Close Enough to Touch

by Colleen Oakley

  My stomach gurgles. I take a swig of the water that came with my meal to try to settle it. I shouldn’t have eaten so fast.

  Walking in, I notice that the library is mostly empty, save for a man at a computer carrel sitting on a pillow playing what looks like a golf video game on the screen. I wonder if he just had surgery or something.

  “Slow night,” I say when I get within a few yards of the circulation desk and Jubilee.

  She starts and looks up at me, her eyes wide. I never really noticed them before, beyond the fact that they’re brown. But under the fluorescent light of the library they look like chocolate that’s been flecked with caramel.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She relaxes her expression. “It’s OK,” she says. “It was just so quiet in here. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  We stare at each other for a few beats and I study her face up close. Her lips and cheek look a little better, not as red or swollen. I tear my gaze away from her mouth and run it down her neck, over her ill-fitting suit jacket, to her hands, which are cased in leather gloves. The same gloves she had on for Halloween. I eye them for a beat.

  “Um . . . can I help you?” She glances up at the wall beside us and I follow her gaze. A clock. Its hands point to 6:55.

  “Yes, I’m sorry.” I draw my eyes back to her face. “I, um, need to renew my books.”

  She glances at my empty hands and then narrows her eyes. “Didn’t you just check them out? On Halloween?”

  “I did,” I say.

  “You get three weeks. It’s only been”—she calculates the numbers in her head—“eleven days.”

  “Oh.” I rap my knuckles lightly on the counter. “Right. Good, good. Then they’re not late.”

  I came with the intention of asking her about The Bell Jar but now find that I’m not sure how to say it. Or maybe that I don’t want the conversation to be over so quickly. “How are you feeling?” I ask, at the exact same time she says: “Are you taking a class or something?”

  We both laugh.

  “You first,” I say.

  She repeats her question.

  I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know—are you taking a class in modern literature? I’ve just been trying to figure out why you’re so interested in The Virgin Suicides. You’re not exactly the demographic.”

  “No? You mean, you don’t have middle-aged men checking out young adult books all the time?”

  “You’re hardly middle-aged,” she says, then looks down. She’s doing that thing again, where she’s bold and forward and then suddenly timid, self-conscious. It’s like a dance and I don’t know the steps.

  “It’s for my daughter,” I say.

  She crinkles her brow. “Daughter?”

  “Yeah. Ellie. She’s fourteen. Lives in New Hampshire with her mother.” And then I add: “My ex.”

  She crinkles her brow. “So . . . are you guys in a father-daughter book club or something?”

  I offer a grin, but I know it’s a sad imposter. How do I explain what I’m doing? What am I doing? “Something like that,” I say. “I’m just, I don’t know, reading some of the books she’s read, trying to relate to her, I guess. Trying to understand her better.”

  She glances up at the clock again.

  “Sorry, is it— What time does the library close?”

  “Seven,” she says. “But it’s OK. Michael’s still here.”

  She nods toward the man with the pillow. I glance over at him and then back at her and decide I should get to the point. “So, you’ve read The Bell Jar, right?”

  “Of course,” she says, as if everyone on earth has read it, when I only just heard of it from Ellie’s notebook.

  “If someone really identifies with Esther—do you think that’s concerning? Like, maybe they’re—I don’t know—suicidal or something?”

  “Are we talking about your daughter?”

  “Yeah.”

  She purses her mouth as if really thinking it over, or maybe she’s just trying to remember details of the book, and I notice she has a slight underbite, forcing her top lip to protrude like the brim of a tiny hat. I stare at it, unable to look away. Finally, she says: “I think it’s more concerning if a teenage girl doesn’t relate to Esther.”

  “Really?” I say, dragging my eyes up to meet hers. “Why?”

  “Well, she’s flailing, right? She feels trapped, insecure, unsure of herself and her place in the world. Even when she has this glamorous internship that other girls would kill for, she feels like an imposter.”

  “And that’s a good thing? Low self-esteem?”

  She tucks her tiny bottom lip under her teeth. “Better than the alternative.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You were in high school once—is there anything worse than an arrogant teenager?”

  I laugh, and then get a little pang thinking of Ellie struggling with these big life issues, wondering where she fits in.

  “But then again,” says Jubilee, “that book is partly autobiographical and Sylvia Plath did kill herself a month after it came out. So, what do I know?”

  I stare at her deadpan face, until she cracks a small grin. “Thanks,” I say with a soft chuckle, trying to conceal my surprise at her wit. “Very helpful.”

  She glances over at the computer carrels. I follow her gaze and see that Michael has just turned off the computer screen and is now on his feet, stretching. I watch as he picks up his pillow and slowly makes his way to the door.

  “What do you have to do to close up?” I ask.

  “Not much,” she says. “Just turn off the lights. Lock up.”

  “Can I walk you out?” It just falls out of my mouth, but then, when her eyes drop to the desk, I worry that it’s too forward.

  “Um . . .”

  “Sorry, it’s my grandmother.”

  “What?” she asks, looking at me in confusion.

