The ashtray in the center of the coffee table. I removed my mother’s half-smoked cigarette from it years ago but never got around to emptying it of its now-stale ashes.
And the books. Good god, the books. Stacks of them cover nearly every surface. Two or three here to the fifteen or so growing from the floor beside my chair and stopping at the perfect height to hold a coffee mug. It’s not that I don’t put them away, but more that I have nowhere to put them. The shelves are filled to busting, each nook and cranny stuffed with a book, creating a jigsaw puzzle of spines. And I’m suddenly embarrassed to think how much money I’ve spent over the years on reading. And I discover the irony—if I had just gone to the library to check them out, maybe I wouldn’t have to work there now to pay my bills.
I wonder if Eric thinks I’m a hoarder of sorts. Like those brothers who were found dead in their New York City apartment among their 140 tons of stuff.
The books and ashtray aside, at least my house is clean—I’m momentarily grateful for my meticulous efforts in keeping dust mites and cobwebs at bay.
I clear my throat and Eric looks up.
“Sorry about the, um . . . mess,” I say, sweeping my hand in the general direction of all the books.
“Occupational hazard?”
“Yeah,” I say, grinning before I can stop myself. It’s the new Eric, the warm one with witticisms that catch me by surprise.
And then my smile disappears and I just stand there, because Aja’s in my seat and I’ve never had two people in my living room before—not since my mother left—and I’m not sure what to do.
A knock at the door causes me to start.
“That’ll be Con,” Eric says, standing, and a ludicrous sense of relief fills my belly that my mother’s seat is empty once again.
I turn and open the door to a woman holding a tool kit. “You must be Jubilee,” she says, walking right in, even though I didn’t invite her, and the mental count of people in my house that aren’t me goes up by one. I wonder—has the ceiling always been so low? The walls always felt so imposing? Even though frigid air follows her in, my skin starts to prick with sweat.
“You’re lucky Eric told me about your car,” Connie says, as if we’re picking up a conversation we let go just the night before. “He would’ve only made it worse.”
I stare at her eyes—exact replicas of the olives in Eric’s head. “Can it get worse than not starting?”
“You have no idea,” she says, then turns to Eric. “I’ve got to head up to the office in a few hours. Shall we get started?”
“Keys are on that table,” I say pointing them out. Eric grabs them and follows Connie out the door. Exhaling, I shut it behind them. It’s only when I look up that I realize Aja hasn’t moved from my chair. His attention is so thoroughly on his video game, he doesn’t seem to even realize that his dad and Connie have left.
I stand there, wondering if I should say something, but after a minute, my grumbling stomach propels me into the kitchen for breakfast. It’s only as I’m making coffee that I realize I should have offered some to Eric. Should have offered him anything, really. That’s what they always do in the movies when someone visits: tea, water, a snack. I remember Aja and wonder if he’s hungry. I stick my head into the living room.
“Hey, Aja,” I say. He drags his eyes from his video game to me.
“Eggs?”
He blinks. “What?”
“I’m making breakfast. Do you want some?”
He pulls a face, and I realize maybe eggs aren’t appealing to a kid’s palate. But I don’t have any cereal or . . . what else do kids eat? “Er . . . cookies?”
He shakes his head no and looks back down, which I’m glad about, because right after I said it, I realized I finished the last three Chips Ahoys in the pack on Thursday.
After breakfast, I wash my pot, plate, fork, and mug and wander back into the living room. It’s making me out of sorts, not being alone in my house. I feel self-conscious, like someone is bearing witness to every single one of my actions, even though Aja hasn’t looked up from his game since I asked him about breakfast.
I pick up a few books from the table behind the sofa, as if I mean to put them away, but I’m not sure where exactly to take them to, so I start to rearrange them in the stack, putting the largest ones on the bottom.
“Is your name really Jubilee?”
I jerk my head toward Aja’s tiny voice, surprised at the sound, and then tilt my chin. “Ah, yes,” I say. “I guess I didn’t really get to introduce myself the other day.”
He holds his head steady; behind his glasses, his large eyes stay trained on mine.
Then he gives a slight nod and I notice his focus travels to my hands. Studying them, really, his dark eyebrows furrowed. “Why do you wear gloves?” he asks.
I look down, my fingers clasping one another, fiddling with the material of the gloves. I look back up. “Well, um . . . it’s kind of hard to explain,” I say.
He sucks in his breath, his eyes finding mine again. When he speaks, it comes out as a reverent whisper. “It’s because you can’t touch people, isn’t it?”
My stomach drops down to my feet. “What?” How could he possibly . . .
“You can’t control it, can you?” His eyes are dancing now, shiny blots of ink.
I narrow my eyes at him. Did one of the nurses tell him? At the hospital? So much for patient confidentiality. Oh god—does that mean Eric knows? My mouth goes dry.
“It’s OK. You can tell me,” he says, leaning forward in the chair. “I swear I won’t tell anyone.”
I glance at the door, hoping Eric will barge through it, but then not wanting him to be privy to this conversation. And then I wonder why I care so much about what he thinks.
“Can you show me?” Aja asks, and I jerk my head back to him.
“Show you?” Now I’m confused. He wants to see my hands?
“Yeah, a fireball! How big are they? Do they go where you want them to?”
Fireball? I narrow my eyes, my mind a jumble. “Aja,” I say, interrupting his flow of questions. “What are you talking about?”
“Your pyrotechnic energy!” he says, so excited now, he’s bouncing a little in the chair, and I get concerned that the sagging cushion won’t hold.
“My pyro-what?”
“And you pretended you hadn’t even heard about the X-Men,” he says. “I should have known. Right when I saw you. You even look a little like her.”
“Like who?”
“Jubilee!” he says. “You’re Jubilee!”
I nod, but more because he’s finally said something that is in fact a true statement. Something I can agree with. “Well, yes. That’s my name, but—”
“From the X-Men! And you can shoot plasmoids from your fingertips”—he starts pointing at things, making little zinging noises—“which is why you have to wear the gloves.” I walk around the sofa and sit down on the opposite end from my mother’s seat.
“Aja.” He continues mock zapping things, his excitement at a near fever pitch.
“Aja!” He stops and looks at me.
“I don’t have any . . . powers,” I say. “I can’t, um . . . zap things. That’s just in the movies.”