I glance at the nurses’ white dry-erase board on the wall. It just says: Tricia—Ext. 2743. I look back at Aja.
“So. How was your swim?”
He stills the spoon on his tongue, midlick, and appears to ponder the question. Then he sets it down on his tray.
“Cold.”
I nod, running my hand over the coarse hairs on my face. “Aja, you gotta help me out here, buddy. What were you—”
“Where’s the librarian?” he asks, training his eyes on me.
“What?”
“The librarian. They took her away.”
The doctor said Aja was awake and alert when he arrived at the hospital, leaving little concern for any lasting neurological damage, but we haven’t been to the library in a week and I wonder if he’s having some kind of memory lapse. I glance back at Tricia’s number.
“Do you know what today is?” I ask, my brows knitting together.
Aja thinks about it. “Sunday.”
“Who’s the president?”
Aja looks at me with his liquid brown eyes. “Do you not know?”
A light rap at the door precedes a nurse opening it and walking in. “Good morning,” she trills. “And how is our patient this morning?”
She’s looking at a clipboard in her hand, so I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or Aja. Neither one of us responds. She looks up. “Let’s get that blood pressure, mmm?”
She lays the chart on the foot of the bed and wraps the cuff around Aja’s thin arm. Afterward she takes his temperature and listens to his chest with a stethoscope. Then she scrawls on the paper she came in with. “Dr. Reed will be by on rounds in the next hour or so, K?”
“Tricia?”
“Oh, nope.” She goes over to the board and wipes the name clean with her marker. “She was the night nurse. I’m Carolyn.”
“Oh. Sorry,” I say, and then nod in Aja’s direction. “How is he?”
She looks down at the chart, as if she’s already forgotten. “His vitals are great,” she says. “I imagine he’ll be able to go home sometime this afternoon.” She clutches the chart to her chest. “Any other questions?” she asks, and turns to Aja. “Do you need anything?”
“My glasses,” Aja says. “I can’t see anything.”
The nurse smiles and walks over to the counter where Aja’s glasses are sitting. She picks them up and hands them to him.
“And where’s the woman? The librarian?” he asks as he slides the hooks over his ears.
Well, here we go. I cover my face with my hands.
“The one who saved you?” My head shoots up.
Aja nods.
“She’s recovering on the fourth floor,” she says. “She had some, ah . . . complications.”
“Wait, what happened?” I realize I was so solely focused on Aja’s health last night that I don’t even know what really happened to him. I know he somehow fell in the river and some passersby spotted him and called 911. I didn’t think to ask anything else. Just like a man, I can hear Stephanie’s voice saying in my head.
“A woman riding by on a bicycle spotted your son and dove in after him. She performed CPR until someone called the ambulance.”
“It was that librarian. From the other day,” Aja chimes in, shooting me a blank expression that I take to mean I told you so.
My mouth feels dry and I’m strangely aware of my heart beating in my chest. Emily. I’m sure it’s not her real name, but it’s the only one I know her as. I have a sudden image of her swan-diving into the Passaic in her long white nightgown. I look at the nurse. “You said something about complications, though. Is she OK?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not really supposed to say.”
I can’t believe that woman—that timid wisp of a woman who was just reciting poetry and checking out our library books—saved Aja’s life. I feel indebted to her. And I need to make sure she’s OK. “Can I see her?”
The nurse pauses. “I’ll have to ask her. I’ll let you know.” She glances back at the chart. “Oh, and the social worker will be by later today.”
“Social worker?” I ask.
“Just standard protocol,” she says, but she doesn’t meet my gaze.
After she’s gone, I push the librarian from my mind and turn my attention back to Aja. “So. Are you going to tell me why you were on that bridge?”
He stares at the empty pudding cup as if willing it to refill with his mind. Hell, maybe that’s exactly what he’s trying.
“OK,” I say. “Why don’t we start with the coffee table?”
He doesn’t move.
“That wasn’t an accident, was it?”
He remains statuesque.
“Aja,” I say. “Look at me.” I can’t keep the desperation out of my voice and maybe that’s what drags his eyes upward until they lock with mine. “Talk to me.”
He opens his mouth and mumbles something.
“What?” I lean forward in my chair to try to hear him better.
“Kinetic energy.”
I remember the term from physics class but am baffled as to why he’s said it. “What about it?”
“I was trying to harness it,” he says.
“O-kaaaay,” I say, studying his tiny body and face.
He sighs and sits up a little. “You know Newton’s first law?”
“I think so,” I say.
“An object at rest stays at rest unless an external force acts upon it.”
“OK.”
“I’ve been trying to move objects at rest.” He stares at me from behind his glasses with his large eyes, as if this explains it all.
“With your mind,” I say.
“Right.” He leans back against the pillow, pushing the wheeled table holding his breakfast tray and empty pudding cup away from him, and I realize he’s done talking.
“Um. I’m going to need a little bit more,” I say. He gives me a look so similar to one of Ellie’s You’re such an idiot, Dad faces that it nearly breaks me in half. Does it start this young?
