“Kinetic energy.”
I remember the term from physics class but am baffled as to why he’s said it. “What about it?”
“I was trying to harness it,” he says.
“O-kaaaay,” I say, studying his tiny body and face.
He sighs and sits up a little. “You know Newton’s first law?”
“I think so,” I say.
“An object at rest stays at rest unless an external force acts upon it.”
“OK.”
“I’ve been trying to move objects at rest.” He stares at me from behind his glasses with his large eyes, as if this explains it all.
“With your mind,” I say.
“Right.” He leans back against the pillow, pushing the wheeled table holding his breakfast tray and empty pudding cup away from him, and I realize he’s done talking.
“Um. I’m going to need a little bit more,” I say. He gives me a look so similar to one of Ellie’s You’re such an idiot, Dad faces that it nearly breaks me in half. Does it start this young?
Aja sighs. “I realized all this time I’ve been trying to convert an object’s potential energy, when it makes so much more sense to try and manipulate its kinetic energy. If an object is already moving, shouldn’t it be easier to move it? Like a car that won’t start—it can take a few people to push it, but then once it’s rolling, one person can easily keep it going.”
I consider this and what he’s saying does make sense, but I’m still not sure what it has to do with my broken coffee table and his near-drowning incident. “OK,” I say, nodding. And then it’s like the sun has broken through the clouds and I can see everything clearly. “Wait. You threw the hammer so it would have kinetic energy, so it would be easier to move with your mind?”
“I didn’t throw it,” he says. “I just kind of dropped it. I was using gravity as the work—the external force to change potential energy into kinetic. There’s a formula—”
“I don’t care about the formula.” I nearly spit the word. “Why the coffee table, though? Why not just drop it on the carpet?”
“I did! I started with the carpet, trying to stop it from falling with my mind, or at least change the trajectory, but it wasn’t working. I thought if there was a bigger consequence, something I really wanted to not happen, then my brain would be more powerful, try harder or something.”
I stare at him, incredulous.
“It didn’t,” he adds.
“No, it didn’t.” I sit up, my mind reeling, and I remember the online chat I read about his wanting to try something bigger—maybe a car. “So what were you trying to drop in the river?”
He looks down at the hospital sheets covering his tiny legs, which is when it hits me out of nowhere.
“Oh my god. You were trying to drop yourself in the river.” I really can’t believe that he would throw himself into a raging body of water on purpose, but the instant I see his face, I know that it’s true. “Aja—you don’t even know how to swim!”
His voice is small. “I thought it would be . . . more motivating.”
“To help you levitate?”
And I realize that was the big idea, the thing he was talking to his friend about online.
He studies the corner where the ceiling meets this wall, as if it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, and I know that he’s done talking.
We sit there, me staring at him, him staring at the ceiling, while I try to suss out the conflicting emotions in my brain. But the overriding one is fear—that maybe his imagination isn’t as harmless as I’ve thought. That I’ve been dismissing too much. That I haven’t wanted to see what was right in front of me. That maybe Stephanie and the one-time therapist and the school counselor might all be right—maybe Aja does need help.
HER HAIR LOOKS very similar to the way it did the day I first saw her in the library—long, disheveled chestnut-colored strands, like tangled vines growing out of her head and engulfing the pillow behind her. It occurs to me that maybe this is just the way that she wears it, not part of a costume or the by-product of some heroic mission.
But her face—her face is different. She’s pale—paler than I remember—and she has dark circles under her eyes like she hasn’t slept in a week. Angry red welts surround her lips and one is crawling up her cheek. I cover my mouth with my hand, hoping to conceal my surprise at her appearance.
She sits up a little when she sees me, that same startled look in her eyes—and I realize even though she told the nurse I could visit, I’m still a strange man in her room.
We stare at each other in silence for a few beats, until I recover enough to speak.
“Thank you,” I say. “You know, for . . .” It occurs to me that I’m not exactly sure what her role in saving Aja’s life was. I clear my throat.
“It’s OK,” she says, but the words come out hoarse, as if she’s just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. “It’s nothing. I was on my way home from work. Right place, right time, I guess.”
“Well, no, it’s not nothing,” I say, thinking: Look at you. Instead, I say: “You are in the hospital.”
She shrugs and then starts coughing, but it comes out more like a wheezing sound that makes my own throat itch.
I notice she has a similar heart monitor to the one that’s hooked up to Aja.
She must have almost drowned in rescuing him—I want to ask, but it feels too personal, somehow. And then it occurs to me that I still don’t know her name.
“I’m Eric, by the way.”
She nods and then has just opened her mouth to respond when the door bursts open.
“Jubilee Jenkins,” says a booming voice. A man in a white coat and glasses enters the room behind his voice. He’s hefty, like he once was a high school linebacker and never stopped eating like one. I step out of his way, but he barely glances at me, his eyes trained on Emily, whose name is apparently Jubilee.
“I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again,” he says. “Wish it was under better circumstances, of course. How long has it been? Five, six years?”
“Nine,” Jubilee says.
“Nine! Holy cow. Where does the time go?” he says. “Never forgot you, though. You’ve been the topic of many a dinner conversation. I mean, not your name, of course, patient confidentiality and all that.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, you’re lucky that EMT noticed your swollen lips and gave you the Epi. He’s worked enough anaphylaxis cases to know, I guess. You really should be wearing one of those allergy bracelets, though—do you have one? I can see about getting you one, if you don’t.” He looks down at the chart he’s holding in his hand, shakes his head, and lets out a long whistle. “Man, you really are lucky. So, how are we feeling?”
Jubilee’s eyes are big and she looks as bewildered by this man as I feel. I didn’t think he’d ever stop talking. And what was that about an allergy? Was she stung by a bee or something while she was trying to save Aja?