Dear Edward

by Ann Napolitano

  June 12, 2013

  Evening

  The National Transportation Safety Board’s “Go-Team” is at the site seven hours after the accident—the length of time it takes them to fly from D.C. to Denver and then drive rental cars to the small town in the flatlands of northern Colorado. Because of the long summer daylight, it’s not yet dark when they arrive. Their real work will take place at sunrise the following day. They are here now to get a sense of the scene, to simply begin.

  The town’s mayor is there, to greet the NTSB lead investigator. They pose for a photograph for the media. Except for the handshake, the mayor—who is also a bookkeeper, because this town can’t afford full-time employees—tucks his hands in his pockets to hide the fact that they’re trembling.

  The police have cordoned off the area; the NTSB team, wearing protective orange suits and face masks, climbs over and around the wreckage. The land is level in every direction, the surface burned, charred, a piece of toast blackened under a broiler. The fire is out, but the air is charged with heat. The plane sluiced through a cluster of trees and dug itself into the earth. The good news, the members of the team tell one another, is that it wasn’t in a residential area. No humans on the ground were hurt. They find two mangled cows and a dead bird among the chairs, luggage, metal, and limbs.

  * * *

  —

  Families of the victims arrive in Denver by plane and car over the twenty-four hours following the event. The downtown Marriott has several floors reserved for them. At 5:00 P.M. on June 13, the NTSB spokesman, a man with acne-scarred skin and a gentle demeanor, gives an update to the families and media in the hotel banquet hall.

  Family members perch on folding chairs. They lean forward as if the skin on their shoulders can hear; they bow their heads as if hair follicles might pick up what no other part of their body can. Pores are open, fingers spread. They listen fiercely, hoping that a better, less crushing truth exists beneath the facts being delivered.

  There is a cluster of elaborate flower arrangements in the back corner of the room, which no one looks at. Red and pink peonies in giant vases. A cascade of white lilies. They are left over from a wedding held in the room the night before. This smell will keep several family members out of flower shops for the rest of their lives.

  The press stands apart at the briefing. They avoid eye contact with the relatives during interviews. They develop their own tics: One man scratches his arms as if he’s been attacked by poison ivy; an on-air reporter fixes and re-fixes her hair. They disseminate the updates in live television interviews and through emailed AP reports. They focus on the “known” passengers. A plastics baron, famous for building an empire and automating thousands of employees out of work. A Wall Street wunderkind, worth an estimated 104 million dollars. A United States army officer, three college professors, a civil-rights activist, and a former writer for Law & Order. They pour facts into hungry mouths; this news story has captivated the world. Every corner of the Internet has weighed in.

  A reporter holds up a copy of The New York Times to a camera, to show the huge block headline, the kind normally reserved for presidential elections and moonwalks. It reads: 191 DIE IN PLANE CRASH; 1 SURVIVOR.

  The relatives have only one question when the press briefing comes to a close; they all lean toward it like a window in a dark room: “How is the boy?”

  * * *

  —

  The intact pieces of the plane will be transported to the NTSB’s facility in Virginia. They will put the puzzle back together there. Now they are looking for the black box. The woman who leads the team, a sixty-year-old legend in the field known simply as Donovan, is certain that they will find it.

  For someone with her experience, the scene is uncomplicated. The debris is contained within a half-mile vicinity, and there are no bodies of water or swampy ground, just hard dirt and grass. Nothing can be permanently missing or lost; it is all within reach. There is charred metal, seats cracked down the middle, splinters of glass. There are pieces of bodies but no intact cadavers. It’s easy to look past the human flesh and focus on the metal. Focus on the fact that this jigsaw puzzle makes sense. Donovan’s team is made up of men and women who spend their professional lives waiting for tragedies to occur. They drive themselves hard, mouths drawn under masks, taking inventory and bagging evidence.

  * * *

  —

  A few days later, the allotted rooms at the Marriott have emptied: The families have left. The daily updates to the press have stopped. The NTSB team has found the black box and returned to Virginia. It has been announced that they will release basic findings within three weeks and that there will be a public hearing on the evidence in Washington, D.C., in approximately six months.

  The news coverage has broadened; several stories focus on the boy’s aunt and uncle, who have flown in from New Jersey to adopt him. Lacey Curtis, thirty-nine, is Jane Adler’s younger sister, and the boy’s only remaining blood relative. There’s a photo of a woman with light hair, freckles, and plump cheeks, smiling tentatively. The only other information known about her is that she’s a housewife. Her husband, John Curtis, forty-one, is a computer scientist who does IT consulting for local businesses. They have no children.

  Information about anything and anyone related to the crash continues to be inhaled, so television and Internet pundits continue to speculate. Were the pilots drunk? Did the plane malfunction? Is it 100 percent certain that this wasn’t an act of terrorism? Did one of the passengers go crazy and rush the cockpit? Was it the rainstorm? Google analytics show that, one week after the accident, 53 percent of U.S. online searches are related to the crash. “Why is it,” an old news anchor growls, “that out of all the terrible news in this terrible world, we care so much about this one downed plane and this one little boy?”