  “I know it’s the modern era,” I explain, rubbing my jaw, “but I’m pretty sure she would rise up from her grave and kill me if I didn’t at least offer.”

  “Um . . . OK,” she says, the right side of her mouth turning up. “Let me just get my coat.”

  Outside, I glance at the front seat of the car, where Aja is sucking soda from his straw. The night air has ushered in even colder temps, and I hope he’s not too chilly sitting there. Sticking my hands in my coat pockets to try to keep them warm, I turn back to where Jubilee is fumbling with the keys and lock. When she’s done, I clear my throat. I glance out into the parking lot, lit by the street lamp overhead, and that’s when I realize my car is the only one there. “Where is your car?”

  “Oh, um. I ride my bike to work.”

  I know she was on her bike when she saved Aja, and it was cold that day, but not this cold. “You a hard-core environmentalist or something?”

  “No,” she says, and then pauses, considering. “I mean, I do turn off the water when I brush my teeth.”

  My lips spread into a smile. “So, why do you ride your bike to work in this weather? Didn’t I see a car in your driveway yesterday?”

  She nods. “It won’t start. I hoped maybe it was just out of gas, but that’s not it.”

  “Can I help you with it?” It’s out of my mouth before I can think. But she saved Aja’s life and it’s the least I can offer her.

  “You want to buy me a new car?”

  A loud clap of laughter bursts from my mouth, like a cannon shot from its barrel. The sound slices through the air. She grins at me, and it feels like something has been broken between us. The weird awkwardness that seemed to hang between us like a fog—in the hospital, standing in front of her house, just now in the library—it’s gone. My hands don’t feel cold anymore.

  “Ah, no,” I say. “Not exactly. But I could take a look at it for you. See what the trouble is.”

  “You know about fixing cars?”

  I shrug. “A little.”

  She ch
ews her lip as she considers this and I try not to stare. I fail.

  After what feels like two full minutes of silence, her eyes meet mine again. “OK,” she says.

  “OK,” I say. “Saturday?”

  “OK,” she repeats.

  I glance over at Aja and he’s just staring through the windshield now, his dinner long eaten. I know I need to go, to get him home, but strangely I find myself not wanting to leave Jubilee’s side.

  I turn back to her. “Well, can I give you a ride? It really is freezing tonight. Literally. The clock on the bank said thirty-one degrees.”

  “No, I’m fine,” she says. “I’m used to it.”

  I push one more time. “Are you sure?”

  “Really. It’s not necessary,” she says. “But thank you.”

  “OK,” I say, accepting defeat. “Well, good night, Jubilee.”

  “Night,” she says.

  I slide into the front seat and watch as Jubilee swings a leg over her bike and navigates it out of the parking lot and down the silent street, a tiny dark mass under the light of the lampposts. I notice she doesn’t have any reflectors on the bike, and I have the sudden urge to follow her. To keep her safe. I watch until she’s pedaled out of sight, and then I lean back against the headrest and exhale.

  I LIED. I don’t know anything about fixing cars.

  My dad was a real do-it-yourselfer. He always had some kind of dirt and grime under his fingernails and spent full weekend days in the garage doing god only knows what. Connie joined him when she was old enough and they’d dissect car issues over dinner like they were discussing life-and-death medical procedures. He tried to teach me how to change the oil once, but I just couldn’t understand the point when there was a Jiffy Lube not even two miles from our house.

  I don’t know why I offered to look at it, except I had this overwhelming desire to do something for Jubilee. For this woman who, in such a short time, has done so much for me. Like jump into cold, rushing water and pull my son to safety. The least I could do is try to fix her car. That’s what I’ve been telling myself, anyway.

  Sitting in the therapist’s waiting room while Aja finishes with his appointment on Thursday afternoon, I punch out a text to Ellie:

  I didn’t know you wanted to work in magazines. Dad.

  Then I Google: Car won’t start. The first entry that pops up is car troubleshooting for dummies. Instead of being offended, I’m grateful. Maybe I’ll actually understand some of the terminology. But after scanning the first few paragraphs, I realize it’s hopeless and click off my phone. I stand up to help myself to a Styrofoam cupful of what I’m sure is cold coffee sitting in the glass pot of a brewing machine on a table cluttered with magazines. As I take a swig of the tepid sludge, the thick wooden door in front of me swings open and Aja emerges. I arrange my face into a welcoming smile. “How’d it go, bud?” My voice is laden with forced cheer, as if he’s just played a basketball game instead of spending an hour in therapy.

  He shrugs without glancing my way and reaches for the iPad he left on the chair beside me. He sits down and slips the earbuds in as the therapist, who introduced herself as Janet when we arrived, appears in the doorway Aja just came out of. “Mr. Keegan? Want to come in for a chat?”

  “I’ll be right back,” I say to Aja, who’s already absorbed in the world on his screen. He doesn’t acknowledge me. Embarrassed, I glance up at Janet, who offers me a consolatory smile.

  In her office, I sit down in the chair across from her desk. A picture of three towheaded children, all straight-teeth smiles and matching white and khaki outfits on a sandy beach, stares back at me. “Yours?” I ask.

