“The goat thing?” Eric smiles. “Yeah. I couldn’t believe Dinesh and Kate named him Clarence. I gave him such a hard time for—” He stops talking abruptly. Turns to me. “Wait. How do you know that story?”
I shift in my seat under his gaze. “He told me.”
“He did?”
“Yeah.”
He massages the side of his face again and exhales.
“Eric, what’s the—”
“He won’t talk to me. I mean, really about much of anything, but definitely not about his parents. The one time I tried—well, it didn’t go well. I don’t know how you do it.” He says the last sentence more to himself than to me.
I shrug, wishing I had the answer he’s looking for. “I just talk to him.”
“No. It’s not that.” He turns the wheel and exhales again, puffing out his cheeks. “Believe me. I’ve tried that.”
A few minutes later, he pulls the car into my driveway and turns off the ignition. He looks at me, and I wonder if he feels the tension between us. “Are you going to be OK? About your mom, I mean.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I will.”
He nods. “Well, same time tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” I agree, opening the door and stepping out into the cold night.
“Hey, Jubilee?”
I still my hand from shutting the door. “Yeah?”
“So we’re, um . . . we can be friends?”
My gaze travels from his olive-green eyes to the stubble on his cheeks to his dry lips, and then back up to his eyes.
“Friends,” I say, and shut the car door behind me.
I know I should be happy. It’s a good thing: I can still have Eric and Aja in my life, and they know about me, so it’s safe. But as I unlock the door to my house and walk into the dark den, dropping my bag on the ground, I can’t understand why I’m not relieved. Why it feels like each heartbeat is pulsing one specific emotion through my thrumming veins, and it’s not happiness. It’s disappointment.
nineteen
ERIC
AN ALLERGY TO people. To people! Peanut butter, I’ve heard of. Bees? Absolutely. I even have a cousin who’s allergic to cilantro. But people? Even though Aja explained it to me on the way home from her house Saturday, I wouldn’t believe it until I saw it in print in that Times article. It did explain a lot of things, though. The gloves, for starters. Her sometimes skittish nature. Why she ended up in the hospital after fishing Aja out of the river. She literally risked her life—more than I even knew—to save him. And then . . . god, I can’t believe I tried to kiss her.
But what I really can’t believe, as I watch her walk up to her front door after dropping her off Monday night, is how much I still want to.
When I get home, Connie’s sitting on the couch flipping through a magazine. It’s the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to her in a few days—she was at her office all day Sunday and only had time to answer my text asking if she could take Aja to therapy. Her reply: Yes. But you owe me. Again.
“How’s it going, baby bro?” she asks, looking up at me.
I sit down beside her and run my hands through my hair. “It’s been . . . interesting,” I say. “You’re probably not going to believe this.” And then I fill her in on Jubilee, her condition, the almost-kiss.
I’m not sure how I expected her to react—maybe shock, like me? But when I’m finished, Connie laughs.
No, she doesn’t just laugh.
She hoots.
She guffaws.
She literally cannot catch her breath.
“It’s not funny,” I say. “I could’ve killed her!”
She laughs some more and then attempts some slow breaths. “No, no. You’re right. That part is not funny. But the rest? Ooh boy.” She’s off again and I stand there, waiting for her to get ahold of herself.
“Connie! Seriously,” I say, sitting on the opposite end of the couch from her. “What’s so damn funny?”
“Only you,” she says between giggles. “Only you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh c’mon, like you don’t know.”
I don’t, so I sit in silence waiting for her to illuminate me.
“Eric! You’re the poster boy for going after unavailable women.”
“What? I am not.”
“Yes. You are.”
I roll my eyes. “Stephanie is the only relationship I’ve had. Since I was seventeen, if you recall.”
“What about Teresa Falcone?”
“Teresa Fal— That was middle school. Does that really count?”
“It does. Her mom had just died and she wasn’t interested in going with anybody. But you followed her around mooning over her like some wounded puppy.”
“Oh, nice image. Glad you thought so highly of me.”
“And then Penny Giovanni?”
“What about her?”
“You asked her to homecoming sophomore year.”
“So?”
“She was a lesbian! Well, still is, I guess. But everyone knew it, except you.”
Huh. I do remember her snatching her hand away when I finally gathered up enough courage to hold it toward the end of the night.
“Really?”
“Yes!”
“And Stephanie—”
“Wait. I married her. So she was hardly unavailable.”
“Do you remember how long it took you to get a date with her? Her father was this crazy controlling Catholic that swore his virginal daughter would keep her legs closed until the end of time or something. And he hated you especially, WASP that you were.”
I laugh. I had forgotten the elaborate lengths I had to go to to get her to go out with me, including being interrogated by her dad for an hour in their stuffy, hot living room.
“Anyway,” Connie says. “I’m just saying, this is your track record when it comes to women. So, hitting on someone with an allergy to people? Well, you can see why I’m amused.”
“Well, thank you, kind sister, both for your empathy and that walk down memory lane.”
“No problem,” she says, then slaps her hands on her knees. “But as much fun as this has been, I need to get going. Long day tomorrow—especially since I missed so much work this afternoon bailing you out—again.”
