Sliding my stethoscope beneath the fold of his hospital gown, I listened to the boy's heart. It was before 8 AM and his room was still dark, yet there was something striking about his stillness. He didn't jump at the initial touch of the stethoscope as other five-year-olds would. Instead, he continued sleeping, not reacting to the strange room, my presence, or the unexpected cool metal on his skin. Was his stillness caused by profound exhaustion, medication, or something else? Jonathan had been hit by a car the day before and had sustained a broken leg and slight bruising on his face. I wondered: What allows a child to find such respite in the dissonant rings and beeps of a hospital?
Jonathan had been home alone with his younger brother when the accident happened. The Department of Children and Families had been called to investigate the possibility of child neglect. His mother, Theresa Evans, was slumped on the foldout couch next to his bed; she remained asleep as I checked on her son.
When I came back into the room about an hour later, Ms. Evans asked me about getting a breakfast tray. I was fairly new to the facility and didn't know the protocol, so I told her I would find out if they were available for family members. She then became agitated. "If you think I'm going to stay with him," she said, pointing to her son, "all day here in this hospital, you're wrong." Jonathan was awake; I looked into his eyes and he held my gaze. He had the look of someone who has long since passed the point of asking for help. It was an expression that should never find its way to the face of a child. I felt my throat burn and I swallowed, deciding simply to do what I could to get what Ms. Evans needed.
I left to make peanut butter sandwiches. When I returned, Ms. Evans wouldn't look at me. "He won't eat this," was her only response. She wore a stained and ill-fitting fast-food-chain-employee shirt. Her hair was uneven and fell in her face; it was dirtier than expected after one night's stay in the hospital. I wondered where her family was, the boy's father. She hadn't used the phone since arriving at the hospital, and no one came to visit the boy that day. Worried that I would upset her further, I didn't ask her the whereabouts of her other son. She ate her sandwich hungrily and quickly, not stopping to acknowledge anyone else in the room. Jonathan accepted his sandwich and chewed it slowly.
Despite her initial assertion, Ms. Evans stayed at the hospital, missing a full day of work. She seemed to embrace the role of Jonathan's protector and caregiver. She attended to her son, beginning to accept help, warily, from those of us ducking in and out of the room. She seemed to act instinctively-at one moment confrontational, and the next protective.
As the day wore on, Ms. Evans was interviewed by the hospital's pediatrician, investigators from the Department of Children and Families, and social services. When the influx subsided, I asked about bathing Jonathan. I was sure she was raw from the questions about her parenting skills. "Could you do it?" she asked, her voice flat, without feeling. "I just don't know what to do with the cast or all the wires and cords." I told her I'd be happy to, adding that bathing could be difficult with all these new things hooked up.
As we busied ourselves caring for Jonathan, I began to joke with him and then, gingerly, with Ms. Evans. "He likes to do things himself, doesn't mind getting messy," she said. "Look what he's done with the paints!! He's covered in them." The Child Life Department had given him paints and a small treasure box, and he was busily painting in bed, the lively colors marking his hands, face, even the bright white of his new cast. I laughed. "The cast looks truly personalized with all this color," I told him. "Very creative!!" Ms. Evans smiled. "He can do all kinds of things," she replied. Her eyes followed his brush as he smeared paint across the wooden box. I told her he seemed like a strong boy, with plenty of interests. She nodded. I began to sense her own relief at being in the hospital; it mirrored that of her son's, as if she had finally been discovered, accused, and saved all in one day.