That Night

by Amy Giles

  I wonder how many reallys it will take for her to really believe it. Because it sounds like the exact opposite, like she doesn’t think Lucas and I together is all that wonderful.

  I take the dress back and hold it carefully so that it doesn’t drag on the way downstairs. Liam’s still on the couch.

  Pointing to him, I ask Mrs. Connell, “Is it okay if I hang out with Liam for a bit?”

  She smiles and squeezes my arm. “It would be really nice if you did.”

  I flop down on the couch next to him and grab the other remote. “Want to start a new game?”

  I have to give him some credit; he tries to hold on to his grudge. But his excitement at having a second player wins out.

  I play with Liam for a couple of hours, until I know we’re okay again. I can’t have Liam be mad at me. He’s practically my other brother.

  Mrs. Connell orders in pizza for us. We eat, and Liam and I play more Xbox until there’s an impossible glare on the screen. When I look outside, the sun is setting over the Norton Basin. I’ve been here for longer than I realized.

  Since it’s going to be dark soon and it’s a long walk, Mrs. Connell drives me home. Liam sits in the back seat catching me up on what feels like everything that’s happened to him in the past year. He barely stops to take a breath before launching into another story about the horrors of sixth grade.

  When we get to my house, Mrs. Connell stares at the darkened stoop as I unbuckle.

  “How’s your mom doing, Jess? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  I grab the handle to escape. “She’s fine,” I say over my shoulder. “Well, you know. Not fine. Just . . .” I’ve run out of words to lie for my mother.

  “Why don’t I come in and say hello.” She turns the ignition off and takes the keys out.

  “No,” I say quickly. Rudely, I realize by the shocked look on her face. “She’s asleep. Truth is, she sleeps a lot.” There, that’s not a lie.

  “Is she sleeping too much?” she asks carefully, probing for information like a professional.

  “Probably,” I say. “I mean, it’s grief. Everyone deals with grief differently, you know? There’s no right or wrong way or length of time to grieve. That’s what her psychiatrist told her.”

  Mrs. Connell nods, slowly. “Yes, that’s true. Grief is complicated. But at a certain point, it could be more than just grief. I’m glad to hear she’s in therapy though.”

  I gave her that impression, I realize. I open my mouth to correct her, to tell her that my mother quit therapy months ago. But then this conversation would keep going and I might have to allow her to come in. I picture my mother in her thin nightgown and greasy hair. The bills spread out across the dining room table. The empty refrigerator. Having just come from the Connells’ house, which overflows with excess, so much that they have to put lemons in their water because it’s too bland without it, I can’t stand the thought of letting Mrs. Connell inside.

  With the beautiful green dress in hand, I wave them good-bye and find my key to let myself in.

  Inside, I make my way in the dark, laying the dress carefully over Mom’s recliner before reaching for the lamp on the side table, turning the light on.

  I walk down the hall to my mom’s room to check in on her. She’s not in bed.

  I pan around her bedroom and find the bottle of Zoloft is on her nightstand. I pick it up. It’s empty.

  “Mom?” I call out, quietly at first, then louder. “MOM?”

  “Jess?” Her voice is weak, coming from the bathroom. I find her in front of the toilet, shivering, sweating so much her nightgown is plastered to her body. There’s vomit everywhere.

  With trembling hands, I dial 911.

  My mom tried to commit suicide.

  Select All. Cut.

  My mother took a bottle of pills to kill herself.

  Select All. Cut.

  I’m in the hospital with my mother. She tried to

  Select All. Cut.

  I’m not going to be at school tomorrow. I’ll explain later.

  (Delivered 11:58 p.m.)

  Lucas

  You are a woman of mystery. What’s there to explain? Are you home sick?

  (Today 7:17 a.m.)

  Helloooooo? If you’re sick, let me know if you need anything.

  (Today 11:33 a.m.)

  Reg said she got pretty much the same text I did. Now we’re both worried. I’m coming over.

  (Today 2:35 p.m.)

