Spilt Milk

THE ONLY THING

WE HAVE TO FEAR

HERE IS MY OLDEST son, age five, at not quite 6 a.m.:

I can’t go to school! His eyes are wild, lidless.

I wrench out the worry like a splinter: His schoolmates have learned new things and he won’t be able to follow. We’ve been out of town. He has missed Monday’s class.

I rub his back, offer reassurances. Maybe you’ll feel better after breakfast, I say.

When I head to the kitchen, he slams his bedroom door, bars himself inside. Don’t make me go!

Mommy and Daddy would never suggest you do something that’s a bad idea, I say—and wonder if it’s true.

He barely removes the thumb from his mouth as I pull a shirt over his head. I lure him out of the house with a lollipop. Midway into the six-minute walk, his panic mounts.

What time is it? he says. Am I late? He takes off down the sidewalk.

Honey, you’re not late, I call. I catch up with him at the intersection, a network of strollers and scooters and clasped hands. He is doubled over.

I have to poop, he says.

School’s across the street. We’ll go to the second-floor bathroom, I say.

No, he screams, and stamps his feet. He is wearing light-up shoes.

We drift upstairs with the crowd, and I report him present to his teacher while he twists beside me in visceral discomfort. He agrees to use the toilet only if I wait outside the bathroom, but any relief I feel over this deal dissipates when he reemerges seconds later, pants at his ankles.

I don’t have to go anymore, he says, zipping up his fly.

Are you sure? Want to just sit for a minute and see?

I can’t, he says, and hurries to class.

Later he will tell my husband that he was secretly sobbing in bed before he called out to us that morning, that he knew it was silly but couldn’t stop.

A memory. My brother and I sourcing scrap wood from the yard of a home that has recently burned down. We want to build a tree house. I spot a square just the right size for a floor, but it turns out that in the blaze, the lawn has transmuted into thick, sticky mud, and it suctions my shoes, envelops my calves. A few yards away, my brother is swallowed up to his knees. He screams. I’m older, the designated protector. Panic saturates my chest. And then, as if only to test my tolerance, a blue van pulls up.

Kidnappers drive blue vans. We have been warned to steer clear.

A pale man with a splotchy beard pokes his head out the window. Can I help?

We are perfect prey, stuck in a muddy trap on a quiet culde-sac around the corner from home, out of our parents’ view.

I holler and squirm and somehow tug off my shoes and force my way to the dry edge of the property. I am crying. My brother is bawling.

Young lady, the man repeats. Need help?

I need my father, but retrieving him will mean leaving my brother alone with a strange man. My brother is heaving so hard that I can’t understand him. (Is he saying go or no?) Have I just imagined that the mud is higher on his waist? His body lower in the earth? The driver’s pointed teeth?

I back up slowly, then quickly, then sprint home in socked feet, screaming, frantic, bellowing for my father to come, hurry, danger, death.

The kidnapper is gone when we return. My brother is not. My father, in his trusty Timberlands, tugs my brother free.

* * *

I want to put my son at ease, to talk about his behavior. On the flip side, I don’t want to make too big a deal of his sensitivities, don’t want him to worry about his worry. How to calibrate this? Isn’t it natural not to want to feel left out?

He had a fine day at school, he tells me afterward, followed along just fine. At home, he is back to his upbeat self, playing LEGOs with his little brother, singing a song about sharks. He takes a bath, reads to me from Frog and Toad. I pet his hair, consider the skull beneath it, the brain beneath that, how soft it is, how susceptible. I hum a lullaby. He jolts upright.

What if I can’t find my classroom? he says.

What?

Parents can’t go upstairs with their kids in first grade. What if I don’t know where to go?

Inhale, exhale. First grade is seven months away. We’ll visit ahead of time, I say. You won’t get lost. Okay?

The whites of his eyes glow in the dark.

Sometimes I am jarred from sleep by the memory of being jarred from sleep. A mechanized voice explodes through the walls of my childhood bedroom. You have violated a protected area! The police were called! Leave immediately!

There’s beeping as my father tries to disable the alarm—Leave! Immediately!—and concerned cries from my mother.

My father, tired, tense, presses the wrong keys, tripping a siren so loud that no one would hear me if I screamed.

Then, heart-thrumming quiet.

The creak of the stairs as he goes to investigate. The unnerving trill of the phone: a security company employee demanding a password. They need to confirm that person who picks up is not an intruder.

Probably just a malfunction, says my father, a sudden silhouette in the doorway. He is six feet tall but seems taller. Tree branch shadows slice his chest. Our alarm system is the best on the market, he reminds me. The most secure. I don’t ask why we also have a motion-sensitive light at the top of the driveway and lamps attached to timers—ones whose on time is regularly adjusted in case anyone’s noticed a pattern. I don’t ask about the radios my mother switches on in the kitchen and basement whenever we leave, to give the illusion that someone’s home. I don’t ask why we do all this when we live in an exceptionally safe New York suburb.

Darkness whirs like static.

Go to bed, insists my father. I feel around for my stuffed bear, massage his ears into tendrils.

I wake to Oliver scream-crying. What is it? I say. What’s wrong? He cannot be consoled, seems to simultaneously need me and not want me near. Does something hurt? I ask.

Don’t, he says as I reach for a hug, legs and arms thrashing. Stop! His cries wake his baby brother, with whom he shares a room. The wailing doubles.

