“So,” I say, changing the subject. “If Carrie doesn’t scare you, what does?”
“What?”
“Tell me something,” I say, “something that scares you.”
She pauses. “Well, being touched obviously.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I guess that would.” I shift in bed, putting my arm behind my head and leaning back. “Tell me something not obvious.”
The silence between us grows serious. When she speaks again, her voice is so low, I press the phone tighter to my ear, so I don’t miss anything. “I’m scared that I’ve forgotten what it feels like.”
“Being touched?”
“Yeah,” she says.
I suck in my breath. I don’t know what I expected her to say. And I don’t know how to respond.
“I guess, I’m afraid I’ve built it up in my mind,” she continues.
“How so?” I match the tone of my voice to hers.
“I don’t know. Like, there’s this YouTube video I watched once for one of my online classes, World Religions, I think. It was a group of Tibetan monks chanting and meditating together. It was an hour-long clip, and though you get the idea after a minute or two, I watched the entire thing. I don’t know why—I was transfixed or something. I could literally feel the vibration of their humming throughout my body. It started in my chest and blossomed out to my head, my limbs, my fingertips. And I’ve got in my mind that’s what it would feel like to be touched again. Like electricity. And even though I’m terrified of it, at the same time I crave it. I know that doesn’t make sense.”
“No. No, it does. It makes perfect sense.”
She falls quiet again. And then, just when I think I need to say something, to change the subject maybe, she speaks. “So is that what it feels like?”
“To be touched?”
“Yeah.”
I think for a minute. “I guess, yeah—sometimes it does,” I say, and then crack a smile. “Depends on where you’re doing the touching.” I regret the joke as soon as it’s out of my mouth, scared that I’ve spoiled the moment, or that she’ll think I’m making fun of her or trying to embarrass her—make her blush, as she so frequently does. But when I open my mouth to apologize, I hear something. It sounds like sniffling. My heart stops. Dear god, I’ve made her cry. I palm my face, cringing, trying to figure out what I can say to make it better.
And then a cackle bursts into my ear, and another one, and another. She’s laughing. And the sound is all at once shocking and familiar, like a songbird that’s back after a long winter, and it loosens something in my chest.
THE REST OF the month is cold but mild. A few snow flurries, but nothing sticks. I’m glad for Jubilee’s sake, since even though I pick her up every night, she still has to ride her bike to work. I offered again to take her car to a mechanic and even pay for it, but she wouldn’t hear of it. And I think maybe Connie is right. There is a common characteristic shared by the women in my life—they’re maddeningly stubborn.
But as I sit next to Jubilee in the front seat of the car, night after night, I’m forced to consider Connie’s other theory as well. It’s true that the lure of Jubilee has only grown since I found out about her condition. But surely, that’s in spite of it, and not because of it. I was drawn to her before I even knew, but now—since our phone conversation on Thanksgiving—I can’t stop thinking about her.
About touching her.
Not just the obvious parts. But her collarbone. The parting of her hair. The exposed inside of her wrist where her glove doesn’t quite meet her shirtsleeve. I’m overwhelmed by my desire for it.
And I don’t think it’s because I haven’t had sex in so long or felt desire. I am a man, after all, and a model seductively eating a hamburger on TV is enough to spark interest. It’s that I haven’t felt desire like this.
Part of me wants to bring it up with Aja’s therapist, to talk to someone about it, but I know I’m not here to talk about me.
Sitting, I rest my elbows on the wooden arms of the chair in front of Janet’s desk, ready for our monthly check-in. “So, how’s he doing?”
She cocks her head. “How do you think he’s doing?”
Jesus. Should have known better than to expect a straight answer from a shrink.
“Good.” Then I say, hedging, “Well, better, I think.”
There haven’t been any major episodes since the telekinetic website breakdown, and I’m scoring that as a win.
“Have you talked to him about his parents?”
I shift in the seat. You’d think they could at least put a cushion in it. “I tried.”
“How’d that go?”
“Not well.”
“Hmm.”
It’s so silent, I can literally hear the seconds tick by on the wall clock to my right.
“Who’s Jubilee?”
My eyes dart up to hers. “What?”
“He talks about her a lot.”
I clear my throat. “She’s a librarian,” I say. “She’s the one who saved his life. From the river.”
“He seems to be fond of her.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I scratch the back of my head with my hand. “I think they get each other or something.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Though, I’m concerned that he’s harboring some delusions where she’s concerned as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“He seems to think she’s allergic to people.”
“Huh.” I feel a surge of defensiveness, like I want to protect Jubilee. Her life, her condition, is none of Janet’s business. But I also don’t want Aja to seem more peculiar than he is. And my loyalty as a father wins out. “Well, she is, actually.”
It’s Janet’s turn to lift her brow. I take some pleasure in unsteadying her. “Really?”
“Yeah, it’s some genetic condition, like a mutation. It’s rare.” I read the New York Times article. Twice. First, astounded, as if I were reading about a stranger. And then again with Jubilee in mind, trying to comprehend what her life must have been like. What it’s still like.