  * * *

  —

  He’s been in the hospital for a week. A woman on crutches enters the room; she’s the head of public relations for the Denver hospital and has been appointed to update the family on everything that’s not directly medical.

  “Susan,” John Curtis says in greeting. He’s a tall, bearded man, with the pallor and potbelly befitting a person who spends most of his life in front of a computer screen.

  “Has he spoken today?”

  Lacey—pale, with a coffee stain on her blouse—shakes her head. “Not since we told him.”

  “Have you decided if you’d like us to refer to him as Eddie or Edward?” Susan asks.

  John turns to his wife, and they share a look. The look—haggard and thready—suggests that they have not slept for more than an hour at a stretch since receiving the phone call. The plane had crashed in the middle of a week when Lacey and John were not speaking to each other, because she wanted to move on with their quest to have a baby and he did not. And now the fight and the silence feel irrelevant. They have been bucked off the horse that was their life. Their nephew is lying in front of them, broken, and he is their responsibility.

  “This is for strangers, right?” Lacey says. “They don’t know him, or us. The press should use his given name. Edward.”

  “Not Eddie,” John says.

  “Fine,” Susan says.

  Edward—for that’s his name now—is sleeping, or pretending to sleep. The three adults look at him, as if for the first time. The bandage circles his forehead; thick moppish hair slips out beneath it. He has sheer white skin and dark circles beneath his eyes. He’s lost weight and appears younger than twelve. There’s purple bruising on his chest that flowers beyond the neckline of the loose hospital gown. Both of his legs are in casts, but his right one is raised in traction. His feet are covered in orange socks, bought in the hospital gift shop. White letters spell DENVER!!! on the soles.

  There is a soft stuffed elephant beneath Edward’s arm that Lacey finds difficult to look at. The moving company hired to transport the Adler fam
ily’s belongings across the country stopped at a motel in Omaha the night after the crash. They emptied the truck in the parking lot, pulled every single box onto the asphalt. They opened the one that read EDDIE’S ROOM. They fished the stuffed elephant out of the box and mailed it to the Denver hospital with a note that said: We thought the boy might want this.

  Susan says, “The plan is still to airlift him in two days, now that he’s stable. A private plane has been donated for the trip, so you can both ride with him.”

  “Everyone is being so kind!” Lacey says, and then blushes. She has so many freckles that the blush simply serves to join them together. She has taken to wringing her freckled hands, as if the repeated motion might somehow change this unacceptable reality.

  “A few other things,” Susan says. She leans into her crutches. “Have you been online?”

  “No,” John says. “Not really.”

  “Well, just so you know, several Facebook pages have sprung up, devoted to either the flight or to Edward. There was also a Twitter account called @miracleboy, with Edward’s face as the avatar, but that’s been taken down.”

  John and Lacey blink at her.

  “The content is mostly positive,” Susan says. “Condolences, sympathy notes, that kind of thing. You’ve both been in the news some, because people were curious about who was taking Edward in. I just didn’t want you to be surprised if you happened upon it.”

  “Mostly positive?” Lacey says.

  “Trolls,” John says.

  “Trolls?” Lacey’s eyes look impossibly wide.

  “People who write provocative comments online, to try to get an emotional response,” John says. “Their goal is to upset people. The more people they upset, the more successful their trolling is.”

  Lacey wrinkles her nose.

  “It’s considered an art form by some,” John says.

  Susan gives an almost inaudible sigh. “In case we don’t have another chance to talk properly before you leave, I wanted to remind you about the personal-injury and aviation lawyers. They’re going to land on you like vultures, I’m afraid. But they’re not allowed to approach you until forty-five days after the crash. So please disregard, or sue, anyone who does. You know all the medical bills are being covered by the airline. There’s no rush to settle. You’ll get Social Security death benefits first, then life-insurance money, if either of Edward’s parents had a policy. It will take time to sort out the rest, and I don’t want you to let anyone convince you that any kind of legal action is urgent.”

  “Okay,” Lacey says, but it’s clear that she’s not paying attention. The TV in the corner is on mute, but the bottom of the screen runs a banner reading, MIRACLE BOY BEING RELEASED TO HOSPITAL NEAR RELATIVES’ HOME.

  “People can be terrible,” Susan says.

  Edward shifts on the bed. He turns his head, exposing a smooth, bruised cheek.

  “There are family members,” she continues, “from the other passengers on the plane who wanted to see Edward, but we kept them away.”

  “Jesus,” John says. “Why do they want to see him?”

  Susan shrugs. “Maybe because Edward was the last one to see their loved ones alive.”

  John makes a small noise in his throat.

  “I’m sorry,” Susan says, her cheeks pinkening. “I should have phrased that differently.”

  Lacey sits down in one of the chairs next to the window. A beam of sunlight creates a halo effect around her exhausted face.

  “One more thing,” Susan says. “The president is going to call.”

