The woman sits patiently, waiting out my frustration. It reminds me of how I dealt with Ellie’s toddler temper tantrums, and I realize that I’m currently the child in that scenario. I close my mouth. After a few more moments of silence, she speaks. “Listen, we all want what’s best for Aja here,” she says, putting her hand on my arm. It’s the first time she’s touched me, and it’s such a gentle gesture that I alarmingly feel an excess of water pooling on my corneas. I turn my head and open my eyes wide in the hopes of drying them out. “Whether he was trying to kill himself or not—he almost did,” she says. “And we need to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
My shoulders sag under the weight of what she’s said. I know she’s right. I know I should have listened to Stephanie about Ellie and to Aja’s last therapist and to the school counselor all along. I know that I’ve failed at one more thing as a father. But what I also know, more than any of these things, is this one fact: I won’t lose Aja, too.
twelve
JUBILEE
I’VE NEVER WORN a man’s clothes before. It feels oddly intimate—all the more so because Eric’s sweatshirt doesn’t smell like a freshly laundered shirt. It smells kind of woodsy—sweet and piney at the same time. Like him, I guess.
I panicked when Dr. Houschka said he wouldn’t let me go unless I had someone to care for me. If I had to stay in that hospital, in that strange room with those strangers coming in and out, a second more, I felt sure I would die. And that serious man from the library—Eric Keegan—was standing there and it just came out of my mouth.
I’m actually surprised he went along with it. Everything about him seems so uptight—not just the way he stands, his spine rigid, his shoulders tense and square, but the intensity in his eyes, the way his lips remain straight and parallel, like an equals sign.
But then they turned up, just a little, when he offered to give me a ride home, and he surprised me again.
Now, sitting beside Eric in the passenger seat of his car, all traces of any joviality are gone and he’s gripping the wheel, still and stony as a statue—Atlas holding the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Granted, his son did almost die. But he didn’t. And even though I told Eric it was nothing, I would think he’d be just a little bit more warm, more grateful to me, instead of acting so indifferent.
Maybe he is kind of an asshole, like Louise suggested.
But then, he’s also kind of polite.
Like how he didn’t pepper me with any questions about why I was in the hospital or what was wrong with my face after Dr. Houschka left my room.
And how he brought me the extra clothes he had in his car—his Wharton sweatshirt and a pair of gym pants—since my clothes were so wet and muddy from the day before they had to be thrown out.
And how he wouldn’t hear of it when I offered to sit in the back so his son, whom he introduced as Aja, could have the front seat.
Whatever. Doesn’t really matter to me who this guy is, except that he’s the way I’m finally getting home. After the unexpected events of the past twenty-four hours—and lying wide awake in a hospital room for the entire night—all I can think about is getting inside the front door of my house. Being alone. Safe.
On the way there, I break the overwhelming silence a few times with one-word or two-word directions: “Right, here.” “Left.” And when Eric pulls into my driveway, it takes everything in me not to jump out of the car before it comes to a complete stop and race inside, throwing the dead bolt behind me with a satisfying click.
But I know that would be rude.
“Thank you for the ride,” I say as I open the car door, each word still an effort to expel from my sore throat.
He pulls up the parking brake between us and turns the key, cutting the engine. “I’ll get your bike,” he says, opening his door, too.
I open my mouth to protest, but when I stand up, I’m so overcome with exhaustion, lifting the bike myself seems an impossible task. Plus, the sweatpants I’m wearing are threatening to fall to my ankles at any second, even though I pulled the string as tightly as I could and knotted it. I sling my bag over my shoulder and grab a fistful of the pants’ elastic band to be safe.
“Where do you want it?” Eric says from behind the open trunk.
“Just inside the gate is fine,” I say, gesturing to the end of the driveway beside the house with my free hand.
Instead of wheeling it like I would, he hefts it up by the frame with one fist and does as directed, while I make my way to the porch. When I get to the front door, I turn to give a quick wave, but am startled when I see that he’s right behind me at the foot of the steps. He shoves a hand in his pocket and scratches the back of his head, his stance as awkward as I feel. I stare at him, my hand on the knob, my body itching to get inside.
He nods as if to seal our agreement. “Well, um . . . are you going to be all right?” he asks, glancing back at Aja once more. “Maybe we should stick around . . . you know, the doctor said . . .”
“I’m fine,” I say, panic rising at the thought of him—of anyone—coming inside my house. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, though. Thank you for, um . . . everything.”
“No, god,” he says. “Thank you.” He fishes in his back pocket with his right hand and produces a wallet. My eyes widen in alarm. Is he going to give me money? Like a reward for saving his kid? Or—and this is more likely, remembering my reflection in the hospital mirror—maybe I just look that destitute.
He unfolds the leather flap and pulls something out of it, then pushes it toward me. My shoulders relax when I see it’s just a business card. “Take my number,” he says. “Please. Just in case.”
I take my hand off the doorknob and grab the edge of the card, taking care not to touch his fingertips with mine. My gloves, still damp from the ordeal, are sitting in the bottom of my bag.
“K,” I say, dropping the card in my bag and clumsily fishing my keys out of it with one hand—the other is still holding up my pants. “Well, um . . . bye.” I lift my hand with the keys in a little wave and turn to go in the house without waiting for a response.
“Hey, wait,” he says. I stop, fighting the urge to scream in frustration or desperation—I’m not sure which—and turn my head back in his direction.
“Yeah?”
“This is completely random, I know. But didn’t you say The Virgin Suicides was your favorite book?”
I pause. “One of them,” I say.
“Why?” he asks. “I mean, what’s so great about it?”
I narrow my eyes at him, this out-of-the-blue question reminding me of his bizarre book choices at the library.
“I don’t know,” I say, not wanting to prolong the conversation. But I do know. I remember exactly how I felt when I entered the lives of the Lisbon sisters. Like somebody understood.