“Jubilee,” Eric says.
“Yes?”
“Open your eyes.”
I look at him. Into his olive-green eyes that are moving closer with each suspended second. He’s going to kiss me. I know he is and I’m powerless to stop it. Because I want it, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my ridiculous, lonely life. I want to feel his chapped lips on mine, his tongue in my mouth, the heat of his breath. I know it would kill me. I’m as sure of it as I am my own name. But in this moment, I’m sure of something else—I would gladly die.
But then, at the last second, he stops, his face inches from mine. And he holds my gaze as his gloved thumb brushes over my bottom lip. I fight the urge to close my eyes, to give in to the sensation of the thousands of nerve endings firing in rapid succession, as he slowly rubs the pad of his thumb back and forth. And then it’s gone, and my lip feels bare, exposed, as his hand travels down from my cheek to my neck, his fingers trailblazing a path on my skin.
He gently traces my exposed collarbone, his thumb resting in the hollow just above my chest. And all I can hear are the suddenly audible inhales and exhales of breath—but I can no longer tell if they’re his or mine. And then his hand leaves my neck, slowly journeying lower, over the fabric of the dress, his fingers outlining the edge of my bra until—finally, as if I was always aware that this was the destination—his hand is on my breast, cupping it in his palm. His thumb brushes the two layers of fabric covering my nipple and I suck in my breath. That’s when I know with utter confidence the heavy exhales are his, because I’ve stopped breathing altogether. My head feels light, like it may float off my body at any second, and my kneecaps are feathers, incapable of bearing the weight of my body.
“Eric,” I whisper. Or maybe I’m just thinking it. Rolling his name around in my mind like a hard candy on the tongue. Savoring it.
And then a muffled chiming tone floats up through the air. It starts like the buzzing of a mosquito and then gets incessantly louder. We both freeze. “I, uh . . . I should probably get that,” he says, his voice husky.
I swallow and force my head to give a little nod. “Yeah,” I say.
He moves his hand from my breast and takes a step back, digging into his pocket for his phone.
He talks for a minute, but I’m not paying attention to his words. I can’t process anything except what just happened. And I can’t even process that.
When he brings the phone back down, ending the call, I look at him.
“That was Connie,” he says. “Aja’s ready to go home. Apparently his iPad died and he forgot the charger. Connie offered to go get it for him, but he said he wanted to play on his computer anyway, and there was no talking him out of it. She said she’d be happy to take him and hang with him there, but I should probably . . . I think I should—”
“No, of course,” I say, suddenly self-conscious. “You should go. Be with him.”
But he doesn’t move. He just stands there, gloved hands hanging by his sides innocently, as if they weren’t just changing my entire worldview a few moments earlier.
He clears his throat. “Come with me,” he says.
“To your house?”
“Yeah. I mean, if you’re feeling up to it.” He grins and adds: “I think I’ve got a pack of ramen in the cupboard I could make for you.”
I consider this, how I’m feeling. There’s my sore throat and cough, of course, and then there’s the fact that my entire body is ever-so-slightly trembling—but I know that has nothing to do with my cold. And I also know that the only place I want to be tonight is wherever he is.
“OK,” I say. “Just let me change.”
“Yes,” he says with a soft chuckle. “You should definitely change. I’ll wait downstairs.”
ON THE WAY to Connie’s, I find myself staring at Eric’s profile—his square jaw, his arms, his hands on the steering wheel—and playing the short event in my room over and over again like a skipping record. I wonder what else would have happened if the phone hadn’t rung. And I wonder if Eric’s thinking that, too.
When we get to his sister’s house, he leaves the car running. “I’ll just grab him,” he says. “You can sit tight. I won’t be but a minute.”
“OK,” I say. He shuts the door and I watch him walk toward her front porch another flush of heat coursing through my body. Once he’s inside, his cell lights up in the console where he left it, blaring that obnoxious ringtone.
