The Outliers

by Kimberly McCreight

  “I’m Lexi, by the way.” She holds out a delicate hand. “We’re from Brooklyn, but we were just up in the White Mountains. And we’re on our way now to Acadia National Park.” She rolls her eyes playfully. “The out-of-our-way-mountain detour was for me. Acadia is for Doug. He’s an astronomer, and there’s a meteor shower that we’re headed to see. Or he’s going to see. Let’s face it, the baby and I will probably be sound asleep in some motel.” She smiles and hitches her head in the direction of her husband. “And don’t worry. Doug will get it started. You’d never think that someone who grew up in Manhattan would be so good with cars, but he’s an absolute whiz.”

  “Yeah, not this time,” Doug says when he pulls himself out from under the hood. He has a wrench in his thick hand, and his sleeves are rolled up over his muscular forearms. He’s more solid and scruffier up close. Older, too, definitely older than Lexi. And with the beard and the plaid shirt, he looks like he should be chopping wood somewhere. A lot of it. “You’re going to need a new starter. Any actual mechanic would have one. But I can’t do anything for you without the part.”

  Damn it. My heart pumps harder in my chest. These people will kill me if you do. We have to go, now. When I look over at Jasper, he’s staring at me with this expression: tell me you have an idea. I look around the gas station, at all that darkness and all those trees. This nice woman and her little baby and her Paul Bunyan astronomer-husband are it. They are our only option.

  “Can you take us?” I blurt out. “Please.”

  “Take you where, honey?” Lexi asks. She’s trying not to sound nervous, but she’s pressed a protective hand against the window behind her, where her baby is probably snuggled inside.

  Doug doesn’t look happy either. He’s leaned back against our car with his big arms crossed, glaring at the side of his wife’s face. Don’t you dare, that’s what the look says. My dad used to use it on my mom all the time, right before he ended up doing whatever it was she wanted.

  “Somebody took our friend to this camp near some town named Seneca. It’s in Maine,” I say, trying to make the situation sound pressing, but not actually dangerous and not totally inconvenient. I tap on my phone to see how far away that really is. “It’s in the direction of Acadia. I mean, I guess depending on which way you were going. Or maybe you could take us part of the way and we could hitch another ride?”

  Hitch another ride? Like that’s a totally reasonable possibility. Lexi is still looking at Doug with her head tilted to the side now, smiling like a little girl trying to talk her parents into a treat. And it’s a look she must give Doug a lot, because he’s doing his best to avoid it. Finally, he exhales loudly and shakes his head.

  “This is a job, Lexi, not a hobby. You know that, right? I have a paper to write. An actual deadline.”

  “Honey, we have two whole days until the meteor shower. And look at them, don’t they remind you of us when we were their age? It’s good karma to help them. I know you like to plan your driving routes in advance, but it doesn’t even sound like it’ll take us much longer.” She grins as she bounds over to kiss him. Already, she knows she’s won. “Besides, I’ll spend the rest of the week making it up to you.”

  Doug exhales, exasperated, as he heads back toward their car. “Fine.”

  “We can throw your stuff up top. We’ve got plenty of space! I’ll help you grab it,” Lexi calls happily as she goes around to open our trunk. “Wow, you have a lot of stuff in here. Were you really planning to camp in this weather?”

  “No,” I say, like the suggestion is totally absurd. Still, I step toward Jasper’s car, already planning to still dig out as much as I can on the sly: compass, matches, tablets to purify water. Bandages, naturally.

  “Are you sure about this?” Jasper asks, as I dig around the trunk.

  “Which part?”

  He motions to them, their car. Going with these people we don’t know, not calling the police, he means.

  “Any of it?”

  “No, I’m not,” I say, as I pull my backpack out. “But then, I’m never sure about anything.”

  Doug and Lexi’s car is nothing like Jasper’s Jeep. It smells clean and looks brand-new, with a dashboard that’s a computerized touch screen and an engine so quiet it’s hard to tell it’s even on. It’s so much warmer, too, the front windshield fogging only for a second as the heater burns off the damp cold.