Aja sighs. “I realized all this time I’ve been trying to convert an object’s potential energy, when it makes so much more sense to try and manipulate its kinetic energy. If an object is already moving, shouldn’t it be easier to move it? Like a car that won’t start—it can take a few people to push it, but then once it’s rolling, one person can easily keep it going.”
I consider this and what he’s saying does make sense, but I’m still not sure what it has to do with my broken coffee table and his near-drowning incident. “OK,” I say, nodding. And then it’s like the sun has broken through the clouds and I can see everything clearly. “Wait. You threw the hammer so it would have kinetic energy, so it would be easier to move with your mind?”
“I didn’t throw it,” he says. “I just kind of dropped it. I was using gravity as the work—the external force to change potential energy into kinetic. There’s a formula—”
“I don’t care about the formula.” I nearly spit the word. “Why the coffee table, though? Why not just drop it on the carpet?”
“I did! I started with the carpet, trying to stop it from falling with my mind, or at least change the trajectory, but it wasn’t working. I thought if there was a bigger consequence, something I really wanted to not happen, then my brain would be more powerful, try harder or something.”
I stare at him, incredulous.
“It didn’t,” he adds.
“No, it didn’t.” I sit up, my mind reeling, and I remember the online chat I read about his wanting to try something bigger—maybe a car. “So what were you trying to drop in the river?”
He looks down at the hospital sheets covering his tiny legs, which is when it hits me out of nowhere.
“Oh my god. You were trying to drop yourself in the river.” I really can’t believe that he would throw himself into a raging body of water on purpose, but the instant I see his face, I know that it’s true. “Aja—you don’t even know how to swim!”
His voice is s
mall. “I thought it would be . . . more motivating.”
“To help you levitate?”
And I realize that was the big idea, the thing he was talking to his friend about online.
He studies the corner where the ceiling meets this wall, as if it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, and I know that he’s done talking.
We sit there, me staring at him, him staring at the ceiling, while I try to suss out the conflicting emotions in my brain. But the overriding one is fear—that maybe his imagination isn’t as harmless as I’ve thought. That I’ve been dismissing too much. That I haven’t wanted to see what was right in front of me. That maybe Stephanie and the one-time therapist and the school counselor might all be right—maybe Aja does need help.
HER HAIR LOOKS very similar to the way it did the day I first saw her in the library—long, disheveled chestnut-colored strands, like tangled vines growing out of her head and engulfing the pillow behind her. It occurs to me that maybe this is just the way that she wears it, not part of a costume or the by-product of some heroic mission.
But her face—her face is different. She’s pale—paler than I remember—and she has dark circles under her eyes like she hasn’t slept in a week. Angry red welts surround her lips and one is crawling up her cheek. I cover my mouth with my hand, hoping to conceal my surprise at her appearance.
She sits up a little when she sees me, that same startled look in her eyes—and I realize even though she told the nurse I could visit, I’m still a strange man in her room.
We stare at each other in silence for a few beats, until I recover enough to speak.
“Thank you,” I say. “You know, for . . .” It occurs to me that I’m not exactly sure what her role in saving Aja’s life was. I clear my throat.
“It’s OK,” she says, but the words come out hoarse, as if she’s just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. “It’s nothing. I was on my way home from work. Right place, right time, I guess.”
“Well, no, it’s not nothing,” I say, thinking: Look at you. Instead, I say: “You are in the hospital.”
She shrugs and then starts coughing, but it comes out more like a wheezing sound that makes my own throat itch.
I notice she has a similar heart monitor to the one that’s hooked up to Aja.
She must have almost drowned in rescuing him—I want to ask, but it feels too personal, somehow. And then it occurs to me that I still don’t know her name.
“I’m Eric, by the way.”
She nods and then has just opened her mouth to respond when the door bursts open.
“Jubilee Jenkins,” says a booming voice. A man in a white coat and glasses enters the room behind his voice. He’s hefty, like he once was a high school linebacker and never stopped eating like one. I step out of his way, but he barely glances at me, his eyes trained on Emily, whose name is apparently Jubilee.
“I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again,” he says. “Wish it was under better circumstances, of course. How long has it been? Five, six years?”
“Nine,” Jubilee says.
“Nine! Holy cow. Where does the time go?” he says. “Never forgot you, though. You’ve been the topic of many a dinner conversation. I mean, not your name, of course, patient confidentiality and all that.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, you’re lucky that EMT noticed your swollen lips and gave you the Epi. He’s worked enough anaphylaxis cases to know, I guess. You really should be wearing one of those allergy bracelets, though—do you have one? I can see about getting you one, if you don’t.” He looks down at the chart he’s holding in his hand, shakes his head, and lets out a long whistle. “Man, you really are lucky. So, how are we feeling?”
Jubilee’s eyes are big and she looks as bewildered by this man as I feel. I didn’t think he’d ever stop talking. And what was that about an allergy? Was she stung by a bee or something while she was trying to save Aja?
“I’m OK,” Jubilee says, and I can’t tell if I imagine it or if her eyes flit over to me for a second. “When can I go home?”