While my husband settles our toddler, I get Oliver a cup of water and a wet washcloth. I pat his forehead, which is distorted with distress.

I had a nightmare, he says finally, that you were a monster. He wants reassurance that I am who I say I am. That I’m not a demon disguised as his mom. He makes me pinkie swear. Breath snags on a branch in my throat.

It’s me, I say, as our fingers interlock. It’s really and only me.

Halloween 2001. In front of my Greenwich Village building, I hid in a blond wig and fur coat, my eyes charcoaled like Margot Tenenbaum’s. I was twenty-three. The costume permitted me to chain-smoke.

My date for the evening: a med student I’d met at a party the week before. You shouldn’t do that, he said as I lit up. He was wearing a scuba suit.

We crossed the street to the firehouse, where seven flags flapped for the Squad 18 men lost in the wreckage of the Twin Towers. We passed George W. Bush and Betty Boop and Ghostface wielding a hunting knife. Around the corner, on Greenwich Avenue, I mistook SWAT team members for costume-wearers until I saw a gym bag cordoned off by yellow tape. An officer lifted his megaphone, warned the assembling crowd to move back.

I didn’t have to hear the whispers to know the word they contained. Anthrax. Since the cataclysm a few subway stops south, envelopes packed with the spores had been landing at news outlets and government offices around the city. Mail room employees had developed skin ulcers. Five had inhaled the bacteria and died.

Med Student tugged on my arm. We reversed our steps, scurried around the corner and past the firehouse and into my building and up to the windowless living room in my sixth-floor apartment. He was panting. In the weak lamplight, the humps of his scuba suit glowed—pectorals, crotch, knees. I imagined he’d just swum the English Channel. He shook out his hair, smoothed it aside.

I have Cipro, he said. Ciprofloxacin, the anthrax antidote. Those days, it was in short supply. He retrieved a bottle from his workbag on the floor, shook two oblong pills into his palm. Said he: Want?

At the Brooklyn nail salon, nine months pregnant with Oliver and itching for a vacation, I chose a garish purple called Bahama Mama. I needed something loud and cheery to disguise my ravaged fingernails, little landscapes I tore apart with my teeth. I was ashamed to hold out my hands.

Bad habit, I told the manicurist. She furrowed her brows. I wondered how much she understood from a person’s fingers. From the stories they told. On the wall, a TV confirmed blazing spirals spinning toward New York and maps of hurricane evacuation zones, infected, red-edged scabs. She massaged my palms too hard. I did not tell her to stop.

Perhaps there was reason to panic, but I wouldn’t. Even while pregnant. Especially while pregnant. From my research, I knew the risks of agitation, knew that high levels of cortisol in a stressed-out body can impair a developing fetus. This was why I was soaking my hands in warm water and why, for the past nine months, I’d attended prenatal yoga classes and received massages and tried acupuncture and paid weekly visits to a clinical psychologist and dodged interpersonal drama and violent TV. I aspired to relax.

The mental state proved harder to attain without pharmaceutical support. The social worker to whom I’d sobbed a decade prior had consulted a psychiatrist and, after trial and error and lethargy and tremors, I’d found a prescription that restored some oxygen to my lungs. Now, though, with the threat of congenital harm and chemical-laden breast milk, I’d reversed course.

In through the nose, out through the mouth: the centuries-old technique for ushering in tranquility. The air smelled of acetone.

I was seven when I lost my breath for the first time. In a house that bulged with emergency provisions (350 bottles of water, I once counted; 1,600 trash bags), I gripped the kitchen counter and wheezed until I nearly collapsed.

Dr. Horowitz had crater-covered cheeks, and while he peered down my throat, I watched a drop of sweat glide along a recessed trail, watched it pause at a crossroads near his jaw as if deciding the safest way forward.

The cold stethoscope made me hiccup. I lifted my arms, stuck out my tongue, puffed out my cheeks, pressed on his hands. Nothing appears to be wrong, he said. Still, for days afterward I struggled against shallow breaths that left me feeling wasted. I saw an allergist, whose tests proved inconclusive, and a pulmonologist, who said my condition was beyond his capacity to treat. I was suffering, he said, from hyperventilation. What I needed wasn’t a medical doctor. What I needed was a shrink.

CHILDHOOD RULES

•Tape large orange reflective stickers to the front and back of your Halloween costume so cars can spot you trick-or-treating—even though you’ll be teased for looking like a parking cone. (Dad: I’d rather you be a live parking cone than a dead witch!)

•Eat Halloween candy only after you’ve broken apart each piece to inspect it for needles and blades. Chew. Slowly.

•In the glove compartment of the car you share with your siblings, store a flashlight, a poncho, bottled water, a disposable camera, mace, and a compact emergency blanket made of Mylar, a fabric designed by NASA for space exploration.

•Do not let the fuel tank dip below half.

•Tuck the bottoms of your pants into your socks when in nature, and never, ever step barefoot in the grass. Lyme disease–carrying ticks are invisible and insidious and you could wind up like Sherry, Dad’s former student: listless and allergic to light.

•Don’t shower or talk on the phone during a thunderstorm; lightning can shoot through pipes or wires and fry you. Mother Nature doesn’t mess around.

•Never wear clothes or items that display your name; a predator may try to befriend you.

•When you go on vacation, even to a nice hotel, even to a developed country, pack a suitcase full of pharmaceuticals and first-aid supplies for any potential injury or ailment.

•Lock everything, including your