  I start with our meeting spot: Jess’s bedroom window. The screen is still where I left it, behind a bush. Tempted as I am to just go in through her window to look for her, I can’t cross that line. I press my face against the glass pane to look around. There’s no sign of Jess. I have to try the front door.

  It’s strange, but ringing her doorbell almost feels like a bigger breach of her family’s privacy than sneaking through her bedroom window. It’s the first time I’ve ever rung her bell. Does her mother ever answer the door? I press my ear to the door to listen for footsteps, anything.

  No voices, no footsteps, nothing.

  I walk along the porch to look through the living room window. There’s a sliver of space between the drawn curtains that allows me to peek inside. The house is dark. Her mother could be sleeping. But where’s Jess?

  What if something happened to both of them? What if they’re both lying on the floor unconscious from carbon monoxide poisoning? What if someone broke in and is holding them captive?

  Screw it. I go back to Jess’s bedroom window and slide it open. As soon as I’m in, I shut the window behind me, then pull the blinds down. It’s too dark and quiet in the house. This isn’t good. I have the same nervous feeling I did when I was looking for Mrs. Graham, terrified I’m going to find something I am not going to survive finding, except multiplied times infinity.

  Creeping carefully out of Jess’s bedroom, I see the door across the hall is open. The queen-sized bed is unmade, the blankets rumpled. Her mother’s room.

  Next to it is a closed door. My guess is this is Ethan’s room. I open it just to make sure no one’s unconscious in there. It’s just Ethan’s stuff. Even though we ran in different crowds, I feel the familiar knot of grief in my throat. I close the door behind me and head down the hallway.

  Hanging over the recliner in the den, there’s a long green dress covered in a clear dry-cleaner bag. This must be the dress Jess is wearing to prom. I hold it up by the hanger. She wasn’t being sarcastic; it’s really pretty. I reach under the bag and rub the soft thin fabric between my fingers, as if it can somehow fill itself with Jess’s body just by touch, by wish.

  Behind me, the dining room table is covered in bills, stacks of them. I lift a few off the table, some medical bills stamped “OVERDUE” from months ago. Stupid comments I made to her come back to slap me in the face. “Insurance covers it.” I’m such a fucking asshole.

  I dip into the kitchen for a quick look, clues, anything to help me find Jess. There are empty tubs of yogurt and cottage cheese turned upside down in the dish rack to dry. Flies swirl and land on a chicken salad sandwich on the kitchen table. Mrs. Alvarez is always bringing over food, Jess said. Maybe this was for Mrs. Nolan or was supposed to be Jess’s dinner when she came home from Marissa’s house last night. Though judging by the flies and yellowed crust of mayo around the edges, the untouched sandwich has been here for a while.

  On the way back to Jess’s room, I peek in the bathroom. No one here. The shower curtain is closed though.

  Shit shit shit! I don’t want to find anyone collapsed in there! But I have to look. As I’m pushing the curtain aside with my finger to reveal an empty tub, I see it. The pink toilet seat and pink tiles around it are splattered with vomit. Lots of it. Dread rises in my stomach, coming up as bile in my throat. One of them got violently sick last night.

  I run out the front door to find Mrs. Alvarez. She’ll know. I march up her stoop and ring her bell.

  She pokes her head out the door.

 
; “Hello, Lucas.”

  I almost don’t recognize her without her wig and lipstick. She looks tired. Really tired.

  “Hi, Mrs. Alvarez. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m just worried about Jess. Do you know where she is?”

  She nods. “Her mother’s sick. She’s been in the emergency room with her since last night. I was there for a while, but . . . I’m old. I needed to come home and take my medicine and lie down for a bit.”

  The vomit around the toilet. Was it a stomach bug? Food poisoning?

  “Is her mom okay?”

  The question just makes her look even more tired and sad. “Jessica will call you to explain when she’s ready.”

  I stand on her stoop staring at her, trying to decide if I can ask her more questions.

  She reaches over and squeezes my arm, then shuts the door.

