Breaking Point

Jalen’s shoes are too tight. I can see his little toe pushing hard against the front of them as his legs dangle from the padded medical table.

“Does that hurt?” I ask, pointing at the strained plastic. “Sometimes,” he whispers.

“You know…sometimes we Mommies make our kids take our shoes off at the door and don’t see that your little piggies have grown. Does your Mommy know? I mean, have you told her?” I ask, as I put the Band-Aid on the cut on his arm.

“Yeah. Momma said to ask Grandma for new ones, but I haven’t seen her in a while,” he says, wiping the last of his tears from his face. I pretend not to see and roll back on my stool to throw the wrapper away. When I roll back towards him, I check the size of his shoes.

He reaches out then and touches my short hair. His tiny, five-year-old hand gently stroking the curls. He reaches up and touches his own then. He meets my eyes and smiles. “Our hair is the same,” he says.

“It is,” I say smiling at him and holding his sweet gaze. “So, kiddo, do you have any other scratches I need to know about?” Jalen started to shake his head and then stopped. “Well, only on my heels.”  I peel back the heels of his shoes and find his skin raw.

The nurse’s office in this school is well stocked with Band-Aids, but that is about all. Fear over school nurses’ over-treatment has been mounting in the new political climate. Medications are kept in safes, creams for scratches are forbidden, and so ice packs, bandages and kisses for booboos are about all we can offer. But what we DO have, is a wonderful pile of donated shoes and clothes for kids that might, for some reason or other, need them.

“Stay here for a second, okay Jalen?” I say, standing to see if we have any shoes that will work. He nods solemnly as he rubs his hand over the Ironman Band-Aid I just put on his arm.

The hall from the nurse’s room in the school office leads right past the copy room. I can hear the copiers chugging away and volunteers chatting behind the door. I smile knowing how grateful the teachers are for the help.

I am lucky enough to find a pair of boys’ shoes in a size that I think will work for Jalen. My heart is heavy with sorrow at his need and equally full of gratitude for the donation. Schools are always a teetertotter of emotions for me. So much anguish folded in with so much joy. A calzone of misery and laughter. I wish I could make all things equal for every child, but I know all too well that love is different in every household.  

As I head back to the room, I stop abruptly and listen when I hear my husband’s name through the copy room door.

“Are you serious?” a woman’s voice says. “Last night?”

“Yes!” the other woman practically squeaks out. “She said he finally caved and came over after work. She apparently didn’t waste any time getting him out of his fancy suit.”

I hold my breath. Afraid of what I was hearing and that the sound of my breath might not allow me to hear what was coming next. Thoughts spinning. Please. Please let me have just been hearing things.

“So… he was willing to just jump into bed with her? Without a thought for his wife who is fighting for her life against breast cancer - OR their 2 kids who are, let’s be honest, in all probability, about to be motherless?” the first woman asks, the tisk of her tongue drown out by the thunking of the massive copier.

My hands absent mindedly reach for where my breasts used to be. I had heard exactly what I thought I had heard. 

“I know. It’s heartbreaking. She deserves better.” The second woman says, almost, ALMOST sounding remorseful to be gossiping. “I have never seen her be anything other than genuinely caring of everyone around her,” she says, her voice growing louder then.  

The door handle slams and cracks then, and I jump as the door flies open.

The women almost gasp when they come face to face with me. I look from one to the other. The second woman’s eyes immediately drop to the floor.

I stand straighter. I have been through worse. This WILL NOT break me.

“Who. Is. ‘She’?” I ask through clenched teeth while holding the gaze of the woman who opened the door.

She stammers out a feigned “I’m sorry?” before looking sheepishly at the floor. Pretending not to know what I am talking about is clearly not going to work.

I step forward into the woman’s bubble, backing her against the worktable. I let the door slam behind me. 

She whispers my husband’s lover’s name. The sting of deceit burns every cell of my body. I swallow, nod, and turn to leave the room.

Jalen’s new shoes fit him perfectly. He joyfully sheds the old pair and winces when I pull them off his heels. I bandage up the blisters on each and put on his new shoes. They fit with room to grow.

“And I can just have them?” he asks, eyes wide and bright – looking at my face with disbelief.

“You can just have them. Teachers and other moms and dads donate them in case someone needs them really bad. That’s you, kiddo,” I say, patting his arm. “Now if anyone asks,” I continue, “You tell them you got them as a present from a friend.”

My heart bangs in my chest.

Jalen bangs them together and little lights light up in the soles. “Did you see that?” he nearly screeches.

“I did! Those are so cool!” I swallow down the bile that is rising and force a giggle.

“Thank you, Ms. Rosie. I love them!”

He hugs me then. A full, two-armed squeeze with his tiny ear pressed against my middle. I close my eyes and accept it. “Can I go back to class now?” he asks.

“Of course. Have a good day.” I say, and a moment later yell up the hallway “And be careful on the playground! Maybe don’t get into stick light-saber fights with the big kids, ok?”

“OKAY!” he yells and waives his bandaged arm in the air – Ironman's face whipping back and forth as he hurries down the hall.

Returning to my office, I close the door behind me, sit at my desk, and turn on my computer. My breath is ragged from trying not to cry. I will believe nothing without proof. I spend the next hour pouring over phone records, emails and credit card bills. Before the next child comes knocking on my door, I have my answer. He isn’t even trying to hide the affair.

My thoughts wander back to Jalen. I ponder the kind of love he gets at home. Is it enough? I thought hard about his need for shoes… something bigger, better, different to move him forward. How restricted he was in what he had. Maybe, in some way, everyone needs a change once in a while. Getting too comfortable in anything that restricts us is dangerous. Everyone needs change to grow.

I text my mom asking her to pick my kids up from school and keep them until bedtime. She excitedly agrees.

Then I text my beloved sister and invite her to dinner. I will confront her and my husband, and their need for change, after a nice cozy dinner of red wine and lasagna.

Perhaps I will season it with just a dash of arsenic.