?”
“Nothing. Just to say hello. Asked about the baby.”
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