  I come home from work a little after seven. I only went because I knew Pete wasn’t going to be able to handle it alone, with Jess out and Joe gone. I head upstairs before dinner and try calling Jess again. Still nothing.

  I come back downstairs, not wanting to be alone.

  “Any word from Jess?” my mom asks as I take my seat at the kitchen table.

  I shake my head. So far all I’ve told her is what Mrs. Alvarez told me.

  Mom tsks and sighs. “It must’ve been an awful bug for her to be admitted to the hospital. By the way, I called Marvin and gave him your measurements. Your tux will be ready in time for prom,” she says over her shoulder as she washes dishes in the sink.

  I picture Jess’s green dress left hanging over the chair of her dark, empty home. This is what happens when the universe isn’t done torturing you yet. I have no idea if we’re even still going to prom.

  Holding up a soapy wooden spoon, Mom says, “Maybe you should go down to the gym to work out, try to get your mind off of it for a little while. Sitting around worrying doesn’t help anyone.”

  I rub my hands down my face to hide my grimace. If she knew about the boxing match on Saturday, she’d hide my keys again, my sneakers, my clothes . . . anything to stop me from going. The fight is the only thing that should be on my mind this week. But Jess is taking up way too much head space, and not in the usual good way.

  Mom takes the casserole out of the oven and puts it on top of the trivet in front of me. “Help yourself,” she says, then heads back to the sink to wash some more dishes.

  “Don’t you want to sit down and eat with me?” I ask. I could really use some of her smothering today.

  She stops midswipe with a soapy sponge. Then she dries her hands on a dish towel and joins me at the table.

  “I’ll wait for your father to eat, but I’ll keep you company. How’s that?”

  I nod and blow on the clump of saucy ground beef and noodles on my fork.

  We’re silent for a bit, Mom holding her chin up on her hand, watching me inhale the food.

  “It’s good,” I tell her, and she smiles.

  The kitchen clock ticks, counting our seconds of silence. I hardly ever notice how loud it is except at times like this.

  “So . . . what aren’t you telling me?”

  I look up at her in surprise and her lips edge up in a small, satisfied smile. I clear my throat before I choke on that last bite. Mom sits up straighter and folds her arms on the table.

  “You read minds now?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “Mother’s intuition.”

  Everything that has been steadily building up inside of me is ready to blow. All I can see, think about, are the piles of bills, the vomit, the flies. The silence from Jess.

  “I broke into Jess’s house today,” I admit, staring at my plate.

  “You what?”

  “I was worried about her. All these what-ifs were coming at me. I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”

  “Was this before or after you asked her neighbor?”

  “Before,” I confess.

  “Maybe you should have rung Mrs. Alvarez’s bell first?” she says, her voice rising a few octaves.

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  She huffs. “So what happened?” she asks. She’s reserving judgment for now. I appreciate that.

  “There was vomit all over the bathroom. She must’ve gotten really sick. I didn’t know yet if it was Jess or her mom.”

  She wrinkles her nose and waits, I guess knowing there’s more to the story.

  “Mom . . . there were so many bills on the table. Overdue bills. I mean, Jess has pretty much said things were tight. But those bills stressed me out.”

  Her hand goes up to her cheek. She groans. “That poor girl. I kind of picked up on something when she came over for dinner. She sounds like she’s on her own over there.” She sighs and shakes her head. “But you knew this. So what else is bothering you?”

  Staring at my phone all day waiting for it to buzz with a call or text from Jess is messing with my head.

  I twirl my fork in circles on my plate. “I feel like, if this were me, I would’ve called her so she wouldn’t worry. You know? It feels like she’s . . . I don’t know . . . shutting me out. And that makes me an asshole for making this about me, right? I mean, I know this isn’t about me. But it’s eating at me in ways that it shouldn’t and I hate that! I hate that I’m even thinking about me when all I should be worried about is her!”

  Mom squeezes my forearm. “You’re right, it’s not about you. And Jess is not you. She’s not going to behave or react the same way you do. Especially if she’s gotten used to doing things on her own out of necessity. And breaking into a girl’s house because she’s not confiding in you enough is not okay, Lucas!”