  “The president?”

  “The president. Of the United States.”

  John laughs, a quick burst into the particular air of this room. Charged air. Air that is waiting for the next word from the boy on the bed. Air that shushes everyone who enters, separating those who have lost from those who haven’t.

  Lacey puts her hands to her unwashed hair and John says, “He’ll be on the phone, Lace. He won’t be able to see you.”

  * * *

  —

  The nurses bustle the boy awake by drawing blood and taking vitals right around when the call is due to come in.

  “I’m here,” Lacey says. “So is Uncle John.”

  Edward’s face contorts.

  Lacey feels a shot of panic. Is he in pain? And then realizes what his face is trying to do. He’s trying to smile, to please her.

  “No, no,” she whispers. Then, to the room at large: “Are we ready for the call?”

  When she turns back, Edward has stopped trying.

  A brand-new phone has been installed next to the bed, and Susan is there to press the speaker button.

  “Edward?” The voice is deep; it fills the room.

  The boy is horizontal on the bed, looking small and damaged to the grown-ups that surround him. “Yes, sir?”

  “Young man…” The president pauses. “There’s not much I or anyone else can say that will mean anything to you right now. I can only imagine what you’re going through.”

  Edward’s eyes are wide, flat.

  “I wanted to tell you that the whole country is sorry for your loss and that we’re rooting for you to pull through this. We’re rooting for you, son.”

  Lacey nudges Edward’s arm, but Edward doesn’t say a word.

  The deep voice repeats the words, slower now, as if convinced that the repetition will make a difference. “The whole country is rooting for you.”

  * * *

  —

  Edward is silent on the plane ride to New Jersey. Silent in the ambulance, which has blacked-out windows to keep the press from snapping pictures of him. He speaks only when medically necessary for the remaining two weeks in the New Jersey hospital, as his lung mends and his leg comes out of traction.

  “You’re healing beautifully,” a doctor says to Edward.

  “I keep hearing a clicking sound.”

  The doctor’s face changes; an invisible dial inside him spins and lands on the clinical setting. “How long have you been hearing it?”

  The boy considers. “Since I woke up.”

  The neurologist is summoned. He orders new tests and an MRI of Edward’s brain. He has white eyebrows and no other visible hair, and every day he cups Edward’s face in his hand while he stares deep into his eyes, as if there’s information there only he can read.

  The neurologist calls Lacey and John into the hall. “The truth is,” he says, “that if ten different people went through exactly the same trauma as this child—were banged around, pitched at a tremendous velocity, and then jolted to a stop—they would all have different symptoms.” He raises his white eyebrows for emphasis. “Traumatic brain injury is invisible to most of our measuring tools, so I can’t tell you with any certainty what Edward is going through or will go through in the future.” He focuses his attention on Lacey. “Imagine I grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you as hard as I could. When I let go, you might not be technically injured—no muscles pulled, et cetera—but your body would feel the trauma. Right? That’s how it is for Edward. He may have odd symptoms over the next few months, even years. Things like depression, anxiety, panic; his senses of balance, hearing, and smell may all be affected.” The doctor glances at his watch. “Any questions?”

  John and Lacey look at each other. Everything, including language, seems to have splintered and fallen apart at their feet. Any questions?

  Finally, John says, “Not right now,” and Lacey shakes her head.

  * * *

  —

  The nurse wakes the boy up in the middle of the night to take his blood pressure and temperature. She says, “Are you okay?” The bald doctor always leads with, “How’s the pain?” When his aunt arrives each morning, she smooths his hair off his forehead and says, in a low whisper, “How’re you doing?”

  E
dward is unable to answer any of these questions. He can’t consider how he’s feeling; that door is far too dangerous to open. He tries to stay away from thoughts and emotions, as if they’re furniture he can skirt past in a room. When the nurse leaves the TV on the cartoon channel, he watches it. His mouth is always dry, and the clicking in his ear comes and goes. Sometimes he is awake but not awake, and hours go by without him noticing. He’ll have a breakfast tray across his lap, and then the light’s fading outside.

  He doesn’t like his daily walk, which isn’t actually a walk, since he’s in a wheelchair. “You need a change of scenery,” the nurse with dreadlocks tells him each weekday. The weekend nurse, who has blond hair so long it almost touches her bottom, doesn’t say anything. She just loads him into the wheelchair and pushes him into the hallway.

  This is where the people wait. The hall is lined with them. Sick people, also in wheelchairs, or standing weakly in doorways. The nurses try to shoo them back into their rooms. “Don’t clog the corridor,” a male nurse shouts. “This is a fire hazard. Give the boy some space.”

  An old man makes the sign of the cross, and so does a dark-skinned woman with an IV in her arm. A redheaded teenager, the age of Jordan, nods at him, his eyes curious. So many eyes stare at Edward that the scene looks like a Picasso painting: hundreds of eyeballs, and then a smattering of limbs and hairstyles. An old woman reaches out to touch his hand as he passes. “God has blessed you.”