“Yes, yes. Thank you, you’re amazing, I don’t know what I’d do without you. Et cetera.”
Standing up, she pulls her coat on and then wraps a scarf around her neck, pulls a knit hat on top of her head. When she reaches for the front door knob, she pauses. “Are you going to call Ellie on Thursday?”
I look down. “I don’t know,” I say lamely.
“Eric, it’s her birthday.”
“I know,” I say. It lands on Thanksgiving this year. As a kid, Ellie loved when that happened, because Stephanie would let her choose all the desserts for the meal, so we’d have cake along with two or three different kinds of pie and brownies and snickerdoodles. Her favorite. “I sent her something in the mail. A new journal.”
“You should call her.”
“Why? So Steph can tell me she doesn’t want to talk? Again?”
“No. So she knows her dad called her on her birthday. That at least you tried.”
“All I’ve been doing is trying.”
“I know,” Connie says, her voice softening. She puts her hand on my arm, squeezes it. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Mom and Dad are coming for Christmas dinner and I told them we’d do it here. At your place.”
“You what?”
She removes her hand from the knob and puts it on her hip, looking at me. “You should be thanking me. They wanted to come for Thanksgiving, but I told them I was working. Anyway, you know I don’t cook.”
That’s true. When Aja and I moved to town, she brought over a sack of White Castle burgers as a housewarming dinner.
“Honestly, I just can’t stand to hear Mom pick apart every detail of my house. You do know a l
inen closet is for linens, don’t you, dear?” She does a dead-on impersonation of our mom’s voice.
“That’s scary.”
“So is she.”
“No she’s not.”
“Whatever. You’re the son who can do no wrong, even after you get divorced, adopt a mixed-race child, and alienate your daughter.”
I suck in my breath.
“Sorry, too far?”
“Yeah. Listen, I don’t even have a dining room table.”
“I’ll bring a folding one and some chairs. It will be fine.”
“Great. Mom’ll love that.”
“She’ll be fine with it, Golden Boy. At your house, she’ll probably think it’s charming.”
WHEN CONNIE LEAVES, I walk down the hall to Aja’s room. After the river and fire incidents, I instituted a strict open-door policy, so I stick my head in without knocking. “Hey, bud.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the computer. “Hey.”
“How was therapy?”
“Fine.”
“Did you talk about anything . . . interesting?” I think of how he talked to Jubilee about his parents and wonder if I should try again. I haven’t had the nerve to bring up Dinesh and Kate after the terrible reception last time.
“No.”
OK, then. I rap the door frame with my knuckles.
“Well, good night,” I say. It’s been a long day, I reason. Not the best time for a big conversation. But instead of taking a step back and heading to my room, on a whim, I take a step in and look over his shoulder. He quickly clicks the X to close the tab on the screen with his mouse.
“Uh, no,” I say. “No secrets on the computer.” His shoulders drop. “Bring it back up, please.”
Begrudgingly he does and I scan the page. The headline alone—“How to Do Telekinesis: Advanced Techniques”—stops me cold. The rest is by some man named Arthur who discusses his “abilities” and touts his educational programs for different skill levels—each for the low price of $39.95, of course, as well as a supplement made of monoatomic gold and liquid chi, whatever the hell those things are, that helps enhance psychic powers.
“Aja, I thought we were done with all this.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Listen to me. This isn’t real. Telekinesis doesn’t exist. This guy is a scam. A phony. He’s just trying to make money.”
“You don’t know that,” he says, his voice low.
“I do, bud. I do know that.”
“No, you don’t!” he screams, and jumps up, his chair falling over. “It’s not a scam! It’s real!” He starts crying, big, fat tears falling from his eyes.
I put my hands up. “OK. OK, bud. Let’s calm down.”
“No! You don’t believe me! Just get out. Get out!”
He throws himself on the bed and buries his face in the pillow, crying in earnest now. I’m torn between going to wrap him up in my arms (which I know he hates) and leaving, so I just stand there, dumbly, watching him. I wait for him to yell at me again to get out, but he doesn’t. So I right the chair that fell over, sit down in it, and watch him some more, while the minutes on the digital clock beside his bed tick by one by one. And I wish for the hundredth time that Dinesh were here. Not only because he’d know what to do, but also because Aja wasn’t like this when his parents were alive. Sure, he was super smart and a little socially awkward—OK, a lot. But he didn’t have serious emotional issues, at least none that Dinesh talked about. And even though I didn’t necessarily notice that he hadn’t grieved properly, as the therapist pointed out, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that his parents’ death has changed him in some profound way—and that I haven’t helped him deal with it at all. I’ve got to figure this out. I’ve got to do better. And I’m going to start by not leaving when he wants me to.
I cross my arms, determined, and sit there, feet firmly planted on the ground, until Aja’s crying stops, his breathing slows, and finally, finally, he falls asleep.
