by Leah Scheier
“But it’s Wednesday.”
“So what? I’m practicing.”
She laughed. “I appreciate what you’re doing, sweetheart. But for me, those candles are about family. And I lost mine a long time ago.”
“Okay. But you didn’t lose everyone.”
By Friday night, I’d learned the blessing by heart. I didn’t know what the words meant, but the expression on my mom’s face was all that mattered to me. She didn’t say the blessing with me and didn’t wave her hands over the fire. But she watched the flames until they flickered out. When the candles finally died, her eyes filled up with tears. I’d wanted to make her happier. But I’d only made her miss her family more.
So I hoped for two things every time I heard the creak and clatter of the mail slot: the acceptance letter of the art school and the acceptance of my grandparents.
I told Jonah about my secret letter when I went to visit him the next day. He seemed very interested in my story, and he smiled when I told him my new name. “I like Shira,” he said. “But do I have to call you that now?”
I grinned and shook my head. “Only if I get accepted to the art school.”
He laughed. “A new life and a new name?”
“Sure, why not?”
It felt so good to laugh with Jonah again. I’d been noticing a change in him since my audition day. He was a little less withdrawn; his eyes had regained some of their brightness. He smiled when he saw me and looked sad when I got up to leave. He wasn’t back to his old self—not even close—but it was pleasant to be with him. His mom didn’t have to remind him to shower and change, he began to do little chores around the house, and he even started reading to Katie. She still complained that his skill at doing all the voices wasn’t up to par, but around him, she never let on that anything was lacking.
One afternoon, a couple of days before Passover, I stopped by to ask Jonah’s mom if I could help her prepare for the holiday.
“Thanks for your offer,” she said. “But I’m almost finished in the kitchen. Why don’t you help Jonah instead? I told him he had to clean his room before tomorrow, and I don’t think he’s even half done yet.”
Jonah wasn’t in his bedroom when I knocked. But the art studio door, which had remained closed since his hospitalization, was wide open now, and the light from the window spilled out over the hardwood.
I approached the room slowly. My last memory of the studio was not a pleasant one. But as I peeked inside, I saw that the room had been cleaned up. Fresh canvases were set up next to a desk covered in brushes and tubes of oil color. The floor still bore faint traces of red paint, but the walls had been scrubbed clean and the room smelled of fresh varnish and turpentine.
Jonah was sitting with his back to me in front of an easel, a palette of colors in his lap. As I came in, he turned around with a smile and beckoned me over.
“I haven’t gotten it right yet, but it’s a start. What do you think?”
He turned the canvas toward me, and I stepped forward to get a better look. The painting was the beginning of a self-portrait. I recognized his features right away, his long black curls, his blue-gray eyes. He’d gotten the resemblance right. And yet, I couldn’t help feel that something was missing. He’d drawn himself sitting alone in the middle of a sterile white room with padded walls, the quiet room on 11 West.
The scene was supposed to be stark and sad; it should have sent a chill through me, especially considering what I’d watched him go through. But I didn’t feel anything. The portrait left me cold. The Jonah in the painting was as sterile as his padded cell.
“It isn’t done yet,” he said apologetically. “There’s a lot of shading work left—”
“It’s very good. It looks exactly like you.”
That wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. He pushed the easel away and tossed his palette and brush onto the desk. “I just can’t get it right,” he muttered, rubbing his hand over his face. “I can’t see things the way I used to.”
“You’ve only just started painting again. It’ll come back.” I reached out and touched his face, running my finger over a smear of paint across his cheek.
He caught my hand in his and turned it over, then with a sudden movement, he bent down and pressed his lips to my wrist. The unexpected warmth against my skin sent a shiver through me; it had been so long since he’d kissed me that even this light touch made me go weak.
“I never said thank you for what you did for me, April,” he said, his head still bowed over my hand. “I don’t think anyone else would have stood by me for so long and waited for me the way you did.”
“I was waiting for this,” I said. “I was waiting for you to feel better—”
I trailed off, uncertain how to finish.
He looked up at me as I spoke, a vague smile in his eyes. “You’re right. I’m finally feeling better. Not a hundred percent yet—but I’m actually feeling again.”
“Dr. Hermann said it would take time until you got used to the medications…”
“Dr. Hermann has nothing to do with this!” he retorted, dropping my hand. “Dr. Hermann doesn’t understand anything. The medicines made me dead inside. They’re the reason I can’t paint anymore! April, I thought you understood that.”
His anger didn’t upset me; I was actually glad to see him flare up. It had been so long since he’d gotten passionate about anything that I welcomed his outburst now, even though he’d directed it at me. “Never mind,” I said calmly. “You’re coming back to me. That’s all that matters.”
“Exactly! I beat her at her own game. Can’t you see that?” he continued, rising from his chair in his excitement. “While I was under her influence, I couldn’t care about anything. She had complete control. I couldn’t feel anything, not hate, not happiness, not even love. April, I couldn’t love anyone. I couldn’t feel anything for you. I wanted to, so badly, but I couldn’t.”
