I’M AN IDIOT. Stephanie always said I didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. That when I lock onto something, I push too hard. And I did it just now with Jubilee. But what I’m trying to figure out while driving home is why. Yes, she saved Aja’s life. And I do feel indebted to her in some way. But she made it clear she doesn’t want my help—doesn’t need it. So why couldn’t I just leave it alone? It occurs to me that it may very well be ego driven, some deep-seated desire to feel needed by someone—anyone—to stem the now quite regular feeling of being so utterly useless to everyone else in my life.
I glance over at Aja in the passenger seat, where he’s tapping at that ridiculous screen with his thumbs. I look back at the road, trying to clear my mind, concentrate on the street signs and other traffic, but it seems the more I try not to think about Jubilee, the more I find myself thinking about her.
She was wearing my sweatshirt when she opened the door. The Wharton one. The one I lent her when I took her home from the hospital. And I know it probably doesn’t mean anything—it was probably the shirt nearest to her on the floor when I so rudely woke her up with my banging, and she threw it on to come greet me.
And yet. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about that sweatshirt. And the places where the material met her skin.
“Eric,” Aja says beside me in his usual monotone, interrupting my thoughts.
“Yeah?” I jerk my head to him.
“You just ran that red light.”
“What?” I glance in the rearview mirror. Sure enough, the light is red. “I did?”
But Aja is looking back down at his screen and he doesn’t respond. I run my hands through my hair and exhale, wondering what in the hell has gotten into me.
WORK IS SO crazy on Monday that I only have time for a quick call in the afternoon to make sure Aja got home OK and Mrs. Holgerson is there. When I finally get on the train at six fifteen, I pull The Notebook out of my bag. I only have about fifteen more pages, but instead of opening it, I close my eyes and lean my head back against the chair. And I wonder, not for the first time, if I really want to be partner.
Is it worth all of this? It’s what I’ve been working toward my entire career. The canned response I gave Stephanie every time she complained about my long hours, about my absence from the family, about my level of engagement with her, with Ellie, with home. “It’ll get better,” I always promised her. “When I make partner.” What I didn’t point out was that I was a better parent than so many of my colleagues. I actually left work early once in a while for a teacher conference or a softball game or for the regional science fair where Ellie placed second as a sixth grader against all other middle schoolers. I couldn’t understand, then, why she got a D on her progress report for science in the eighth grade.
“It’s your favorite subject,” I said to her on one of the too-few weekends I got to spend with her post-divorce.
She rolled her eyes, a new habit that I couldn’t stand. “Not anymore.”
“Since when?”
“Since now,” she said. That was right before she told me she was going to Darcy’s to spend the night—our first blowout argument. At least the first one I remember, not only because it was the first time she told me she hated me, when I forbid her from going, but because she also said: I totally get why Mom divorced you.
Now I wonder if I just should have let her go. If maybe that was the beginning of the end.
But of course I know that relationships don’t dissolve over one event, one fight. It’s a thousand blows delivered over time—uppercuts, jabs, crosses—some you barely even feel. And then before you know it, you’re on the ground seeing stars and wondering what the hell happened.
I think of the text she sent me Thursday.
What are you trying to do? Just stop already.
A response! My daughter, my Ellie, acknowledged me. The first nine words I’d heard from her in more than four months. Not exactly the overwhelming emotional reunion I was hoping for, but I’d take it.
I spent two hours trying to craft the perfect reply. I racked my brain for other The Virgin Suicides and The Bell Jar quotes with which to impress her while I was pan-frying hot dogs for dinner. I invented lengthy explanations while loading the dishwasher and wiping down counters. I concocted witticisms while checking the front-door lock, turning out lights, and stopping at Aja’s door to tell him and The Dog good night.
But when I got in bed later that night, I had discarded every possibility—too cheesy, not funny enough, too obtuse, too long-winded—and the only thing that remained was the truth, which I tapped out one letter at a time with my index finger:
I can’t. You’re my daughter. Love, Dad
When I step off the train into the dark night, the wind hits me square in the chest and I dip my head lower so that my ears can find shelter under my collar. I think again of Jubilee on her bike in this weather and fervently wish she had accepted my offer to give her a ride.
I stride briskly across the parking lot toward my car. I slide into the front seat and turn the heat up full blast, rubbing my hands together to warm them. I glance at the clock. It’s 6:56. The library closes at 7:00. And I’m suddenly compelled to drive there, even though I know I shouldn’t. To try one last time.
A BLOCK AWAY, it occurs to me she might not be there. It’s 7:04 now and she very well could have already locked up, gotten on her bike, started on her way home. But no. When I pull into the parking lot, she’s there, standing at the door, her back to me. My blood starts to pump faster at the sight of her and I realize I’m nervous. I hear her voice in my head: I don’t need your help. I swallow. Why did I come here?
I should leave. But it’s too late. My headlights, illuminating her silhouette, have gotten her attention and she turns, holding a set of keys in her right hand, using her left to shield her eyes from the brightness. With a flick of my wrist, I turn off the lights, so as not to blind her. She blinks, staring into the car, and then her eyes widen in recognition. I swallow once more and then lift my hands, palms up, and shrug, hoping to convey the very nonthreatening manner in which I’ve come, rather than the creepy, stalkerish behavior it just now occurs to me I’m most likely expressing.
I hold my breath as she stares, motionless. And then she slowly shakes her head from side to side. And then I see it, the corner of her mouth slowly turning up. It’s all I need. I open the door and stand up.
“What are you doing here?” she says, but her tone is full of wonder, not anger. Relief floods through me.
“I told you it was on the way home,” I say. “Just thought I’d drop by. See if anyone needed a lift. I mean, not you, of course—you’ve got your bike.”
She smiles now—a full one that stretches her lips and lights her eyes. “I do,” she says. “Have my bike.”
I nod, thinking quickly. “You know, I was wondering, though, if you could help me out.”
She cocks her head at me, curious. Waiting.
“I need help deciphering the hidden meaning in all these books I’m reading that are hopelessly over my head. And you happen to understand them,” I say. “I was thinking, maybe, we could make a deal—you tutor, while I drive.”
At this, she throws her head back and laughs—a full sound that takes me by surprise. And I know I’ve got her. Warmth fills my belly.