Janet rearranges her face back into its pleasant expression. “But she doesn’t have any psychic . . . abilities that you’re aware of, correct?” She offers a small smile, as if we’re in on the same joke.
I don’t return it. “No. Not that I’m aware of.”
She nods. “Aja seems to think that the mutation causing her allergy—which I admittedly didn’t think was real—marks her as some kind of evolutionary wonder, and that she perhaps has tapped or untapped supernatural powers.”
Even though I know this is the serious part, what I’m supposed to be concerned about, I can’t help but smile, picturing Jubilee as some superhero out to save the world. And my gut is back to wondering just how much therapy Aja really needs. Yes, I know he has some . . . issues, stemming from his parents’ death. But isn’t this just the overactive imagination of a ten-year-old boy at work?
I say as much to Janet, ending with: “He reads a lot of X-Men. It’s his favorite comic book—and that’s exactly what they are, genetic mutants with extraordinary capabilities.”
“Fair enough,” she says, revealing the palm of her hand. “I just don’t want to leave any stone unturned or miss something given some of the choices Aja’s made in the past. I want to make sure we’re doing everything we can for him.”
My guard lowers a tad. “I know, I understand. Me, too.”
I stand and pick my coat up off the back of the chair where I draped it. As I’m shrugging it on and walking toward the door, Janet calls out. “Eric?”
I turn. “Yeah.”
She fixes me with a kind but stern look. “Talk to him. You’ve got to keep trying. With kids it often takes multiple attempts.”
I nod, thinking of Ellie. Don’t I know it.
twenty
JUBILEE
DECEMBER IS FULL of surprises. The first week, Madison forced me to get a cell phone. “It’s weird that you don’t have one,” she said. “They’re prac
tically mandatory.” Half a Xanax and an hour later I was excited to be in possession of one. But now it feels kind of pointless because the only person who ever calls me on it is Madison.
The second week, Eric invited me over for Christmas. I don’t think he really meant to—it was more that he was trapped into it and didn’t really have a choice.
“What are you doing for Christmas?” he asked, conversationally, on the drive home one night.
“When is it, next Friday?”
He laughed, and then realized I was serious.
“Uh, yeah,” he said. “Do you not celebrate or something?”
I gave my head a small shake. “No. I hate Christmas.” I didn’t intend to say it, but it just fell out.
“You hate Christmas?”
I nodded.
“Why?”
The first few years after Mom left, I made an effort. Put on the Now This Is Christmas! CD of terrible holiday pop tunes she used to bop around the house to. Got out the box of drugstore decorations that were half falling apart and put a few here and there. But when the day actually arrived, looking at them—especially the plastic Santa figurine missing half of his cottony beard—just made me sad. I never minded living alone—not really—except for that one day. That inescapable day where every show and commercial on TV and every song reminds you that you’re meant to be with someone. Because really, what’s the point of celebrating a holiday that’s all about giving gifts when you’ve got no one to give a gift to? My birthday’s not much better, to be honest, but at least there aren’t a thousand reminders I’m alone on that day.
Anyway, all of that sounds kind of pathetic, even to me, so I tried to explain it away with: “I don’t know—the commercialism. All the forced cheer. Oh, and the lights! Dear god, the lights. Look at this neighborhood,” I said, waving my hand toward the window. “It looks like an airport runway! Like they’re expecting a seven thirty-seven to land at any minute.”
Eric barked with laughter. “A real live Grinch. I never would have guessed. Are you going to sneak in all the homes and steal the children’s presents next?”
“Maybe,” I said, giving him a side grin.
“You should come over to our house,” Aja said. “Eric’s cooking.”
And that’s when Eric shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Yes, you should come. You’re welcome to come. I mean, if you want to. No pressure.”
So, see? I don’t think he really wanted to invite me, which is why I demurred before getting out of the car. “Offer’s open,” he shouted after me. “Unless your heart is two sizes too small!”
THE BIGGEST SURPRISE happens the third week of the month, when I walk into the library Monday morning and find Roger standing at the circulation desk, looking forlorn. Or confused. I can’t tell. “Louise got fired,” he says.
“What?”
“Happened first thing this morning. She came in. Maryann called her back and that was it.”
I can’t find words. Louise? I thought she was like a permanent fixture at the library. “How long has she worked here?”
“Since before I started. And that was eight years ago. I want to say, like, fifteen, at least.” He shakes his head. “It was awful—you should have seen her. And on a Monday, too. She was crying. Then I started crying.” He chokes up a little now as he talks and puts a finger over his mouth. Tears pooling in his eyes, he holds my gaze for a second and walks into the back room.
Stunned, I just stand there, coat and bag still on, behind the circulation desk. I’m not sure what to do next. How did Louise get fired? Why? If the city council cut funding it should have been me that they let go. Last one hired, first one fired, like Louise said.
Maryann comes out of the back room and she stops when she sees me. Her shoulders tense. “Hello,” she says. It’s oddly formal, but then she just fired a woman who appeared to be not only a coworker but a friend, so it I guess she wouldn’t be in a jovial mood.
“Morning,” I say.
“You heard, huh?”
I nod. “It’s awful.”
