I nearly choke on a bubble of laughter and begin clearing my throat to disguise it. The woman looks at me funny.
My phone rings and I finagle it out of my pocket. It’s Stephanie. My ex-wife rarely calls, but it will have to wait. I silence it.
“Nothing out of the ordinary from his usual behavior,” I say, composing myself. “Look, I’m afraid this has all been a big misunderstanding.”
“And I’m afraid you don’t understand the seriousness of what your son is going through,” she says, an edge to her voice. “Is there a history of mental illness in his family?”
“No,” I say firmly. Then I pause. The truth is, I don’t know anything about Dinesh’s and Kate’s parents and grandparents beyond the little they told me about them.
“Trouble at school? Any bullying?”
I hesitate, thinking about his three-day suspension and Jagger, that hulk of a fifth grader. “A minor misunderstanding. Once.”
The phone buzzes in my hand. Stephanie again. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Let me just . . . real quick—” I slide my finger over the screen and put it up to my ear.
“Stephanie, sorry, I’m in the middle of some—”
“It’s Ellie.”
My heart drops as I stand up. I look at the social worker and hold up my finger. “Can you give me just one minute? I’m sorry. I’ve gotta—” I walk off down the hall without waiting for a reply. “What’s wrong? Is she OK?”
“She’s fine. I just thought you should know . . . well, she got suspended.”
“From school?”
“Well, yeah, Eric, where else would she get suspended from?”
I ignore her sarcasm. “What for?”
Stephanie pauses. “She was caught smoking on school grounds.”
“Cigarettes?” I hiss, glancing at Latoya. She’s staring at me intently. I turn my back to her.
“Not exactly.”
“Pot?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus, Stephanie!”
“Calm down, Eric! It’s just a little weed. It’s not heroin.”
“Not today, it’s not.”
“Oh, don’t start with that gateway-drug crap. We smoked weed. It’s just something kids do.” I can’t believe she’s being so nonchalant about it.
“Not at fourteen!”
“Yes, at fourteen. We were seventeen. Not much difference. Look, I admit it was a bad choice, and I told her as much, but I don’t think we need to get apoplectic here.”
“No, I’m sure you don’t,” I say. “Put her on the phone.”
“No. She doesn’t want to talk to you,” she says. “And even if she did, she’s not here.”
I clench my teeth and speak in a low voice so Latoya can’t hear me. “She got suspended from school for drugs and you let her leave the house? What kind of mother are you?” As soon as it comes out, I know I shouldn’t have said it. I close my eyes and wait for the tsunami that’s coming.
“What kind of mother am I? Are you serious right now? I’m the kind of mother that’s here, which isn’t something that can be said for you, is it?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my free hand, recognizing the irony. No, I’m not there. I’m with my other child, who is currently in the hospital. “It’s only six months—and you agreed I should take it. That it would be the best thing,” I say wearily. “Look, let’s not— We promised we wouldn’t do this.”
“Yeah, well, we promised a lot of things to each other, didn’t we?” And then I hear a click as she ends the call.
I clutch the phone tighter, and resist the urge to chuck it down the hall and see it shatter into a hundred pieces. I hate when she does that—gets all pious about our divorce, as if she didn’t want it as much, if not more, than me. I take a deep breath and remember where I am. I compose my face and turn around to Latoya, who’s still sitting on the bench, wearing a worried expression.
“Where were we?” I ask, walking toward her.
She tilts her head skeptically, as if she wants to ask about the phone call, but then thankfully looks back down at her notes. “We’re concerned about your son’s emotional—”
“What exactly did he say to you?” I ask, cutting her off.
She lowers her eyes. “Well, not much,” she admits. “I asked him the standard questions: if he wanted to harm himself, if he had thought about it before, if he ever thought about harming others. He mostly ignored me.”
I nod, a little absurdly grateful that it’s not just me he ignores.
“But when I asked him if he meant to jump off that bridge, he said yes.”