“Damn phone,” I mutter.
It’s silent for a few seconds and then it’s off again, lighting up and buzzing and ringing. By the time Eric gets back to the car with Aja, whoever is calling him has tried six times.
“Your phone is blowing up,” I say as he eases into the driver’s seat.
“What?” He turns to me.
“Your phone,” I say as it takes off ringing again. He picks it up, punches a button, and holds it to his ear.
“Hey, Aja.” I turn toward the backseat to look at him.
“Hey,” he says. I’m about to ask him if he knows that more cars are stolen on New Year’s Eve than any other holiday, when the panic in Eric’s voice catches my attention.
“What’s going on? Slow down . . . slow down! When? . . . How? Oh my god . . . OK, OK . . . Jesus . . .”
His face grows paler with each word and there’s a tremor to his voice I’ve never heard before. I stare at him, a pit growing in my stomach, and then his eyes meet mine.
I raise my eyebrows and he mouths one word: “Ellie.”
PART III
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
Sylvia Plath
(Twenty years ago)
* * *
* * *
The New York Times
(continued from page 19B) It begs the question: what does the future look like for a girl who can’t have human contact?
“No contact sports, for starters,” says Dr. Benefield. “And yes, Ms. Jenkins must be very careful about hugging her daughter or touching her anywhere that’s not covered by a protective layer of clothing. Allergies are unpredictable and you just can’t take the chance. One day it’s a severe rash and then the next it’s anaphylaxis—life or death.”
A frightening prospect for any child, but what about as she gets older? I mention boys, the normal rites of passage that teenagers go through: hand-holding, first kisses—and eventually, sex.
Dr. Benefield shifts in his seat.
“Sometimes science can advance at a rapid pace,” he says. “It’s entirely possible that, with the right attention and research, a cure of some sort could be conceived for Jubilee’s condition in the next five or ten years.”
And if it isn’t?
He clears his throat. “Then yes, Jubilee will remain unable to have skin-to-skin contact.”
“So, no kissing,” I clarify. “No sex.”
Dr. Benefield offers a curt nod. “Correct.”
It’s a difficult condition to fathom, and many draw comparisons between Jubilee’s case and The Boy in the Plastic Bubble, a 1976 made-for-TV movie starring John Travolta. The plot was loosely based on the real lives of David Vetter and Ted DeVita, two boys born with extremely compromised immune systems—any contact with water, food, or clothing that had not been highly sterilized could kill them. The boys were both confined to sterile, germ-free rooms for the entirety of their short lives (Vetter survived 13 years, while DeVita lived to see his eighteenth birthday).
When I mention the “bubble boys” to Dr. Benefield, he nods, as if it’s not the first time he’s heard the association. “It’s just an entirely different circumstance,” he says. “Jubilee can be out in the world—she just can’t connect with anyone in it.”
He means “connect” in the physical sense of course, but one has to wonder if it’s a Freudian slip. After all, if you can’t touch, hug, or kiss anyone—how much connecting are you doing?
For now, Jubilee doesn’t let those overarching life questions about her future ge
t to her. When our little interview comes to a close and she’s done with her homework at the kitchen table, she looks from me to her mom. “Can I go read now?”
This story is part of a special health series of articles on the sharp rise of childhood allergies in the world, including a look at some of the rarest conditions. Look for next week’s article: “The Boy Who Couldn’t See the Sun.”
* * *
* * *
twenty-three
JUBILEE
IF YOU’D TOLD me six months ago that shortly in the future I’d be on Interstate 95 speeding north in the dead of night on New Year’s Eve in a car with a man and a ten-year-old boy, I’d have laughed and laughed and laughed (after panicking a bit at the mere thought of leaving my house). But I guess nobody could have told me that, because six months ago I was alone.
And now? Decidedly not alone, but wishing with each passing road sign that I had been more parsimonious with that Xanax Madison gave me for Christmas.