  “I was worried,” I say, with less conviction this time. I sink in my seat and rub my hands down my face. “I just wish she’d call me.”

  Mom groans, then gazes out the kitchen window, her eyes lost, watching something I can’t see. “You’re both so young. The world shouldn’t be this hard for you yet.” She lets out a tragic, world-weary sigh.

  Her eyes well up as she becomes lost in her own thoughts, her own nightmare. She picks up a napkin off the table and dabs at her eyes before her tears can spill. I wonder if she sees Jason in the backyard, the way I saw his image in the mirror at Marvin’s.

  When she looks over at me, she says, crumpling the napkin in her hand, “What would the wise Dr. Engel have to say right now?”

  I pretty much know what Dr. Engel would say. Grief is uncomfortable. What I don’t know is what my mother has to say, mostly because I haven’t been entirely open with her lately.

  “I kind of want to hear your take on this,” I tell her.

  That makes her smile. She turns the napkin in her hand, then folds it into squares.

  “Did you know your father and I broke up twice when we were dating?” she asks, dabbing under her eye with the edge of the napkin to salvage her mascara.

  Is she implying that Jess and I might break up? If so, that’s not what I want or need to hear right now.

  “Uh, no?”

  She nods. “Once in college. And once right out of college.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and smiles wryly. “For reasons you don’t really want to know. But we worked through them. Here’s what we learned.” She leans closer. “We had to make it work between us because we didn’t know how to not be together.”

  I inhale, deeply, unevenly, allowing her words to sink in.

  “Every couple hits some hurdles in their relationship.” She reaches for my water glass. “Learning how to get over them together is how you grow. You and Jess have more challenges than any couple your age should have to deal with. But if you’re meant to be together, you’ll find a way. Even through all of this.” She sweeps her hand around her, because this is the shattered world we—and Jess—were left with.

  Lifting my glass, she chugs it all down. “Crying makes me thirsty,” she gasps when she’s done, then laughs. “I’ll get you another one.” She stands up and I watch her refill my gl
ass at the faucet.

  “Ma?”

  She turns from the sink.

  “How’s your project going?” I point to her laptop, closed on the counter.

  An eager, excited expression crosses her face. She leans her hip against the counter. “Really well! I can’t wait to show them my concepts.”

  She lights up in front of me.

  “It’s okay to go back to work if you want.” I feel like she needs to hear this from me, to let her know I’m okay. “I’m really doing a lot better now. You know that, right?”

  She looks down at the glass of water in her hand and nods. “Maybe I will,” she says. Her voice sounds hopeful, to my ears at least. “Maybe sooner than I thought.”

  I’ve been so afraid of talking to Mom about Jess, life, Jason, life after Jason. . . . Right now, I am so incredibly grateful to the universe for giving me this mom to talk to.

  Jess

  It doesn’t even matter that you won’t see this. I’m actually glad that you’re not here for this. I’m not in a good place. You don’t need that on top of everything you’re going through.

  I went outside the ER entrance to try and call Lucas. While I was out there, ambulances were pulling up. So many people who were scared. Who wanted to live.

  I didn’t end up calling Lucas. I’m having a hard time saying those words out loud. “My mother tried to kill herself.” What’s that say about me? That I’m not enough for her?

  I swear I can practically hear you screaming at me! Yes, I’ll tell him! Soon. Eventually. Just not yet.

  Me again. Who else has the stamina to keep a one-sided conversation going this long?

  One of the doctors met with me and Mrs. Alvarez. He asked us how long this has been going on.

  He thinks it’s something called complicated grief disorder. Big red flag he said was that this has gone on longer than six months.

  He said it’s a treatment-resistant depression, which doesn’t sound so hot, I know. But the beast has a name and, in a weird way, that helps.

  The therapy and meds she was on weren’t the right kind. There’s a different kind of therapy she can do. It was hard to keep track of everything he said, but the big headline is they think they can help her.