Something was wrong; something he’d said seemed off to me. His hatred for his psychiatrist wasn’t surprising. And the medicines had dulled him and made him miserable, but still…
But I didn’t have time to analyze what Jonah meant, because as he spoke, he stepped over to me and pulled me close to him. Before I could say a word, he bent his head down and kissed me, not softly as I’d expected, but with a bruising force that made me gasp. Again and again, he kissed me, running his fingers through my hair and down my back, pressing me so close to him that I could feel the pounding of his heart against my chest. I couldn’t catch my breath; I backed away and tried to speak, but with a rough gesture, he pushed me up against the wall, placed his hands over my cheeks, and forced my mouth open with his tongue.
I want this, I told myself. This is what I’ve wanted since we first met; this is what I dreamed about every night while he was in the hospital. I was trying so hard to want it. I wrapped my arms around his neck and tried to kiss him back, but he was moving too fast for me. His lips left mine and traveled to my collar; I felt him pulling at me, tearing at the buttons on my blouse, tugging at the cloth until it dropped around my hips. He was everywhere at once, his fingers skimming my legs, my belly, my chest, so sudden and urgent that I didn’t know if I was excited or terrified. He never paused, not for a second, not even when I caught his wrists as he grasped my bra straps and began to slide them off my shoulders. “Someone could come in,” I whispered. “Jonah, stop.”
He walked over to the door and turned the lock, then caught me by the waist and pulled me down onto the floor. “I want you, April,” he breathed. “I couldn’t before; they wouldn’t let me. But I want to show you how much I love you.”
I love you too, I wanted to tell him; I’m so happy that you’re finally coming back to me. But the words just wouldn’t come.
The pressure of his body on mine was cutting off my circulation; the cold, hard floor beneath my naked back was hurting me. This was nothing
like the moments we’d shared before. He’d touched me gently then, like he couldn’t believe I was actually in his arms. That was the Jonah I’d been longing for. The one who waited for me to kiss him back. But this Jonah wasn’t waiting for me; I could barely catch my breath. I wanted to shut my mind off and make him happy. I wanted to love him and just let go.
But I was scared. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. Something he’d just said…
“Jonah, I want to stop,” I gasped. “I’m not ready for this.”
He pulled back, and I slipped out from under him. Jonah was breathing heavily, and his eyes were shining. But he wasn’t really looking at me; for a moment, I wasn’t sure if he’d heard what I had said. As I buttoned up my shirt, he sighed and rubbed his hands over his forehead. “I don’t understand. I thought that you’d be happy, that you want to be with me—”
“I do! I’ve missed you so much! But you’ve changed so quickly. I was wondering what happened—”
“Oh, come on,” he replied, grinning. “Isn’t it obvious what’s different?”
My mind was beginning to clear, and with a sinking feeling, I realized what he was trying to tell me.
“Jonah,” I whispered, “Are you still taking your medicine?”
He laughed and folded his arms. “If I was, do you think that I could have kissed you like that?”
Chapter 38
I don’t remember how I got out of there or what excuses I made. I believe I mumbled something about school, deadlines, and piano lessons. Jonah didn’t seem to mind; I think he was so happy that he’d taken some control over his life that my rapid exit didn’t upset him too much. But I was in total shock. I didn’t trust myself to speak calmly, so I grabbed my schoolbag and fled the house.
On the way home, I heard my phone buzz twice inside my bag, but I ignored it. I needed to think. Alone, without distractions.
What was I supposed to do? I knew I was obligated to tell Dr. Hermann what Jonah had just admitted to me, but what would happen if I did that? If his psychiatrist suddenly called his parents and demanded that they monitor his meds, he’d know I sold him out. He wouldn’t be able to blame his father for it this time.
But what choice did I have? I’d learned enough about his medication to understand that sudden withdrawals were dangerous. I wasn’t sure how abruptly he’d stopped taking the pills, but still—
How long would it be until he suffered a relapse? Would his symptoms be worse this time? And what had just happened in his studio? Was our romantic moment part of his illness too? Could I trust anything Jonah did now? Or would I be examining every kiss and smile and touch from now on?
I needed advice, but I had no idea whom to ask. I couldn’t talk to my mom; she was just waiting for a relapse so she could tell me that she’d had enough, that my relationship with Jonah was over. I couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t freak out on me and make things worse.
I was thinking about calling Kris when I rounded the corner of my street. My mom was waiting for me on the porch; her arm shot up into the air as I came into view. She was waving a white envelope over her head, and when I saw it, my heart dropped into my stomach.
I broke into a run, shouting at her as I raced across the road. “Did you open it? What does it say?”
“I didn’t open it! I’ve been calling your cell all day! I just called Jonah’s house, and he said that you were coming home—”
“Oh God, just open it!” I screamed, and as she ripped apart the envelope, I bounded up the stairs and snatched the letter from her hands.
We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance to the Baltimore School for the Arts…
“I got in!” I shrieked and threw my arms around her. The next few moments were a wonderful blur of hugs and bouncing and happy tears.
