“Carrie, the book. I’m reading it. Sorry, did I wake you up?”
“I think so,” she says, yawning. “I was reading on the couch. I must have fallen asleep.” She yawns again. “How’d you get my number?”
“The phone book,” I say.
“Wait—seriously? Do people still use those?”
“Well, I can attest that at least one person has used it this year.”
She laughs, and I’m glad I called.
“What are you reading?”
A pause, and then: “Carrie.”
I grin. “I thought you didn’t do horror.”
“I made an exception.”
“How on earth did you fall asleep while reading it? I don’t think I’ll sleep for years.”
She laughs. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s all that scary.”
“It’s horrifying,” I say. “I can’t believe my daughter read this.”
Jubilee chuckles and makes a noncommittal sound, and then the pace of our conversation slows to a halt. After a few beats of silence, I say: “It’s her birthday today. Ellie, that is. I called her.”
“How did that go?”
“She said a total of four words, I think? So, you know, better.”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
The silence grows again and I find myself trying to picture her—if she’s sitting or standing, what she’s wearing, if she’s alone. I strain to see if I can hear anybody in the background. Although, I don’t know who’d be with her, since her parents are both out of the picture. I suddenly hate that she spent Thanksgiving alone. I wish I had thought to invite her over.
“So,” I say, changing the subject. “If Carrie doesn’t scare you, what does?”
“What?”
“Tell me something,” I say, “something that scares you.”
She pauses. “Well, being touched obviously.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I guess that would.” I shift in bed, putting my arm behind my head and leaning back. “Tell me something not obvious.”
The silence between us grows serious. When she speaks again, her voice is so low, I press the phone tighter to my ear, so I don’t miss anything. “I’m scared that I’ve forgotten what it feels like.”
“Being touched?”
“Yeah,” she says.
I suck in my breath. I don’t know what I expected her to say. And I don’t know how to respond.
“I guess, I’m afraid I’ve built it up in my mind,” she continues.
“How so?” I match the tone of my voice to hers.
“I don’t know. Like, there’s this YouTube video I watched once for one of my online classes, World Religions, I think. It was a group of Tibetan monks chanting and meditating together. It was an hour-long clip, and though you get the idea after a minute or two, I watched the entire thing. I don’t know why—I was transfixed or something. I could literally feel the vibration of their humming throughout my body. It started in my chest and blossomed out to my head, my limbs, my fingertips. And I’ve got in my mind that’s what it would feel like to be touched again. Like electricity. And even though I’m terrified of it, at the same time I crave it. I know that doesn’t make sense.”
“No. No, it does. It makes perfect sense.”
She falls quiet again. And then, just when I think I need to say something, to change the subject maybe, she speaks. “So is that what it feels like?”
“To be touched?”
“Yeah.”
I think for a minute. “I guess, yeah—sometimes it does,” I say, and then crack a smile. “Depends on where you’re doing the touching.” I regret the joke as soon as it’s out of my mouth, scared that I’ve spoiled the moment, or that she’ll think I’m making fun of her or trying to embarrass her—make her blush, as she so frequently does. But when I open my mouth to apologize, I hear something. It sounds like sniffling. My heart stops. Dear god, I’ve made her cry. I palm my face, cringing, trying to figure out what I can say to make it better.
And then a cackle bursts into my ear, and another one, and another. She’s laughing. And the sound is all at once shocking and familiar, like a songbird that’s back after a long winter, and it loosens something in my chest.
THE REST OF the month is cold but mild. A few snow flurries, but nothing sticks. I’m glad for Jubilee’s sake, since even though I pick her up every night, she still has to ride her bike to work. I offered again to take her car to a mechanic and even pay for it, but she wouldn’t hear of it. And I think maybe Connie is right. There is a common characteristic shared by the women in my life—they’re maddeningly stubborn.
But as I sit next to Jubilee in the front seat of the car, night after night, I’m forced to consider Connie’s other theory as well. It’s true that the lure of Jubilee has only grown since I found out about her condition. But surely, that’s in spite of it, and not because of it. I was drawn to her before I even knew, but now—since our phone conversation on Thanksgiving—I can’t stop thinking about her.
About touching her.
Not just the obvious parts. But her collarbone. The parting of her hair. The exposed inside of her wrist where her glove doesn’t quite meet her shirtsleeve. I’m overwhelmed by my desire for it.
And I don’t think it’s because I haven’t had sex in so long or felt desire. I am a man, after all, and a model seductively eating a hamburger on TV is enough to spark interest. It’s that I haven’t felt desire like this.
Part of me wants to bring it up with Aja’s therapist, to talk to someone about it, but I know I’m not here to talk about me.
Sitting, I rest my elbows on the wooden arms of the chair in front of Janet’s desk, ready for our monthly check-in. “So, how’s he doing?”
She cocks her head. “How do you think he’s doing?”
Jesus. Should have known better than to expect a straight answer from a shrink.
“Good.” Then I say, hedging, “Well, better, I think.”
There haven’t been any major episodes since the telekinetic website breakdown, and I’m scoring that as a win.
“Have you talked to him about his parents?”
I shift in the seat. You’d think they could at least put a cushion in it. “I tried.”
“How’d that go?”
“Not well.”
“Hmm.”
It’s so silent, I can literally hear the seconds tick by on the wall clock to my right.
“Who’s Jubilee?”
My eyes dart up to hers. “What?”
“He talks about her a lot.”
I clear my throat. “She’s a librarian,” I say. “She’s the one who saved his life. From the river.”
“He seems to be fond of her.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I scratch the back of my head with my hand. “I think they get each other or something.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Though, I’m concerned that he’s harboring some delusions where she’s concerned as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“He seems to think she’s allergic to people.”
“Huh.” I feel a surge of defensiveness, like I want to protect Jubilee. Her life, her condition, is none of Janet’s business. But I also don’t want Aja to seem more peculiar than he is. And my loyalty as a father wins out. “Well, she is, actually.”