  “Are you guys okay back there?” Lexi asks over her shoulder. With the baby’s car seat taking up all of the driver’s side of the back, Jasper and I are squished awfully close together. “There’s not much space. Sorry about that.”

  “We’re fine.” Jasper sounds like he actually thinks we are. Like he doesn’t find the whole length of our thighs touching the least bit awkward. And why would he? The dozen seniors he’s slept with might just be a rumor, but he’s surely had sex with lots of people (Cassie included). Sitting close to a girl is nothing for him. But up until now, my thighs have only pressed against one other boy’s.

  Trevor and I met in yearbook club sophomore year, and for a couple of months we hung out after school. I liked Trevor even if he was way too skinny and his chin was kind of nonexistent. He was sweet and funny and strange, but in a good way. He was obsessed with Houdini, and he knew all these random stats from World War I, which meant he was happy to do most of the talking.

  Mostly we’d study and talk on those Wednesdays, but occasionally we made out. Sometimes even a lot. It was nice. And so normal that even Cassie was impressed. I felt like it was a sign, too, that I was finally out of the deep, dark woods.

  But then, all of a sudden, Trevor called it quits.

  “It’s not because you don’t want to have sex,” he’d said, though I had been stalling for about a month. “I wanted to wait, too, which I realized was weird because, you know, I’m a guy.” And the way he said it: like he was some ideal specimen. “And then I was thinking about why I wanted to wait, and I realized: I can’t take the pressure. I like you, Wylie, but being with you, it’s too much”—he searched for a new word and came up empty—“pressure. Like if I do something wrong, you might freak out and have a breakdown or something.”

  I nodded at him and prayed I wouldn’t cry. Later, I would for sure. And I could live with that. Just not in front of him. “Yeah, that’s okay. I understand.”

  And actually that was the worst part: I understood completely.

  I try to shift a little closer now toward the car seat, hoping that eases the pressure of my leg against Jasper’s. It doesn’t, not really. The seat is facing backward with the hood down, so that all I can see are the blankets gathered around the baby’s feet. I pray he’ll sleep the whole way, because I’m not sure I’ll be able to take Lexi cooing at him up close. I watch him for a couple more minutes, but still he doesn’t make a peep.

  “He’s so quiet,” I say, sounding like some kind of creepy baby-stalker that you shouldn’t ever let near your child.

  “She,” Lexi corrects without turning around. Of course it has to be a girl—mother and daughter. Two peas in a pod. They probably look alike, just like my mom and I did. “I’m hoping she’ll sleep the whole way. Are you really sure you’re okay back there, sitting on top of each other? Not that we have a lot of better options, I guess.”

  “We’re fine,” I say. I’m certainly not going to complain. If we annoy Doug, he could change his mind, overrule Lexi and toss us out. “Thanks again for the ride. We really, really appreciate it. Our friend will too.”

  “Not a problem,” Lexi says, putting her hand over Doug’s, which is resting on the gearshift.

  He links his fingers through hers but keeps his eyes on the road. He’ll forgive her, but not yet. And there they are again, my mom and dad. At least like they always were, up until those few weeks before my mom died when all they did was bicker.

  I look away from their hands to the shadowy outlines of the buildings passing in the darkness. A farm equipment rental store, a shuttered ice cream shop, a har
dware store, a meat market. All of them are dark and deserted at this hour. Some of them shut for good or the season maybe. Past them is the motel, long and low, its small parking lot glowing eerily under a single streetlight. A TV flashes on and off in one of the rooms, but the rest are all pitch black. I’ve never been to this part of New Hampshire before, far away from the seaside resorts and the beautiful national parks, but it’s creepier than I would have thought. I shudder hard, which makes Jasper turn. I avoid looking back at him and instead stare down at my phone. Already, my chest feels tighter, and so does my stomach.

  U OK? I write to Cassie as we drive on. Car trouble slowed us a little. But we’re back on the road. B there as soon as we can. No police.

  I wait for an answer. But there’s nothing.

  ??? I type.