It was an almost perfect moment—almost like my dream come true—until I felt my mom stiffen and step away. I turned to follow her gaze and saw Jonah coming up the street.
As he approached, his face brightened into a sincere smile. I waved the letter in the air and began to shout the news, but the words were hardly out of my mouth before he bounded up the steps and caught me in a warm embrace. I felt a tickle at my neck as his lips brushed away my hair. Then he let me go and beamed at my mom, who was bashfully pretending to study the ivy on the porch railing.
“How are you, Mrs. Wesley?” he inquired politely.
She didn’t seem to know what to say. “I’m—I’m excited for April,” she replied after an uncomfortable pause.
“Why don’t we all go inside?” I suggested. “We can talk about this in the living room.”
“I can’t, I have to go to work,” my mom said. “I was waiting for you to come home, so I’m already late.” She gave me a doubtful look and glanced over her shoulder at the house. “I suppose you two will be okay until I get home—”
“We’ll be fine. We’ll order a pizza or something to celebrate.”
She shifted uneasily and cleared her throat. “April, maybe you could invite Kris over while I’m gone,” she suggested quietly. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear the news.”
“I would, but Kris went to visit her grandmother this week. I’ll call her later and let her know. Jonah and I will hang out here until you get back from work.”
“Okay, I’ll phone Rachel then. She can come over until I get home—”
“Jonah’s mom is cleaning the house for Passover,” I said irritably. “I really don’t want to bother her.”
“Okay, but it’s just—I thought—April, I’m not sure—”
“You can go to work, Mom. We’ll be fine.”
Jonah had moved away from me and was standing with his head bowed and his hands clasped behind his back. “It’s all right, Mrs. Wesley,” he told her softly. “I completely understand. I’ll go home now so you don’t have to be scared about anything.”
“No, Jonah, stop it!” I cried out, my voice breaking in anger. “Mom, we’re fine. Jonah’s fine! You have nothing to worry about!”
She looked ready to protest again, but a glance at Jonah’s mortified face seemed to silence her. She followed us into the house and shuffled around the kitchen for a few minutes, pretending to have lost her keys and purse, and then finally, after I glared furiously at her, she hurried out the door, leaving it open—just in case I needed to escape quickly, I suppose.
I felt awful for Jonah. He looked so unhappy sitting hunched over on the sofa next to me. I reached out and pulled him close to me and leaned my head against his shoulder. “I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll just have to get used to that. People being afraid of me and not trusting me. Even my own mother—she won’t leave Katie alone with me. I don’t know what she’s afraid I’ll do, but we have a babysitter now, even when I’m home.”
“It’ll get better,” I insisted. “Everyone will see that you’re okay and they’ll forget—”
“They’ll never forget! No one forgets stuff like this. My parents definitely won’t. My mother watches over me like I’m a toddler. She doesn’t want me going out alone; I had to sneak out to see you just now. And when I go back to school, I don’t even want to think about what people will say.”
“So you can finish this semester at home and then transfer next year.” I smiled hopefully. “Talk to the admissions committee at the art school. Maybe they’ll make an exception and accept your application late.”
He laughed shortly. “You’re still holding on to that, April? You still think we’ll transfer together? God, and they call me delusional!”
“I don’t want to go without you. We were supposed to do this together.”
He said nothing for a moment; his head was bowed near mine, his black curls brushing my cheek. “We were supposed to do a lot of things,” he said sadly. “I was supposed to do a lot of things. But
there isn’t anything left. My art is gone. No, don’t say anything. I’m telling you—I don’t have it anymore. The hospital took everything from me. My parents look at me differently now, like I’m a stranger to them. They used to be so proud of me—even my father, in his own way. He used to say that I’d gotten my ‘talented hands’ from him.” He sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, April. I shouldn’t be dumping this on you right now. You were so happy a second ago, and as usual, I’ve ruined it.”
“You haven’t—”
“You’re crying,” he said and brushed a finger over my wet cheek. “How many times have you cried this year because of me? Have you lost count? That’s too bad. I think somebody should be keeping track.”
I gave him a playful shove. “I wouldn’t worry about my crying. I do that a lot anyway. I tear up during TV shows, remember? Stop blaming yourself.”
“Who else am I supposed to blame? And I can’t help asking myself—if you’re crying more than you’re laughing when we’re together, why are you still with me?”
“Jonah—”
“No, I mean it. Haven’t you wondered, even once over the last few months, if maybe you’d be better off without me?”
“Did you want me to abandon you?” I demanded. “Would you have abandoned me if I had, if I had a—”
I stopped, confused. Was I allowed to say the word? Or were we still pretending that he was the victim of a horrible government conspiracy?
“So that’s what it was then?” he asked me quietly. “You felt obligated to stay with me?”
“No! I didn’t—that wasn’t it…”
“And I let you, of course. Because I love you. And because—because I’m just that selfish.”
“Jonah—”
“No, I see it now. You won’t leave me, will you? Not if you feel that I still need you.”
“I need you too…”
“No, you don’t. Why can’t you see that? You’d be much better off if—”