THANKSGIVING ARRIVES WITHOUT much fanfare. Being from England, Dinesh and Kate didn’t really celebrate the holiday, so it’s no big deal to Aja either. I bought a cooked turkey breast and mashed potatoes from Whole Foods and we ate in the living room while watching reruns of Star Trek.
When Aja drifts off to his room to play video games on the computer, I take a deep breath and pick up my phone to call Ellie. She doesn’t answer her cell, so I dial the house phone.
Stephanie picks up on the third ring.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I say as amiably as I can.
“You, too,” she says.
“Is the birthday girl home?”
“She is.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“Eric—”
“Please?” I say, cutting her off. “Will you try?”
Stephanie sighs and I hold my breath as I hear her talking to Ellie. She must have the receiver covered, because I can only make out a few of the words, but I have to give her credit—it does sound like she’s doing her best to cajole our daughter. And it works.
“Hello.”
My knees nearly buckle when I hear her voice. She’s fifteen today, but over the phone she sounds so much younger. So much more like my sweet girl, even though her greeting has her now-perfected edge of anger to it. I don’t even care. I’m just so relieved to be speaking with her.
“Ellie,” I breathe. “Happy birthday! Fifteen, god, I can’t believe it. It feels like you were just born.” I know I’m overdoing it, that I need to pull back. I grip my phone tighter, as if that will keep her on the line. “Did you get my gift? The journal.”
“Yep,” she says.
“Good, good. I thought you might like it, since you did such a great job with your book journal assignment for school. And it will be great for you to write in, you know, good practice for being a magazine editor.”
“What?”
“You know, how you said you wanted to be a magazine editor after reading The Bell Jar.”
She scoffs. “That was, like, a year ago.”
“Oh, well, yeah. Things can change. Sure. You have plenty of time to figure out what you want to do.”
“Whatever.”
“You know, I’m reading Carrie now, and—”
“You said two minutes,” she says, cutting me off. Although it doesn’t sound like she’s talking to me. I hear Stephanie in the background. It sounds something like “Just a few more. It won’t kill you.”
“No,” Ellie says. I hear a clatter, then Stephanie’s voice in the receiver.
“Eric, are you there?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “She just . . . you know.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Well, listen, give her a big hug for me, OK? Will you do that?”
“Yeah, of course,” Stephanie says.
“OK, well, good night.”
“Good night.”
I hang up and stare at the phone. How did I get here? I look around my apartment. Not just this place, not just New Jersey, but to the point of not knowing what to say to my own daughter. I wish I could be there with her now. Somehow force her to talk to me, to go back to the way things were. But I know I can’t.
At least I’m halfway done with my contract here. In three months I’ll be back in the same town with her, and maybe then—maybe I’ll figure out what to say, what to do. How to get my daughter back.
AFTER TURNING OFF Aja’s light and pulling the covers over him, I climb into my own bed and crack open the spine of the Stephen King novel. It’s clear Ellie doesn’t care that I’m reading these books, but I won’t give up. Right now, even if it’s a bad plan, it’s the only plan I have to connect with her.
I start reading, getting lost in the disturbing mind of this teenage girl, but when I get to the scene where Carrie stops her mother’s heart, I put the book down, my own heart hammering in my chest.
I walk out to the kitchen for a glass of water, and tired of dissecting my broken relatio
nship with Ellie, my mind travels to Jubilee. I wonder what she’s doing. Impulsively I grab the phone book that’s been on the kitchen counter since we moved in and flip through it, wondering when the last time I even opened one was.
I slide my finger over the newsprint page of Js until I reach Jenkins. There are four, but no Jubilee. I’m disappointed she’s unlisted, until the name Victoria catches my eye. And it clicks—I remember it’s her mom’s name from the Times article. I rip the page out of the phone book, take it back to my room, and dial the number on my cell.
Jubilee picks up on the fourth ring.
“You were right. This book is terrifying,” I say.
“Huh?” Her voice is croaky, tired.
“Carrie, the book. I’m reading it. Sorry, did I wake you up?”
“I think so,” she says, yawning. “I was reading on the couch. I must have fallen asleep.” She yawns again. “How’d you get my number?”
“The phone book,” I say.
“Wait—seriously? Do people still use those?”
“Well, I can attest that at least one person has used it this year.”
She laughs, and I’m glad I called.
“What are you reading?”
A pause, and then: “Carrie.”
I grin. “I thought you didn’t do horror.”
“I made an exception.”
“How on earth did you fall asleep while reading it? I don’t think I’ll sleep for years.”
She laughs. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s all that scary.”
“It’s horrifying,” I say. “I can’t believe my daughter read this.”
Jubilee chuckles and makes a noncommittal sound, and then the pace of our conversation slows to a halt. After a few beats of silence, I say: “It’s her birthday today. Ellie, that is. I called her.”
“How did that go?”
“She said a total of four words, I think? So, you know, better.”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
The silence grows again and I find myself trying to picture her—if she’s sitting or standing, what she’s wearing, if she’s alone. I strain to see if I can hear anybody in the background. Although, I don’t know who’d be with her, since her parents are both out of the picture. I suddenly hate that she spent Thanksgiving alone. I wish I had thought to invite her over.
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