I glance over at Eric, who’s had the same intense look on his face since he got the phone call. When he hung up, he immediately started the car, floored it out of Connie’s driveway, and began driving through the streets of Lincoln like a man possessed. It wasn’t until we were passing the dark, overgrown, abandoned golf course on the outskirts of town that I realized he wasn’t taking me home, and the panic started to set in. Just when I thought I had gotten used to being in the few places outside of my house that I had ventured—when I was starting to think I had conquered most of my agoraphobia—I was now stuck in a tin can hurtling outside the city limits and learning that I am not in fact over my fear of the unknown.
“So, um . . . ,” I say in a small voice. “I guess I’m coming with you?” Eric’s elbow is lodged on the door frame, propping his fist up to clench tufts of his hair. Lost in thought, he barely glances at me when I speak, and then his eyes go wide.
“Shit!” he says, but he doesn’t slow the car. “I didn’t even— All I was thinking about was getting to her. Do you want me to turn around?”
I do, but I also know that he doesn’t really want to. “No, it’s OK.”
“Are you sure? I could stop at the next exit. Call you a cab?”
Being alone in a place I’ve never been before strikes even more fear than driving somewhere I’ve never been with Eric and Aja.
“No, no, it’s fine.”
Eric nods, squeezing his hair again.
“What happened?” I ask quietly.
He sighs before he speaks. “Drug overdose. Ellie had a seizure.”
“Oh my god. From what?”
“I don’t know. I knew Ellie was into pot, but I didn’t think—I thought that was all. Goddamn it! I told Stephanie . . .” He trails off into his own thoughts.
I wait a few minutes and then ask: “Is she OK . . . is she going to be?”
“I don’t know.”
WE STOP FOR gas and snacks after about an hour, but the rest of the five-hour drive is mostly silent. When we cross the New Hampshire border around three a.m., Aja says: “Did you know it takes Venus two hundred forty-three Earth days to make a full rotation on its axis, but only two hundred twenty-five to orbit the sun? So a day on Venus is longer than a year.”
I try to remember what I learned about Venus in school, and all I can think of is that awful Ray Bradbury story where the girl gets locked in the closet.
When we get to the hospital, Eric pulls right up in front, where it clearly states Emergency Vehicles Only, and jumps out. Since he took the keys, Aja and I are left with no choice but to follow him out into the cold air. We catch up to him at the elevator. There are a few other people in the small square box and I suck in my breath, trying to make myself as tiny as possible. Just when it feels like the walls are closing in, the elevator dings on the fifth floor and Eric gets out. He looks both ways and nods his head, like he’s spotted something familiar on his left, and starts walking. Halfway down the hall, a woman stands up from her seated position in a molded plastic chair, like she’s been waiting for us.
“How is she?” Eric asks before we even reach her.
“She’s fine. She’ll be fine,” the woman says.
Eric nods, but I can feel the anxiety coming off him in waves. “Why are you out here? Can I see her?”
“She’s sleeping right now. I’m letting her rest.”
“Steph, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” she says, and then her face drops and she just looks tired. Exhausted, really. They both lower themselves into the chairs in front of the door. “Apparently, they thought they were smoking regular weed, but one of the kids had got this synthetic stuff instead. The police said it was K2, but one of the girls called it Spice. I Googled it—looks pretty bad. But she didn’t know, Eric. She didn’t know.” Fat tears drop from her eyes. And then, as if she’s finally allowing herself to understand the events of the day, she says: “Oh, God—she could have died.”
Eric wraps his arms around her and lets her cry, murmuring in her hair. “It’s OK . . . She didn’t . . . She’s OK.” She collapses against him.
The scene is so private, so intimate, I turn away and find myself looking at a large framed drawing on the wall. It’s a crayon picture of a tree with Edna, age 7 signed in a childish scrawl at the bottom. I stare at it like it’s the Mona Lisa and I’ve never seen anything so fascinating, all while blinking rapidly. My eyes have started to burn, and I know it has nothing to do with Ellie.