I clear my throat. “I don’t think he meant that he was trying to commit suicide,” I say, and then pause, trying to figure out how to explain this. “He’s become quite interested in the idea of . . . mental powers recently. Telepathy, telekinesis, X-Men type stuff. I think what he was trying to do, last night—as ridiculous as it may sound—is levitate over the river.” I add a lame chuckle, trying to convey a Kids will be kids, eh? kind of tone, but the woman doesn’t smile.
She purses her lips and sits back. “I see,” she says. “You know those kind of delusions can be indicative of a larger psychiatric issue.”
“I know,” I say. “He’s been to counseling. A few times, anyway, and they were unable to commit to a diagnosis.”
“You also know that he may not be telling you the complete truth? I’m not saying your son’s a liar—not at all. But children aren’t always forthcoming with their parents.”
Ellie’s face flashes in my mind. “Tell me about it,” I say.
“And we can’t gloss over the real possibility that it was an attempted suicide,” she says.
I open my mouth to argue, but I’ve lost the will. I know Aja wasn’t trying to kill himself, but I also know what he was trying to do isn’t much better. We sit in silence for a few beats and then she picks up the briefcase beside her and opens it. She shuffles through the papers until she comes to the one she’s looking for. “OK, well, this is what I’d like to do, Mr. Keegan. Given the circumstances, I don’t think a psychiatric transfer for Aja is necessary at this point, but I would like to refer you to a number of pediatric mental health professionals—these are broken out by network. You’ll need to make an appointment within the week, and then that doctor will advise you on a further treatment plan.” She hands me a piece of a paper with a list of doctors’ names and telephone numbers. “I also think he’s in need of around-the-clock supervision. Do you work, Mr. Keegan?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Who brings Aja to school?”
“I do. I drop him off and then go to the train station.”
“Who watches Aja after school?”
“No one,” I admit, thinking of our routine the last few weeks. “He rides the bus, and I call to make sure he got in OK. Then he plays computer games and does homework until I get home. It’s only a couple of hours. I know it’s not ideal, but—”
“You’ll need to make other arrangements. He really should not be left alone, in case he decides to act again on these beliefs,” she says. “I’ll be drawing up a form that you’ll need to sign, stating that you agree with these requirements, before Aja can be released from the hospital. I’ll transfer the case to the Department of Children and Families, who will be performing follow-ups in the form of phone calls and a home visit to make sure you are adhering to these guidelines. Failure to do so could result in Aja being removed from your care.” She sounds like a typewriter moving at eighty words per minute—monotonous and perfunctory.
“Wait—slow down. Removed from my— You’re going to take him away from me?” Anger and fear are humming through my veins. I stand up so they have more room to circulate.
She puts her hand up. “Calm down, Mr. Keegan,” she says, her voice softer, as if she’s trying to soothe me with the tone. “I just need to make you aware of the standard procedures. If you follow these mandates, it’s very unlikely that will happen.”
“You’re da
mn right it won’t happen,” I say.
The woman sits patiently, waiting out my frustration. It reminds me of how I dealt with Ellie’s toddler temper tantrums, and I realize that I’m currently the child in that scenario. I close my mouth. After a few more moments of silence, she speaks. “Listen, we all want what’s best for Aja here,” she says, putting her hand on my arm. It’s the first time she’s touched me, and it’s such a gentle gesture that I alarmingly feel an excess of water pooling on my corneas. I turn my head and open my eyes wide in the hopes of drying them out. “Whether he was trying to kill himself or not—he almost did,” she says. “And we need to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
My shoulders sag under the weight of what she’s said. I know she’s right. I know I should have listened to Stephanie about Ellie and to Aja’s last therapist and to the school counselor all along. I know that I’ve failed at one more thing as a father. But what I also know, more than any of these things, is this one fact: I won’t lose Aja, too.
twelve
JUBILEE
I’VE NEVER WORN a man’s clothes before. It feels oddly intimate—all the more so because Eric’s sweatshirt doesn’t smell like a freshly laundered shirt. It smells kind of woodsy—sweet and piney at the same time. Like him, I guess.
