“What?” she asks, looking at me in confusion.
“I know it’s the modern era,” I explain, rubbing my jaw, “but I’m pretty sure she would rise up from her grave and kill me if I didn’t at least offer.”
“Um . . . OK,” she says, the right side of her mouth turning up. “Let me just get my coat.”
Outside, I glance at the front seat of the car, where Aja is sucking soda from his straw. The night air has ushered in even colder temps, and I hope he’s not too chilly sitting there. Sticking my hands in my coat pockets to try to keep them warm, I turn back to where Jubilee is fumbling with the keys and lock. When she’s done, I clear my throat. I glance out into the parking lot, lit by the street lamp overhead, and that’s when I realize my car is the only one there. “Where is your car?”
“Oh, um. I ride my bike to work.”
I know she was on her bike when she saved Aja, and it was cold that day, but not this cold. “You a hard-core environmentalist or something?”
“No,” she says, and then pauses, considering. “I mean, I do turn off the water when I brush my teeth.”
My lips spread into a smile. “So, why do you ride your bike to work in this weather? Didn’t I see a car in your driveway yesterday?”
She nods. “It won’t start. I hoped maybe it was just out of gas, but that’s not it.”
“Can I help you with it?” It’s out of my mouth before I can think. But she saved Aja’s life and it’s the least I can offer her.
“You want to buy me a new car?”
A loud clap of laughter bursts from my mouth, like a cannon shot from its barrel. The sound slices through the air. She grins at me, and it feels like something has been broken between us. The weird awkwardness that seemed to hang between us like a fog—in the hospital, standing in front of her house, just now in the library—it’s gone. My hands don’t feel cold anymore.
“Ah, no,” I say. “Not exactly. But I could take a look at it for you. See what the trouble is.”
“You know about fixing cars?”
I shrug. “A little.”
She chews her lip as she considers this and I try not to stare. I fail.
After what feels like two full minutes of silence, her eyes meet mine again. “OK,” she says.
“OK,” I say. “Saturday?”
“OK,” she repeats.
I glance over at Aja and he’s just staring through the windshield now, his dinner long eaten. I know I need to go, to get him home, but strangely I find myself not wanting to leave Jubilee’s side.
I turn back to her. “Well, can I give you a ride? It really is freezing tonight. Literally. The clock on the bank said thirty-one degrees.”
“No, I’m fine,” she says. “I’m used to it.”
I push one more time. “Are you sure?”
“Really. It’s not necessary,” she says. “But thank you.”
“OK,” I say, accepting defeat. “Well, good night, Jubilee.”
“Night,” she says.
I slide into the front seat and watch as Jubilee swings a leg over her bike and navigates it out of the parking lot and down the silent street, a tiny dark mass under the light of the lampposts. I notice she doesn’t have any reflectors on the bike, and I have the sudden urge to follow her. To keep her safe. I watch until she’s pedaled out of sight, and then I lean back against the headrest and exhale.
I LIED. I don’t know anything about fixing cars.
My dad was a real do-it-yourselfer. He always had some kind of dirt and grime under his fingernails and spent full weekend days in the garage doing god only knows what. Connie joined him when she was old enough and they’d dissect car issues over dinner like they were discussing life-and-death medical procedures. He tried to teach me how to change the oil once, but I just couldn’t understand the point when there was a Jiffy Lube not even two miles from our house.
I don’t know why I offered to look at it, except I had this overwhelming desire to do something for Jubilee. For this woman who, in such a short time, has done so much for me. Like jump into cold, rushing water and pull my son to safety. The least I could do is try to fix her car. That’s what I’ve been telling myself, anyway.
Sitting in the therapist’s waiting room while Aja finishes with his appointment on Thursday afternoon, I punch out a text to Ellie:
I didn’t know you wanted to work in magazines. Dad.
Then I Google: Car won’t start. The first entry that pops up is car troubleshooting for dummies. Instead of being offended, I’m grateful. Maybe I’ll actually understand some of the terminology. But after scanning the first few paragraphs, I realize it’s hopeless and click off my phone. I stand up to help myself to a Styrofoam cupful of what I’m sure is cold coffee sitting in the glass pot of a brewing machine on a table cluttered with magazines. As I take a swig of the tepid sludge, the thick wooden door in front of me swings open and Aja emerges. I arrange my face into a welcoming smile. “How’d it go, bud?” My voice is laden with forced cheer, as if he’s just played a basketball game instead of spending an hour in therapy.
He shrugs without glancing my way and reaches for the iPad he left on the chair beside me. He sits down and slips the earbuds in as the therapist, who introduced herself as Janet when we arrived, appears in the doorway Aja just came out of. “Mr. Keegan? Want to come in for a chat?”
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Aja, who’s already absorbed in the world on his screen. He doesn’t acknowledge me. Embarrassed, I glance up at Janet, who offers me a consolatory smile.
In her office, I sit down in the chair across from her desk. A picture of three towheaded children, all straight-teeth smiles and matching white and khaki outfits on a sandy beach, stares back at me. “Yours?” I ask.
She nods, and I have to keep myself from rolling my eyes. I wonder if it ever occurred to her how obnoxious it is to view her perfect family on display while you’re there to discuss your family’s imperfections. Maybe it’s her form of credentials. Look, my children can stand in a row and smile at the same time in unwrinkled, coordinating outfits! Your family can be as well-adjusted as mine, once we figure out this suicidal/delusional-thinking stuff!
“They’re all grown up now,” she says. “Hard to believe.”
“Mmm.” I peer at her more closely. On first glance I thought she was late thirties tops, but now I can see a thin line of gray peeking out at the root of her blond locks, pulled tightly back in a bun. And her face is a little too taut. On closer inspection, she just looks well preserved.
“Well, you’ve obviously got a very intelligent child there,” she says, sliding into her large leather chair.
I would normally say thank you, but I’m too stressed—about work, about Aja, about life—to deal in niceties. I cut to the chase. “Do you think he’s suicidal?”
Her eyes widen for a moment and then she gives a quick shake of her head, as if she understands that I just want to get on with it. “No,” she says. “I don’t.”