A couple hours later, Mom stays with Julian while I leave the hospital room for the first time in days. Stretching my legs feels so amazing that I practically jog out of the colorful pediatrics ward to the colder white of the rest of the hospital.
I find Charlie in a half-lit hallway holding a tiny creature wrapped in yellow. His hands are bigger than the entire length of the baby. He smiles at me—not a smirk, but a real smile. No one else is around, so I guess his dad went home with his nine million other kids.
“Is that Shiv?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I talked my mom out of it.”
“What’d you go with?”
“Elian.”
“Elian?”
“Yeah, like those books. I used to love them when we were kids.”
“Me too.”
Charlie looks down into the tiny face. “He’s pretty cute, huh?”
He is. I mean, he looks like a hairless Shar-Pei puppy, but he’s a brand-new human with brand-new eyes, and…Jesus, it’s happening again. The burn in my throat, the pressure in my chest.
“Adam?” Of course, Charlie looks panicked. He probably thinks I’m dying. I wipe at the tears streaming down my face, but since there’s an endless supply, more come. I wonder if this is what having a nervous breakdown is.
Charlie stands and places the baby in a little rolling crib, then he raises his arms like Frankenstein’s monster, or if he were someone else, like he’s about to hug someone. But if Charlie Taylor actually hugged me, it would mean the End of Days. His monster arms get closer.
It’s the End of Days.
MOM IS WATCHING Julian, while Julian watches TV, when Emerald stops by with a paper sack. “Your assignments,” she says with a strained smile. I walk her into the hall, and we stand in front of the under-the-sea party.
“I texted you,” she says.
“Yeah, I’m sorry.”
“I know it’s been stressful around here.”
“Yeah.” There’s tension and a strange disconnect between us, like we’re not the same people we were a week ago. “Well, thanks for bringing these.”
“Adam?” Her face is pale. Her blue eyes are wide, and I notice her hair is loose and falling around her shoulders. “Never mind,” she says, turning away abruptly. “It’s nothing.”
It’s not till later, when Julian’s asleep, that my mom asks, “Are you and Emerald okay?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re acting strange. Like you’re mad at her.”
I sigh deeply, because seriously, there are bigger things to worry about. “And why would I be mad at Emerald?”
She doesn’t answer, just looks at me, and I wish for once people would say what they’re thinking. Or just tell the truth. If I’d just told the truth…but I didn’t. I listened to Emerald.
Logically, I know it’s not her fault, but I have this nagging thought that if I’d taken him to my house, I would have called the police. And if I’d called the police, all the things that followed never would have happened. But that’s the kind of horrible thought you can think, but you can never say out loud.
“YOU HAVE TO go back to school.” It’s Sunday night and Delores is telling me off next to a tap-dancing lobster outside Julian’s room.
“I can’t.” She knows how panicked he gets when I’m gone.
“You’ve missed over a week. How’s it going to look to a judge if the woman who wants custody of Julian has a son up next on his docket for truancy?”
It would be worse than truancy. My finals are this week, and if I don’t take them, I don’t graduate. “Why can’t they just let Julian leave already?”
“He’ll be released when he starts eating.”
“He is eating…a little.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. Protein shakes, but not food. He can’t keep going on like that.”
I know I should’ve been pushing him to eat, but I also know from eating the companion lunches that the food here tastes like microwaved shit. If you’re already having trouble with your appetite, those won’t spark it.
“What’ll he do all day? He can’t be alone. He has to—”
“He won’t be alone. There’s a teen-counseling program downstairs. Could be good for him.”
“God, he’ll hate that.”
“But he won’t be alone.”
Later, after everyone leaves and it’s just Julian and me, I say, “You’ve gotta start eating.”
He looks startled and a little defensive. “But I’m not hungry.”
“They won’t let you leave till you eat.”
“Could you…”
“What?”
“Just throw it away? Pretend I ate it?”
“No.”
His shoulders sag, defeated. “I’m not hungry,” he says again, eyeing the waxy chicken, limp green beans, and hard dinner roll.
“At least try the pudding, huh? I got these from the fridge down the hall. We’ve got chocolate and vanilla.” I wave one in each hand. “Which kind do you want?”
He shakes his head, disgusted. “Neither.”
“Vanilla it is.” I tear away the plastic lid and plunge in the spoon.
He crosses his thin arms over his chest with the same sulky expression he used to pull when we were in elementary school and I’d force him to read. If these weren’t such horrible circumstances, I’d laugh.