“She’s been really out of it, that’s all. Not speaking to anyone.” Rebecca glances at her and then swipes her badge to open the double doors. “But this can happen, this kind of shock. I think having you here will help.”
She talks quietly to the doctor at the admissions desk and signs Blair in. Blair grips the cups too tightly and foam erupts from the lids, drips on her hands. She’d convinced herself earlier that Xavier would be okay, that this would be a temporary crisis, but everything feels precarious now. She looks down the hall of closed doors as Rebecca clips a visitor’s pass to the bottom of her sweatshirt. None of this feels real to Blair. That they’re on the critical care floor in the children’s hospital. That Xavier is in one of those rooms. She takes a seat in a row of cinnamon-colored chairs and waits.
Hundreds of hours she must have spent with the Loverlys and their children over the years they’ve lived on Harlow Street. The idle time that fills family life, the daily back-and-forth that makes one privy to the rhythm of another’s week. What the other family orders on pizza night, the ringtone on each other’s phones, how the latch on the side fence works. Their children’s favorite pajamas. That’s what makes her and Whitney’s friendship so special—this familiarity of the mundane, the comfort of being witness to each other’s interior lives.
It makes it all so much worse—Whitney and Aiden. Her eyes well up.
She opens her phone and scrolls through photos of Xavier and Chloe together. Of the tea party the two of them set up for the twins’ birthday, all of their mouths stained with grape juice. The last time Xavier was over, he had brought his chess set. Blair had noticed, once again, that the brightness he’d had as a younger child was fading. He’s become so sullen, she’d thought, as he’d set up the chessboard for them.
“Do you like doing this with me?”
The skepticism in his voice had sunk her. “Oh, Xavi, of course I do! I’m having so much fun with you as my teacher.”
He’d taken a moment to process whether she was being truthful, smiling only after she smiled. Blair had wondered then how he saw himself. How he was usually made to feel. He’d set up the rest of the pieces carefully. Slowly. Buying time with her.
Her phone dings three times in her hand.
How is she?
Any update on X?
You doing okay?
Blair stares at Aiden’s first text and her insides roll again. She needs to occupy herself with useful tasks to keep focused.
She will check the status of Jacob’s flight.
She will offer to make phone calls to whoever needs to know.
She will ask a nurse to set up a cot for Whitney to get some sleep.
She will drive home to get her a soft blanket and a feather pillow; she should have thought of this.
“Thanks again for coming,” Rebecca says, startling her.
“Of course, it’s the least I can do. Ben said you were the one to help Xavi when the ambulance brought him in.”
Rebecca folds her arms. “Yeah. It was a shock to see him.”
“I’m sure this is tough for Ben too. Seems like he’d grown close to Xavi lately,” Blair says. Rebecca looks confused. “All of those hours playing catch in the backyard, I mean.”
“Right, yes.” But Rebecca seems like this hadn’t occurred to her. “Come. I’ll take you in.”
* * *
? ? ?
The hair at the back of Whitney’s head is kinked from the rain yesterday. This is the first thing Blair notices. It takes her a moment to force her gaze away from her friend to Xavier on the bed.
His head is small and fragile compared to the mass of medical equipment surrounding him. He looks like an experiment. His face is bloated and gray, and his eyelids are glossy, his lips thick with petroleum jelly. A brown bandage stretches tight across the bridge of his nose and over a mass of clear tubes. The air is stale and aseptic, and although the room is dim, he’s lit with the soft light of an overhead lamp. A steady beep. Speckles of fluid catch somewhere inside him. The room feels both calm and chaotic, dozens of electrical sockets, boxes of gloves on the walls, posters with warnings, bags of liquid hanging from his bed, from poles. There’s a cart of supplies, straws and syringes flagged with labels, sterile water containers, wipes, clamps. Glowing lines of orange and red crawl across the monitor like city traffic at night.