I panicked when Dr. Houschka said he wouldn’t let me go unless I had someone to care for me. If I had to stay in that hospital, in that strange room with those strangers coming in and out, a second more, I felt sure I would die. And that serious man from the library—Eric Keegan—was standing there and it just came out of my mouth.
I’m actually surprised he went along with it. Everything about him seems so uptight—not just the way he stands, his spine rigid, his shoulders tense and square, but the intensity in his eyes, the way his lips remain straight and parallel, like an equals sign.
But then they turned up, just a little, when he offered to give me a ride home, and he surprised me again.
Now, sitting beside Eric in the passenger seat of his car, all traces of any joviality are gone and he’s gripping the wheel, still and stony as a statue—Atlas holding the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Granted, his son did almost die. But he didn’t. And even though I told Eric it was nothing, I would think he’d be just a little bit more warm, more grateful to me, instead of acting so indifferent.
Maybe he is kind of an asshole, like Louise suggested.
But then, he’s also kind of polite.
Like how he didn’t pepper me with any questions about why I was in the hospital or what was wrong with my face after Dr. Houschka left my room.
And how he brought me the extra clothes he had in his car—his Wharton sweatshirt and a pair of gym pants—since my clothes were so wet and muddy from the day before they had to be thrown out.
And how he wouldn’t hear of it when I offered to sit in the back so his son, whom he introduced as Aja, could have the front seat.
Whatever. Doesn’t really matter to me who this guy is, except that he’s the way I’m finally getting home. After the unexpected events of the past twenty-four hours—and lying wide awake in a hospital room for the entire night—all I can think about is getting inside the front door of my house. Being alone. Safe.
On the way there, I break the overwhelming silence a few times with one-word or two-word directions: “Right, here.” “Left.” And when Eric pulls into my driveway, it takes everything in me not to jump out of the car before it comes to a complete stop and race inside, throwing the dead bolt behind me with a satisfying click.
But I know that would be rude.
“Thank you for the ride,” I say as I open the car door, each word still an effort to expel from my sore throat.
He pulls up the parking brake between us and turns the key, cutting the engine. “I’ll get your bike,” he says, opening his door, too.
I open my mouth to protest, but when I stand up, I’m so overcome with exhaustion, lifting the bike myself seems an impossible task. Plus, the sweatpants I’m wearing are threatening to fall to my ankles at any second, even though I pulled the string as tightly as I could and knotted it. I sling my bag over my shoulder and grab a fistful of the pants’ elastic band to be safe.
“Where do you want it?” Eric says from behind the open trunk.
“Just inside the gate is fine,” I say, gesturing to the end of the driveway beside the house with my free hand.
Instead of wheeling it like I would, he hefts it up by the frame with one fist and does as directed, while I make my way to the porch. When I get to the front door, I turn to give a quick wave, but am startled when I see that he’s right behind me at the foot of the steps. He shoves a hand in his pocket and scratches the back of his head, his stance as awkward as I feel. I stare at him, my hand on the knob, my body itching to get inside.
He nods as if to seal our agreement. “Well, um . . . are you going to be all right?” he asks, glancing back at Aja once more. “Maybe we should stick around . . . you know, the doctor said . . .”
“I’m fine,” I say, panic rising at the thought of him—of anyone—coming inside my house. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, though. Thank you for, um . . . everything.”
“No, god,” he says. “Thank you.” He fishes in his back pocket with his right hand and produces a wallet. My eyes widen in alarm. Is he going to give me money? Like a reward for saving his kid? Or—and this is more likely, remembering my reflection in the hospital mirror—maybe I just look that destitute.
He unfolds the leather flap and pulls something out of it, then pushes it toward me. My shoulders relax when I see it’s just a business card. “Take my number,” he says. “Please. Just in case.”