  Wait again. Still no answer. Maybe I shouldn’t have even mentioned the car trouble. I look up and feel worse when I meet Jasper’s eyes. He’s worried, too. Not as worried as me, maybe—that would be stiff competition—but more worried than I want him to be. I look back to the window. The buildings are gone, so I try instead to count the trees. Focus on the details, the little things. But soon, it’s so dark. The woods are just a thick and shapeless mass. There is nothing left for me to hold on to. Had I really convinced myself that an actual emergency meant my anxiety had been banished? What stupid, wishful thinking. My anxiety has always had a mind of its own. And that mind is exceptionally tenacious.

  “What’s the meteor shower you’re going to see?” Jasper asks.

  Good. Yes, talking. Something to think about other than my insides twisting themselves into a knot.

  Doug’s eyes flick up to the rearview, then narrow. Is he annoyed by Jasper’s question? I can’t tell. “You familiar with astronomy?”

  Be careful, I want to say. Don’t push our luck. But Jasper doesn’t notice. His eyes are locked outside on the darkness.

  Jasper shrugs. “Does having a telescope when I was seven count?”

  “Big Dipper?” Doug asks.

  “Come on, man,” Jasper says with a genuine smile. “Give me some credit. Orion’s Belt. And Cass-something. I can’t remember.”

  “Cassiopeia,” Doug says, his voice softening a little. “Not bad for a seven-year-old.”

  “We lived on this hill near the beach.” Jasper sounds like he misses it. A lot. “The sky went on forever.”

  “We’re going to see the Eta Aquarids,” Lexi says, her hand moving to the back of Doug’s neck. “If you don’t believe in God after seeing something like that, you never will.”

  “So you just go there and, what? Watch it?” Jasper asks.

  “Just?” Doug asks, and with an edge again. Shut up, Jasper, I want to say. This is not the time for his aw-shucks, stereotype-defying curiosity.

  “I meant, what are you looking for?”

  “You always wanted someone to mentor, Doug,” Lexi says playfully. “Sounds like you have a budding astronomer back there.”

  “Not exactly. I like astronomy, but I’m going to law school. Public defender,” Jasper says, because he can’t just be polite and go along with anything, apparently. “My dad’s in prison for something he didn’t do because he had a terrible lawyer.”

  “Oh, wow,” Doug says, looking over at Lexi like: what the hell did you get us into? We are in the backseat with his baby, after all. “What was he convicted of?”

  “You’re not supposed to ask that.” Lexi swats at him. “It’s none of our business.”

  “That’s okay,” Jasper says. “Aggravated assault. Like I said, he didn’t do it. His lawyer didn’t call half the witnesses he should have. Really basic stuff.”

  “Well then, I’m especially sorry,” Lexi says, sweet, but a little awkward. “I’ll keep him in my thoughts.”

  “Are you saying you’ll pray for him, Lexi?” Doug asks sharply. “Sounds like he needs a good appellate lawyer, not some Hail Marys.”

  “Forever the rationalist,” Lexi says.

  This is their shtick. She’s the mystic. He’s the scientist. Like they want to show off how great their relationship is despite being so different. Almost like maybe their relationship isn’t so great after all. But I’ll play along if what they want is an audience. I’ll do whatever they want me to, as long as they keep on getting us closer to Cassie.

  “I have a religion,” Doug says. “It’s called science.”

  “Also known as sucking the joy out of life.” Lexi wags a finger at him. “The vast complexities of human experience reduced to dots on a graph.”

  “My dad’s kind of like that,” I say, without fully meaning to. “He doesn’t believe in anything without evidence.”

  “Sounds like my kind of guy.” Doug looks at me in the rearview. He seems genuinely pleased. “Scientist?”

  “Psychologist.” I consider mentioning my dad’s research, but I feel like it will diminish him in Doug’s eyes.

  And I hate that I’ve thought of my dad. Because my condition is the next thing I think of. And I feel so embarrassed and alone all over again. I can’t believe he really said those things. Your condition. That’s just not the kind of thing you can forget. No matter how much you want to.

