“Huh?” I say, still thinking about Louise.
“You just seem a little . . . not yourself.” And I wonder how I am to him. Who I am. What he thinks of me when I am being “myself.”
I tell him about the library and the lack of funding, and how Louise was the last person anyone expected to get fired.
Eric listens intently and then says: “Better her than you, right?”
I shift in the passenger seat but don’t respond.
“Sorry, that was insensitive.”
I nod.
“If it helps, I had a shit day, too.”
“You’re not supposed to say ‘shit,’?” Aja pipes up from the backseat.
“You, neither,” Eric says.
“What happened?” I ask.
“One of our clients is acquiring an S & P One Hundred and the due diligence is a b—” He glances at the backseat at Aja and clears his throat. “It’s a pain,” he says. “I don’t know my team, since I’m new in the office, so I don’t completely trust them to get the EBITDA or the forecasted cash flows right, or anything else for that matter, and ugh, it’s just a lot—a lot of oversight. A lot of pressure.”
I stare at him. “Was that English?”
He laughs and waves his hand. “It doesn’t matter. Enough work talk,” he says. But after he makes the pronouncement, there doesn’t seem to be anything else to talk about and the car falls silent for the remainder of the drive.
ON THURSDAY THAT week, Madison sends me my first-ever text message.
Left you a little something on your front porch.
I open the front door and find a dozen apple cider doughnuts in a white box, an envelope with a Xanax, and a card that reads: I know I’ll need one on Christmas—thought you might, too. PS: Only take half a pill at a time, Bobby McFerrin.
I get into bed with the doughnuts, eat four of them while rereading Jurassic Park, and fall asleep in a sea of crumbs.
The next morning I wake up and glance at the clock. Nine fifteen a.m. I groan and stretch and eye my nightstand where I left the pill, and pick up my book, opening it to the page I stopped on last night. At noon, I glance at the pill again. I don’t really need it—I’m not going anywhere today. But then again, why not? If it could help tame my anxiety in the city, maybe it could help me hate Christmas a little less. I pop it in my mouth and swallow, only then remembering Madison’s instruction to cut it in half. Oops.
I lie back and wait for the relaxing sensation to take effect. It doesn’t take long. By three, I’m starving and realize I haven’t eaten yet today. Tired of apple cider doughnuts, I go downstairs and rummage through the fridge. Running low on provisions—I’m not due for a grocery delivery until Monday—I stand at the counter eating a piece of plain bread, doughy and bland in my dry mouth. That’s when I remember what Aja said when he invited me over: Eric’s cooking! My stomach rumbles.
I find Eric’s business card on my desk and dial him. He answers on the third ring.
“Is the offer still open?” I realize—too late, maybe—that it’s bold, and borderline rude, and very much unlike me, but I don’t really care. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” is running on a loop in my head.
“Uh, Jubilee?”
“Yes. Sorry. It’s me.”
“Have you been . . . uh . . . are you all right? It sounds like you’re slurring a bit.”
“Oh. I took some drugs. I’m hungry.”
“Drugs?”
“Yep.”
“What kind?”
“Oh. Just Xanax. To help me relax. I think it’s working.”
“OK . . . ,” he says. I immediately visualize his ruffling the back of his hair with his hand. He does that when he thinks. It sounds like he’s thinking. “Well, we just finished eating, but there’s plenty. Do you want me to come pick you up?”
“No, I can ride my bike over. What’s your . . . what’s your . . .” I start laughing. “I can’t remember the word I want. Where do you live?”
“Uh, I’ll come get you.”
Thirty minutes later, I’ve managed to change and brush my teeth. And then I realize I should get him and Aja something. It’s Christmas! As I’m wondering if I have time to bike to the Wawa, I hear Eric’s car pull up out front. That’s when I remember the doughnuts. I bolt up the stairs two at a time and grab the box from the foot of my bed. There are only eight left and they look kind of sad in the box, so I take a minute to fan them out a bit and fill up the empty space.
After I slip on my gloves and coat, I open the door downstairs just as Eric is knocking.
“Hi,” I say, a little out of breath.
“Hi yourself,” he says back, smiling. I like his smile.
I shove the box of doughnuts at him.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Oh! Thanks.” He takes the box from me.
“I ate four of them already. Last night.” I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell him the truth about everything now, but I do.
He laughs and shakes his head. “OK. You ready to go?”
“I am.”
WHEN WE GET to Eric’s apartment, I follow him in the door, expecting to see Aja. I did not expect to see the roomful of faces that greets me.
I freeze. “Oh, God,” I say under my breath. “You have company . . . I should have . . .” The floaty, relaxed sensation I was still enjoying on the car ride over is gone and I find myself wishing Madison had put a second pill in that envelope.
Eric turns back and looks me in the eye. “It’s fine,” he says warmly. “You know Rufus.” He gestures to the dog, who’s nipping at his heels, and smiles at me. I feel a little buzz.
“You renamed him.”
He winks at me. “And you remember Connie, of course.”
“Hi!” She gives a little wave from where she’s sitting on the couch. I nod.
“And these are my parents, Gary”—he gestures to the man sitting on a folding chair in the dining room—“and Deborah.” His mom is standing near the TV. She starts walking toward me, her arms open.
“Oh, it’s Christmas,” she says. “We can hug hello.”
A chorus of “No!” stops her in her tracks.
Bewildered, she looks at Eric and Connie. Then they both start speaking at once.
“She has a terrible cold!”
“She doesn’t like to be touched!”
“She’s a mutant!” Aja chimes in gleefully. He’s just appeared from the hallway.
Eric’s mother’s eyes widen with each explanation and she places her hand over her chest, as if the commotion is causing her heart to race and she needs to slow it. Feeling awkward, I offer her a smile and wave the gloved fingers on my right hand at her.
She cocks her head in rightful confusion at me, as if to ask: which is it?
I clear my throat. “Ah, mostly what Aja said. I have a rare allergy. To um, other people. I can’t be touched.”
“Oh!” Eric’s dad, who’s been mostly silent, roars from his seat. “Just like my wife! Eh, Deborah?” He laughs at his own joke, his rotund belly literally quivering from the effort.
“Gary!” She rebukes him sharply. And then lightens her tone. “I think we’ve had enough Glenlivet, don’t you?”