“Well, your heart’s pumping fine, but I don’t like that lingering wheeze you’ve got there,” he says. “You’re not really out of the woods yet. Anaphylaxis can reoccur up to seventy-two hours after the event—and yours was pretty severe. According to the EMT’s report, you were already unconscious when they got to you.”
She gives a slight nod.
“I mean, if you have someone to look out for you, I’d be more inclined to release you.” He looks up at me, as if he’s finally noticed me standing there. “Are you family?”
I start to shake my head no, just as Jubilee says: “Yes.”
The desperation in her eyes is so fierce, I immediately change the direction of my head to an up-and-down motion. “I am,” I say. “Her . . . cousin?”
She bobs her head, mimicking mine. “He is. He can look after me.”
“Ohhh-kay,” says the doctor, then walks closer to Jubilee. “Listen, who’s your allergist? I checked with Dr. McCafferty’s nurse and he doesn’t have you on file.”
She shakes her head no.
“Someone else?”
She gives her head another small shake.
“Jubilee! You need to be working with somebody. There have been so many advances with allergies the past few years. Maybe you could work on getting this thing under control somehow. Where do you get your scrip for EpiPens? Don’t tell me from some quack online.”
“I don’t—” she starts, her voice cracking. “My Epis are expired.”
The doctor has a visceral reaction and I think he might come out of his skin. “You don’t have Epis? Jesus! I’d rather you said you were getting them online.”
She doesn’t respond.
The doctor stares at her for a beat and then looks at his watch. “Jubilee, at the very, very least, you need to get Epis and a bracelet. The very least.” He fixes her with a look. “I’m serious. I don’t want to see you in here again.” He pauses, as if for dramatic effect. “I can’t imagine you’d be this lucky a second time.”
It works. On me, anyway.
And then he’s gone, and I’m left standing there, eyes locked with Jubilee’s, the air heavy between us. There are so many questions, but I know the answers are none of my business, so I just wait, hoping maybe she’ll speak first. She doesn’t. The only sound I can hear is my heart thumping like a dog’s tail in exuberant greeting. I wonder why it’s doing that. I wonder if she can hear it, too.
“Well, cousin,” I say, smiling in an attempt to smooth over the awkwardness. “Can I give you a ride home?”
WHEN I GET back to Aja’s room, there’s a woman standing outside the door. Clad in casual black slacks, a gray blouse, and slip-on shoes, she resembles other visitors I’ve passed in the hallway, save for the official-looking lanyard draped around her neck and the briefcase she’s carrying. Regardless, I don’t recognize her, so my first thought is that she’s got the wrong room.
“Excuse me,” I say as I brush past her and reach for the door handle.
“Mr. Keegan?” she asks.
I stop. “Yes?”
“Latoya Halliday, medical social worker here on staff,” she says, sticking her hand out toward me.
Oh, right, the nurse mentioned this. “Come on in,” I say, giving her proffered hand a gentle squeeze and then reaching back to the doorknob. “We’ll see if he’s up.”
“Oh no, I was hoping to talk to you,” she says. “Privately. I’ve already spoken to Aja.”
I take a step back. “You did?” I ask. “I mean, that’s legal, without me being there?”
“Standard procedure,” she says, echoing what the nurse said earlier.
I narrow my eyes. “Standard procedure for what, exactly?” I ask. “Do you visit every child that gets admitted to the ER?”
“No,” she says, shifting her eyes to the door and then back at me. “Just when it’s deemed necessary.”
“Deemed necessary by whom?” I feel like I’m missing
something, like I’m not getting to the root of the issue with my questioning, but I’m caught off guard and my mind is swirling.
“Why don’t we go have a seat, Mr. Keegan?” She nods toward a bench in the hallway.
Without much choice in the matter, I follow her like a puppy on a string. When we’re settled, she looks directly at me, and I sense a shift in her tone. “Our concern is that Aja’s fall wasn’t an accident.”
As her eyes search mine, I realize immediately what she’s inferring.
“Oh no, no. He wasn’t trying to kill himself.” And then I stop. I’m not sure how to explain what he was doing.
She presses her lips together and her face mutates into a canvas of concern.
“I understand this is difficult, but if you could just answer a few questions for me . . .” She looks around, as if expecting someone to materialize in the hallway. “Is there a Mrs. Keegan? Is Aja’s mother . . . involved?”
“No,” I say. “His parents died a few years ago and I adopted him. I’m . . . um . . . divorced.” Even though it’s common, I hate saying it out loud. It’s like announcing I’ve failed. That I’m a failure. “Wait—this is all in his file. Don’t you have it?”
“In New Jersey? There was nothing on him.”
“Oh, right. We just moved here.”
She gives a curt nod and then gets back to the matter at hand. “Have you noticed any depressive or strange behavior from Aja in recent weeks?”
I knead my jawline, last night’s lack of sleep finally catching up with me. “How so?” I ask.
“Spending an abnormal amount of time in his room and/or bed, withdrawing from friends, withdrawing from you, idealization of things that could harm him, like guns, explosives—”
Close Enough to Touch Page 11