  It is even darker now when I look out the window, like we’ve driven off the edge of a cliff. And it feels like that is what we’re doing. Because what exactly is our plan now that we don’t even have a car? We were supposed to swoop in and save Cassie. Now we’re going to walk in on foot? We’re going to need another car, that’s the bottom line. I look at Lexi in the front seat, wonder how far she would go to help us. Would she rent us a car? Then I look at Doug. There’s no way he’s going to go for putting his name on a car we might never return.

  I need to stop thinking about this. Because not having a solution is winding me tight. My eyes drift instead down to the car seat and that little baby’s feet wrapped so snug and safe in her pale-green blanket.

  It’s weird that her feet haven’t moved once since we got into the car. Isn’t it? Lexi said she was supposed to sleep the whole way. Okay, fine. But don’t babies move a little even when they sleep? Maybe she’s wrapped too tight, covered in too many blankets? Was I expected to be keeping an eye out for that kind of thing? Because sometimes people expect things of you with no warning. What if she’s stopped breathing or something? Lexi is so nonchalant, but none of us have any way of being sure anyone will ever be okay. Not really. And I may think about that way more than your average person, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

  “How about some music? We’ve got satellite—a million options even in the middle of nowhere,” Lexi says, but like that kind of disgusts her a little bit. She leans forward to fiddle with the radio. “We’ve probably never heard of whatever you guys listen to these days. That’s how old we are now, sweetheart, we don’t even know what kind of music the young people listen to.”

  My heart is beating hard as Lexi turns the radio past one song to the next, rejecting each. No matter how hard I try not to, all I can think about is the baby and her breathing now, or maybe lack thereof. Because something is wrong. I can feel it. There’s a hollowness in that car seat next to me. A huge sucking emptiness.

  “Hey, speak for yourself,” Doug says. “I’m not old. And I definitely still have good taste in music. Use one of my Spotify playlists.”

  “Ugh, you’re not going to make me listen to Wilco, are you?” Lexi asks. But she sounds so far away now. Like her voice is muffled through a wall. “You know a little piece of me dies every time you do.”

  My heart is beating harder now. I try to center myself in the present, like Dr. Shepard says. The seat is under my legs. My hands are resting on my legs. But my palms are sweating so much, and all I can think about is how babies do stop breathing suddenly. They die of SIDS with no explanation. And no warning. They do that all the time.

  But I’m afraid to ask again about the baby. Lexi has already said once that she’s fine. Mentioning it again could sound like I think Lexi is a b
ad mother. Instead, I could just check on the baby myself. All I need to do is feel her warmth, or squeeze her toes a little and make sure they move. If she starts to cry, God forbid, I’ll snatch my hand right back before anyone knows what happened. Yes, that’s what I am going to do. Even though I know that it might be a very bad idea. Even though I know the baby isn’t the real reason there’s so much pressure in my chest. I still believe that knowing she’s okay might release it a little bit.

  I keep my eyes on the rearview, as I inch my hand slowly over to the car seat. Lexi and Doug are still talking about Doug’s playlists—Lexi trying to decide which one she thinks is the least bad.

  “I don’t know, I kind of like Wilco,” Jasper offers, his eyes still on the window.

  And my hand is so close now, only an inch or two more and I’ll have my answer. I’ll have my relief. Because the crazy thing about being so worried all the time, and having worked for so many years with Dr. Shepard, is that there’s this whole part of me that knows that the baby isn’t the point. She isn’t what I’m actually freaking out about. I’m worried about Cassie being okay, who my dad has become, surviving this, and above all else, surviving my mom being gone. That’s the way anxiety works. It’s a decoy. Because I can’t do anything about those big things, I worry about something else. I worry about this baby next to me, who is definitely, totally fine. But maybe, just maybe, might not be.

  Already my fingers are on the baby’s seat, then the edge of her blankets. Crawling across the folds. But it’s not as easy to find her toes as I imagined. Not easy at all. When I move my hand around, all I feel are blankets and more blankets.

  Too many blankets, actually, the more I think about it. So many that it doesn’t seem right. Boom, boom, boom, goes my heart as I push my hand one last time, deep into the center of the car seat.

  And inside, I do not find the warm body of a baby. But I do not find a cold baby either. Inside, I find nothing at all.