Monkey Bars

On the wall behind the doctor’s back, three diplomas hung in a single column. He sat on a small wheeled stool and frowned as he looked at the boy’s chart. 

“He’s gained three pounds since we saw him last.” 

The mother looked down at her son, who kicked his legs back and forth in the air like he was on a playground swing instead of a doctor’s office.

“They canceled his sports teams,” the mother replied. 

“There are exercises he can do in the house. Jumping jacks. Burpees. Jogging in place.”

“But,” the mother said, shifting her gaze toward the diplomas and away from the doctor, “we live in an apartment. The neighbors downstairs would complain if we let him do that.” 

The doctor sighed and crossed his legs. Would these people ever run out of excuses? 

“What has he been eating?” he asked. 

The mother hesitated. 

“We made sourdough yesterday,” the boy chirped, still pumping his legs. 

“Carbs?” the doctor asked, his voice hitting a minor note.

The mother was still staring at the diplomas. They were from three different states. “We sort of stopped doing the keto thing when this all started.” 

“We’ve talked about this before. You can’t eat carbs and expect to keep weight off.”

“Baking is fun!” the boy said. “We’re going to make croissants tomorrow.”

The doctor stared at the mother. His cloth mask hid his mouth, but she could tell his lips were set in the same hard, thin line she always saw when he thought she hadn’t been following his advice.

“He -- he doesn’t get to see his friends. We can’t take him to any museums. He enjoys baking with me. He likes learning new recipes --”

“Why don’t you take him to the park instead?” the doctor interrupted.

“The park? But I thought --”

“The parks around here are open. So let him burn some of that fat off instead of putting more on.” 

The mother turned her face toward the door so that the doctor wouldn’t see the wet sheen in her eyes. 

After they left the doctor’s office, the mother drove to a playground a few blocks away and parked on the slope of a hill. The boy opened the car door. 

“Don’t forget your mask,” the mother said as she stretched the elastic bands over her own ears. 

On the playground, the boy leaped to grab the monkey bars, his legs dangling in midair. The mother glanced around. The sky was gray, and the trees were bare. The soccer fields and the baseball diamonds were empty. 

Across the street from the park, next to a cafe that had closed down, a woman stood waiting for the traffic light to change. A small white dog stood next to her.

You shouldn’t be here, the mother imagined the woman saying. You and your child should be home. Don’t you know it's not safe?

The traffic light flipped to green. The woman and her dog began to walk toward the park. The mother glanced at her son, who was halfway to the other side of the monkey bars. 

“Hurry up,” she said to him.