Whitney doesn’t move. Her hand is on her son’s. Her long legs are crossed, her feet in slide-on sandals. Her toes are purply. Blair knows she hates to be cold. She should have brought socks. Behind her, she hears Rebecca leave the room.
“Whit,” Blair says softly. But Whitney doesn’t move. She doesn’t seem to hear her at all. “Whit,” she tries again.
She touches her back. Whitney is shaking, or maybe shivering. Blair drapes the cardigan she brought over Whitney’s shoulders. She fixes the sleeves so they hang nicely. The way Whitney would want. She puts her hands on her shoulders and leans down so their faces are close. So their cheeks touch. Whitney is scentless, stale.
When she pulls away to look at Whitney’s face, she sees her lips are dry and picked apart. Lip balm, Blair thinks. Lip balm and socks. That’s what she’ll bring her tomorrow. Lip balm, socks, her pillow. Lotion. The nice face lotion from the cabinet in her bathroom that smells like garden roses.
Blair glances to the floor. Whitney’s phone is facedown, discarded under her chair. She thinks of the texts she sent that morning, unread, asking where Xavier was. All the emails from work. Everyone trying to get ahold of her.
This is not the woman she expected to find here, taking charge, demanding second opinions, searching Google on her phone to corroborate everything the doctors say. She looks hollow.
There’s a gurgle from somewhere in Xavier and Blair inhales audibly before she can stop herself. But Whitney is unmoved. She’s never seen her so silent and still before. She’s always in motion, always engaging with something or someone or thinking of a new idea.
She wonders if she’s praying. If she’s begging some higher power to save her son. Blair isn’t a religious woman either, but it’s what she’d be doing if Chloe was in that bed. The pain Whitney must be feeling. She puts her hand on her shoulder again.
But Whitney flinches. She leans forward in her chair, away from Blair. Blair holds her breath as Whitney shakes her head.
“I know, Whit. I’m so sorry this has happened. I can’t believe it.” Her words are strained. She doesn’t want to cry again.
But Whitney shakes her head again. “No . . . no, I can’t have you here.”
Blair is stunned. She looks around the room.
“You want me . . . to leave?”
Whitney cups her hands around her face, shielding herself from everything that is not her son. And then she nods. She sniffs through the phlegm in her throat and exhales steadily through her mouth. She does not want Blair there. She won’t even look at her.
“All right,” Blair’s voice shakes. She doesn’t want to comply. She doesn’t want to accept what this means. “But if there’s anything I can do—”
“Please. Just go.”
Blair turns to face the door. They are best friends, loyal friends. The ugly rumors that will swirl, the conclusions everyone else will jump to about what happened to Xavier. Doesn’t Whitney need her? Who else does Whitney have?
And yet. At a time like this, it would be hard to look in Blair’s eyes if she’s fucking her husband. If Blair’s very presence at her side reminded her of the horrible person she was. Unworthy of the miracle she needs right now.
Rebecca calls her name from the hallway as she leaves, but she walks faster and faster away, until she’s jogging to the elevators. She pretends she cannot hear. Pretending is what she is best at.
21
Whitney
Wednesday
She’s at the office, on the other line, when Xavier’s teacher calls her cell phone again. And again. The urgency makes her uncomfortable. She puts her client on hold and answers hastily.
“Nothing serious, Whitney, I should say right away. But Xavier isn’t having a good week.”
Whitney stands; she paces her office as the din of rain on her tenth-floor window begins. Not a good week. What does a good week look like? It’s only Wednesday. There was a math quiz the day before. He studied with Louisa. He’d been fine when she got home last night, his usual—tired from the day, grumpy. He’s said nothing concerning. Louisa hasn’t mentioned anything.
“He’s been increasingly quiet, very withdrawn in class. And there was an incident at recess this morning, with some name-calling from other kids. The kind of thing we don’t tolerate, we can assure you.”
Whitney asks her which kids. She is hot now, her stomach clenches. She pulls the blazer from her armpits. But the teacher can’t say who it was. Instead, she assures Whitney the children were spoken to. That things were dealt with.