  She nods, and I have to keep myself from rolling my eyes. I wonder if it ever occurred to her how obnoxious it is to view her perfect family on display while you’re there to discuss your family’s imperfections. Maybe it’s her form of credentials. Look, my children can stand in a row and smile at the same time in unwrinkled, coordinating outfits! Your family can be as well-adjusted as mine, once we figure out this suicidal/delusional-thinking stuff!

  “They’re all grown up now,” she says. “Hard to believe.”

  “Mmm.” I peer at her more closely. On first glance I thought she was late thirties tops, but now I can see a thin line of gray peeking out at the root of her blond locks, pulled tightly back in a bun. And her face is a little too taut. On closer inspection, she just looks well preserved.

  “Well, you’ve obviously got a very intelligent child there,” she says, sliding into her large leather chair.

  I would normally say thank you, but I’m too stressed—about work, about Aja, about life—to deal in niceties. I cut to the chase. “Do you think he’s suicidal?”

  Her eyes widen for a moment and then she gives a quick shake of her head, as if she understands that I just want to get on with it. “No,” she says. “I don’t.”

  “Great.” I clasp my hands together in front of me. “Did you sign the required paperwork? I need it for his school.”

  She picks out a piece of paper from the stack in front of her and slides it across the desk toward me.

  “I’d like to see Aja once a week.”

  “For this delusion stuff?” I say. “That’s fine. I’ll figure it out with work.” I pick up my phone and the paper she gave me off the desk and start to stand.

  “No,” she says.

  I freeze, my body not yet completely unfolded, and look at her. “No? No, what?”

  “I don’t want to see him for the delusions—although his acting on them is concerning. And I disagree with his previous counselor’s assessment. I think he may be on the spectrum,” she says. “But right now, what I’d like to see him for is his grief.”

  Gravity pulls me back down into the chair and my eyebrows follow suit. “His grief?” I try to recall Aja crying or behaving sadly. I can’t. I don’t even think he cried at the funeral, although my memory of that time is spotty at best, considering I was in the middle of a huge audit, working sixteen-hour days, my best friend had died, and I’d learned I was going to be doubling the number of children I had overnight. “I don’t . . . I’m not sure . . . His parents died more than two years ago. Did he tell you that?”

  “No—he didn’t actually say much at all. I read it in his file,” she says. “But I just get this sense from the few things he did say that he’s never grieved them. I don’t think he knows how.”

  I take this in. Is there a proper way to grieve? Step-by-step instructions? I thought you just cried a bit and got on with it. My mind flashes to the day I came home from school as a kid and my gerbil, Alvin, was lying in his cage, unmoving. “Chin up,” my mom said. “Life goes on.” I just remember thinking: Not for Alvin.

  “Do you talk about his parents?” she asks, breaking my reverie. “Reminisce with him? Tell him stories?”

  I mull this over. Surely I do. I think about Dinesh so often. What he would do in my shoes. How he was a far superior dad, husband, everything than I ever was. How he wouldn’t bungle things the way I often do. But do I talk about him? With Aja?

  “I’m not sure,” I say.

  “Hmm,” she says, but that one short syllable carries a world of judgment.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing,” she says. “I’d just like you to try it this week. Tell him something about his father—what was his name?”

  “Dinesh,” I say. My voice cracks on the “nesh” and it surprises me. I clear my throat.

  “Or his mother.”

  “Kate.” Her image flashes before me. The dark, elfish locks framing plump cheeks and a smile too large for her face. I can almost hear her pinging laugh in response to Dinesh’s antics. It sounded like wind chimes on a blustery day. Or maybe that’s just my memory of it.

  I swallow.

  “Can you do that?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I can do that.” I gather my things and stand up for the final time. “Thank you, Dr. . . .” I look around for a nameplate, having alre
ady forgotten her last name.

  “Oh, please. It’s Janet.”

  ON THE WAY home, Aja is still entrenched in his game. I tap him on the shoulder. “Can you please take those out?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your earbuds. Take them out,” I say, louder.

  He hooks a finger around each wire and tugs.

  “We need to talk,” I say.

  He stares at the dashboard.

  “I’m going back to work tomorrow,” I say. “And you are going back to school.”

  Silence.

  “But the social worker at the hospital says I can’t leave you alone in the afternoon anymore, so that nice woman that came over on Tuesday, Mrs. Holgerson, will be there when you get off the bus. She’ll stay and pick up the apartment some and make dinner for us. Apparently she’s very good at Swedish food.”

  When I realized I needed after-school care for Aja, Connie asked around her office and a paralegal knew of a retired nanny who was looking for something part-time. Glenda Holgerson smelled a little like cooked onions, but she had an impressive résumé and a firm but kind demeanor, and didn’t flinch when I told her about Aja’s recent troubles. I hired her on the spot and added it to the very long list of things I owe my sister for.

  “Aja,” I say.

  He doesn’t respond, so I keep talking. “Remember those meatballs you had at IKEA? I think she can make those. She mentioned some kind of dessert, too. Fila? Fika? Something like that. Anyway, it’ll be good for us to try some new things.”

  Aja mumbles something.

  “What?”