“Well, good night,” I say. It’s been a long day, I reason. Not the best time for a big conversation. But instead of taking a step back and heading to my room, on a whim, I take a step in and look over his shoulder. He quickly clicks the X to close the tab on the screen with his mouse.
“Uh, no,” I say. “No secrets on the computer.” His shoulders drop. “Bring it back up, please.”
Begrudgingly he does and I scan the page. The headline alone—“How to Do Telekinesis: Advanced Techniques”—stops me cold. The rest is by some man named Arthur who discusses his “abilities” and touts his educational programs for different skill levels—each for the low price of $39.95, of course, as well as a supplement made of monoatomic gold and liquid chi, whatever the hell those things are, that helps enhance psychic powers.
“Aja, I thought we were done with all this.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Listen to me. This isn’t real. Telekinesis doesn’t exist. This guy is a scam. A phony. He’s just trying to make money.”
“You don’t know that,” he says, his voice low.
“I do, bud. I do know that.”
“No, you don’t!” he screams, and jumps up, his chair falling over. “It’s not a scam! It’s real!” He starts crying, big, fat tears falling from his eyes.
I put my hands up. “OK. OK, bud. Let’s calm down.”
“No! You don’t believe me! Just get out. Get out!”
He throws himself on the bed and buries his face in the pillow, crying in earnest now. I’m torn between going to wrap him up in my arms (which I know he hates) and leaving, so I just stand there, dumbly, watching him. I wait for him to yell at me again to get out, but he doesn’t. So I right the chair that fell over, sit down in it, and watch him some more, while the minutes on the digital clock beside his bed tick by one by one. And I wish for the hundredth time that Dinesh were here. Not only because he’d know what to do, but also because Aja wasn’t like this when his parents were alive. Sure, he was super smart and a little socially awkward—OK, a lot. But he didn’t have serious emotional issues, at least none that Dinesh talked about. And even though I didn’t necessarily notice that he hadn’t grieved properly, as the therapist pointed out, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that his parents’ death has changed him in some profound way—and that I haven’t helped him deal with it at all. I’ve got to figure this out. I’ve got to do better. And I’m going to start by not leaving when he wants me to.
I cross my arms, determined, and sit there, feet firmly planted on the ground, until Aja’s crying stops, his breathing slows, and finally, finally, he falls asleep.
THANKSGIVING ARRIVES WITHOUT much fanfare. Being from England, Dinesh and Kate didn’t really celebrate the holiday, so it’s no big deal to Aja either. I bought a cooked turkey breast and mashed potatoes from Whole Foods and we ate in the living room while watching reruns of Star Trek.
When Aja drifts off to his room to play video games on the computer, I take a deep breath and pick up my phone to call Ellie. She doesn’t answer her cell, so I dial the house phone.
Stephanie picks up on the third ring.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I say as amiably as I can.
“You, too,” she says.
“Is the birthday girl home?”
“She is.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“Eric—”
“Please?” I say, cutting her off. “Will you try?”
Stephanie sighs and I hold my breath as I hear her talking to Ellie. She must have the receiver covered, because I can only make out a few of the words, but I have to give her credit—it does sound like she’s doing her best to cajole our daughter. And it works.
“Hello.”
My knees nearly buckle when I hear her voice. She’s fifteen today, but over the phone she sounds so much younger. So much more like my sweet girl, even though her greeting has her now-perfected edge of anger to it. I don’t even care. I’m just so relieved to be speaking with her.
“Ellie,” I breathe. “Happy birthday! Fifteen, god, I can’t believe it. It feels like you were just born.” I know I’m overdoing it, that I need to pull back. I grip my phone tighter, as if that will keep her on the line. “Did you get my gift? The journal.”
“Yep,” she says.
“Good, good. I thought you might like it, since you did such a great job with your book journal assignment for school. And it will be great for you to write in, you know, good practice for being a magazine editor.”
“What?”
“You know, how you said you wanted to be a magazine editor after reading The Bell Jar.”
She scoffs. “That was, like, a year ago.”
“Oh, well, yeah. Things can change. Sure. You have plenty of time to figure out what you want to do.”
“Whatever.”
“You know, I’m reading Carrie now, and—”
“You said two minutes,” she says, cutting me off. Although it doesn’t sound like she’s talking to me. I hear Stephanie in the background. It sounds something like “Just a few more. It won’t kill you.”
“No,” Ellie says. I hear a clatter, then Stephanie’s voice in the receiver.
“Eric, are you there?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “She just . . . you know.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Well, listen, give her a big hug for me, OK? Will you do that?”
“Yeah, of course,” Stephanie says.
“OK, well, good night.”
“Good night.”
I hang up and stare at the phone. How did I get here? I look around my apartment. Not just this place, not just New Jersey, but to the point of not knowing what to say to my own daughter. I wish I could be there with her now. Somehow force her to talk to me, to go back to the way things were. But I know I can’t.
At least I’m halfway done with my contract here. In three months I’ll be back in the same town with her, and maybe then—maybe I’ll figure out what to say, what to do. How to get my daughter back.
AFTER TURNING OFF Aja’s light and pulling the covers over him, I climb into my own bed and crack open the spine of the Stephen King novel. It’s clear Ellie doesn’t care that I’m reading these books, but I won’t give up. Right now, even if it’s a bad plan, it’s the only plan I have to connect with her.
I start reading, getting lost in the disturbing mind of this teenage girl, but when I get to the scene where Carrie stops her mother’s heart, I put the book down, my own heart hammering in my chest.
I walk out to the kitchen for a glass of water, and tired of dissecting my broken relationship with Ellie, my mind travels to Jubilee. I wonder what she’s doing. Impulsively I grab the phone book that’s been on the kitchen counter since we moved in and flip through it, wondering when the last time I even opened one was.
I slide my finger over the newsprint page of Js until I reach Jenkins. There are four, but no Jubilee. I’m disappointed she’s unlisted, until the name Victoria catches my eye. And it clicks—I remember it’s her mom’s name from the Times article. I rip the page out of the phone book, take it back to my room, and dial the number on my cell.
Jubilee picks up on the fourth ring.
“You were right. This book is terrifying,” I say.
“Huh?” Her voice is croaky, tired.