I take my hand off the doorknob and grab the edge of the card, taking care not to touch his fingertips with mine. My gloves, still damp from the ordeal, are sitting in the bottom of my bag.
“K,” I say, dropping the card in my bag and clumsily fishing my keys out of it with one hand—the other is still holding up my pants. “Well, um . . . bye.” I lift my hand with the keys in a little wave and turn to go in the house without waiting for a response.
“Hey, wait,” he says. I stop, fighting the urge to scream in frustration or desperation—I’m not sure which—and turn my head back in his direction.
“Yeah?”
“This is completely random, I know. But didn’t you say The Virgin Suicides was your favorite book?”
I pause. “One of them,” I say.
“Why?” he asks. “I mean, what’s so great about it?”
I narrow my eyes at him, this out-of-the-blue question reminding me of his bizarre book choices at the library.
“I don’t know,” I say, not wanting to prolong the conversation. But I do know. I remember exactly how I felt when I entered the lives of the Lisbon sisters. Like somebody understood.
“But you do know. You must,” he says. “If it’s a favorite.”
I stare at him, willing him to read my body language, which is screaming, Let me go inside! But he just stares back at me, waiting. I take a deep breath and use the momentary pause to examine his face. Good-looking. That’s the other thing Louise called him—and he is, in that his face is striking. It entreats exploration. Good bone structure. That’s what Mom would have said. I always thought that was funny, because if you’ve ever seen a human skull, the bone placement is pretty universal. What I’m drawn to, what I can’t seem to stop staring at, is his eyes. They’re green, like two olives dropped into the center of his face, polished to a glossy shine. And they’re intense, yes, but there’s also a kindness about them. They’re a contradiction, similar to Eric himself. And I find it difficult to look away.
I realize he’s still waiting for me to answer. That he’s not going to leave until I respond. I clear my throat. “It’s just so real,” I say. “I read it as a teenager—and it captured . . . I don’t know, everything. The loneliness. The way we idolize other people’s lives. The desire to be accepted. To be not
iced.”
He stares at me, his mouth slightly ajar, and I start to feel exposed, like he can see through me, somehow. I break his gaze and pretend to study the rocks at his feet. “Um . . . for me, anyway. That’s what I liked.”
He still doesn’t respond and I feel the heat rise in my cheeks again. “Well, I really better get inside,” I say, and shuffle back toward the door.
“OK,” he says from behind me. And then: “Bye, Jubilee.” It’s the first time he’s said my name and I fumble the keys in my hand, dropping them on the porch. I quickly bend down to pick them up, taking care not to let go of the sweatpants’ waistband, conscious of how ridiculous I must look.
I straighten up, fit the key in the lock, and turn it, twisting the handle with relief. I scoot in and close the door behind me, turning the lock with a swift flick of my wrist. I lean back against the door, dropping my bag onto the ground at my feet next to the pile of mail that’s landed there in my absence and sigh, looking around. My house.
I’m in my house. Lying in the hospital bed, I fantasized about all the things I wished I were doing at home—lying in my own bed, for starters, reading a book in my comfy corner chair, making eggs and toast, mopping the floors, watching the next lecture in my Harvard series.
So it surprises even me that the first thing I do isn’t to go upstairs and change. I walk over to the window and gently push the curtain to one side and watch as Eric slides into the front seat of his car. I stare at his face as he turns to say something to Aja, who’s still in the backseat, and watch as he slowly eases the car in reverse out of the driveway. I picture myself in the passenger seat beside him. What I must have looked like there—what we looked like to people driving beside us.
THAT NIGHT, I can’t sleep. Dr. Houschka’s words keep replaying in my mind: Maybe you could get this thing under control. It’s the reason Mom moved us from the only home I’ve ever known in Tennessee to New Jersey in high school, so we could be closer to Dr. Zhang and get this thing under control. (Although to be honest, I also think she’d run out of men to date in our small town of Fountain City.)
Close Enough to Touch Page 12