I’m embarrassed to even admit to myself that I’m jealous. I’m in a hospital where Eric’s daughter nearly died, and all I can think about is the warmth of his arms and how I want them wrapped around me. Touching me. How I want his breath in my hair. And how unfair it is that I will never be able to feel his cheek on mine, his skin on my skin. Unless . . .
“Who are you?”
The question jolts me around and my eyes lock with Stephanie’s. “Oh, hi, I’m . . .”
“She’s a friend,” Eric says. “A librarian.”
I jolt at the classification.
“She was in the car when you called, and I didn’t even— I just panicked.”
“Oh,” Stephanie says, but her forehead remains wrinkled in confusion over my presence. “Hi, Aja.” She moves her gaze to him. “You’ve gotten taller.”
He doesn’t look up at her.
Stephanie nods, as if she expected that. She turns to Eric. “Well, Ellie was up until about thirty minutes ago, so I imagine she’ll be sleeping for most of the morning. The doctor said they’ll most likely release her late tonight or first thing tomorrow morning. He just wants to make sure the seizure . . . that it was an isolated event. Why don’t you guys go home, get something to eat, some rest. I know that was a long drive.”
“Longer than Venus orbiting the sun,” Aja mutters.
I bite back a smile.
“No. I’m not leaving,” says Eric. “Not until I can see her.”
Stephanie sighs. “At least take them home, Eric. Aja looks exhausted.”
It’s the second time she’s said it, but it only occurs to me now to be curious. Home. Surely we’re not going to Stephanie’s house. I mean, it appears their divorce is amicable, but that would still be awkward.
But I don’t say anything as we ride the elevator back down and walk out to the car (which has fortunately not been towed in the fifteen minutes we were gone). The car ride is silent, too, Eric’s thoughts no doubt on his daughter.
Just as the first rays of sun start to lighten the night sky, we pull up to a small, yellow-slatted Cape Cod, a brick chimney peeking over the back of the roof like bunny ears in a class picture. Though the roads have been clear, the driveway and walk up to the house are caked in half a foot of snow. Eric parks on the street and we crunch our way single file to the front door.
I expect to be greeted by warmth when we step into the foyer, but it’s not much better than being outside. “Gotta turn up the heat,” Eric mumbles. “Turn the water on, plug the fridge in.” He
’s making a running list in his head, while I’m busy trying to catch up to the fact that no one lives here.
Eric busies himself throughout the house while Aja and I walk into the kitchen. He plugs his iPad into a wall socket and sets it on the counter.
“Aja,” I whisper.
He looks up at me.
“Whose house is this?”
He juts his head toward me, nose wrinkled, jaw slack, as if I’ve gone completely mental.
“Eric’s,” he says, and then: “Mine, too, I suppose.”
“But you live in New Jersey. Is he trying to sell this one?”
“No,” he says, as if that’s the end of the conversation. As if that explains everything.
“Aja,” I say, my voice a little firmer. “Why does Eric still have this house?”
His eyebrows are horizontal parentheses. “Because we live in it? New Jersey is just temporary. Six months. For his job.”
He takes off down the hall, presumably toward his room, and I’m left standing there, mouth agape at this revelation. Eric lives in New Hampshire, which means . . . Eric will be leaving.
My knees, no longer interested in holding me upright, bend. There’s no kitchen table, so I just lower myself to the tile I’m standing on.
“I don’t have much for breakfast, but you both probably want to just sleep right now anyway. Pizza or Chinese OK for later? They deliver—” Eric’s voice breaks through the fog of my thoughts. “Jubilee?” he says when he sees me. “You OK?”
I lift my head to look at him, my arms propped on my knees. He looks so solid, so sturdy. Not at all like a phantom. But now I know that’s exactly what he is. “Yeah,” I say. “Just tired.”
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