She gives a quick nod back and bites her lip, as if to keep from crying. “Well, we’re all going to have to step it up a bit more around here, seeing as we’ll be shorthanded.”
“Of course,” I say. “Anything.”
She clears her throat and moves toward the desk to pick up a folder, then returns to the back room without another word.
The day passes in a blur, and even though Louise and I didn’t always have the same work schedule, it’s weird to not have her there. Weird to know she won’t be back. It’s emotionally exhausting, and when Aja walks in at four, I give him my now-customary nod and then let him be for the afternoon. I don’t have the energy for our usual conversations.
“What’s wrong?” Eric asks on the ride home.
“Huh?” I say, still thinking about Louise.
“You just seem a little . . . not yourself.” And I wonder how I am to him. Who I am. What he thinks of me when I am being “myself.”
I tell him about the library and the lack of funding, and how Louise was the last person anyone expected to get fired.
Eric listens intently and then says: “Better her than you, right?”
I shift in the passenger seat but don’t respond.
“Sorry, that was insensitive.”
I nod.
“If it helps, I had a shit day, too.”
“You’re not supposed to say ‘shit,’ ” Aja pipes up from the backseat.
“You, neither,” Eric says.
“What happened?” I ask.
“One of our clients is acquiring an S & P One Hundred and the due diligence is a b—” He glances at the backseat at Aja and clears his throat. “It’s a pain,” he says. “I don’t know my team, since I’m new in the office, so I don’t completely trust them to get the EBITDA or the forecasted cash flows right, or anything else for that matter, and ugh, it’s just a lot—a lot of oversight. A lot of pressure.”
I stare at him. “Was that English?”
He laughs and waves his hand. “It doesn’t matter. Enough work talk,” he says. But after he makes the pronouncement, there doesn’t seem to be anything else to talk about and the car falls silent for the remainder of the drive.
ON THURSDAY THAT week, Madison sends me my first-ever text message.
Left you a little something on your front porch.
I open the front door and find a dozen apple cider doughnuts in a white box, an envelope with a Xanax, and a card that reads: I know I’ll need one on Christmas—thought you might, too. PS: Only take half a pill at a time, Bobby McFerrin.
I get into bed with the doughnuts, eat four of them while rereading Jurassic Park, and fall asleep in a sea of crumbs.
The next morning I wake up and glance at the clock. Nine fifteen a.m. I groan and stretch and eye my nightstand where I left the pill, and pick up my book, opening it to the page I stopped on last night. At noon, I glance at the pill again. I don’t really need it—I’m not going anywhere today. But then again, why not? If it could help tame my anxiety in the city, maybe it could help me hate Christmas a little less. I pop it in my mouth and swallow, only then remembering Madison’s instruction to cut it in half. Oops.
I lie back and wait for the relaxing sensation to take effect. It doesn’t take long. By three, I’m starving and realize I haven’t eaten yet today. Tired of apple cider doughnuts, I go downstairs and rummage through the fridge. Running low on provisions—I’m not due for a grocery delivery until Monday—I stand at the counter eating a piece of plain bread, doughy and bland in my dry mouth. That’s when I remember what Aja said when he invited me over: Eric’s cooking! My stomach rumbles.
I find Eric’s business card on my desk and dial him. He answers on the third ring.
“Is the offer still open?” I realize—too late, maybe—that it’s bold, and borderline rude, and very much unlike me, but I don’t really care. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” is running on a loop in my he
ad.
“Uh, Jubilee?”
“Yes. Sorry. It’s me.”
“Have you been . . . uh . . . are you all right? It sounds like you’re slurring a bit.”
“Oh. I took some drugs. I’m hungry.”
“Drugs?”
“Yep.”
“What kind?”
“Oh. Just Xanax. To help me relax. I think it’s working.”
“OK . . . ,” he says. I immediately visualize his ruffling the back of his hair with his hand. He does that when he thinks. It sounds like he’s thinking. “Well, we just finished eating, but there’s plenty. Do you want me to come pick you up?”
“No, I can ride my bike over. What’s your . . . what’s your . . .” I start laughing. “I can’t remember the word I want. Where do you live?”
“Uh, I’ll come get you.”
Thirty minutes later, I’ve managed to change and brush my teeth. And then I realize I should get him and Aja something. It’s Christmas! As I’m wondering if I have time to bike to the Wawa, I hear Eric’s car pull up out front. That’s when I remember the doughnuts. I bolt up the stairs two at a time and grab the box from the foot of my bed. There are only eight left and they look kind of sad in the box, so I take a minute to fan them out a bit and fill up the empty space.
After I slip on my gloves and coat, I open the door downstairs just as Eric is knocking.
“Hi,” I say, a little out of breath.
“Hi yourself,” he says back, smiling. I like his smile.
I shove the box of doughnuts at him.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Oh! Thanks.” He takes the box from me.
“I ate four of them already. Last night.” I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell him the truth about everything now, but I do.
He laughs and shakes his head. “OK. You ready to go?”
“I am.”
WHEN WE GET to Eric’s apartment, I follow him in the door, expecting to see Aja. I did not expect to see the roomful of faces that greets me.
Close Enough to Touch Page 23