I try to remember what I learned about Venus in school, and all I can think of is that awful Ray Bradbury story where the girl gets locked in the closet.
When we get to the hospital, Eric pulls right up in front, where it clearly states Emergency Vehicles Only, and jumps out. Since he took the keys, Aja and I are left with no choice but to follow him out into the cold air. We catch up to him at the elevator. There are a few other people in the small square box and I suck in my breath, trying to make myself as tiny as possible. Just when it feels like the walls are closing in, the elevator dings on the fifth floor and Eric gets out. He looks both ways and nods his head, like he’s spotted something familiar on his left, and starts walking. Halfway down the hall, a woman stands up from her seated position in a molded plastic chair, like she’s been waiting for us.
“How is she?” Eric asks before we even reach her.
“She’s fine. She’ll be fine,” the woman says.
Eric nods, but I can feel the anxiety coming off him in waves. “Why are you out here? Can I see her?”
“She’s sleeping right now. I’m letting her rest.”
“Steph, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” she says, and then her face drops and she just looks tired. Exhausted, really. They both lower themselves into the chairs in front of the door. “Apparently, they thought they were smoking regular weed, but one of the kids had got this synthetic stuff instead. The police said it was K2, but one of the girls called it Spice. I Googled it—looks pretty bad. But she didn’t know, Eric. She didn’t know.” Fat tears drop from her eyes. And then, as if she’s finally allowing herself to understand the events of the day, she says: “Oh, God—she could have died.”
Eric wraps his arms around her and lets her cry, murmuring in her hair. “It’s OK . . . She didn’t . . . She’s OK.” She collapses against him.
The scene is so private, so intimate, I turn away and find myself looking at a large framed drawing on the wall. It’s a crayon picture of a tree with Edna, age 7 signed in a childish scrawl at the bottom. I stare at it like it’s the Mona Lisa and I’ve never seen anything so fascinating, all while blinking rapidly. My eyes have started to burn, and I know it has nothing to do with Ellie.
I’m embarrassed to even admit to myself that I’m jealous. I’m in a hospital where Eric’s daughter nearly died, and all I can think about is the warmth of his arms and how I want them wrapped around me. Touching me. How I want his breath in my hair. And how unfair it is that I will never be able to feel his cheek on mine, his skin on my skin. Unless . . .
“Who are you?”
The question jolts me around and my eyes lock with Stephanie’s. “Oh, hi, I’m . . .”
“She’s a friend,” Eric says. “A librarian.”
I jolt at the classification.
“She was in the car when you called, and I didn’t even— I just panicked.”
“Oh,” Stephanie says, but her forehead remains wrinkled in confusion over my presence. “Hi, Aja.” She moves her gaze to him. “You’ve gotten taller.”
He doesn’t look up at her.
Stephanie nods, as if she expected that. She turns to Eric. “Well, Ellie was up until about thirty minutes ago, so I imagine she’ll be sleeping for most of the morning. The doctor said they’ll most likely release her late tonight or first thing tomorrow morning. He just wants to make sure the seizure . . . that it was an isolated event. Why don’t you guys go home, get something to eat, some rest. I know that was a long drive.”
“Longer than Venus orbiting the sun,” Aja mutters.
I bite back a smile.
“No. I’m not leaving,” says Eric. “Not until I can see her.”
Stephanie sighs. “At least take them home, Eric. Aja looks exhausted.”
It’s the second time she’s said it, but it only occurs to me now to be curious. Home. Surely we’re not going to Stephanie’s house. I mean, it appears their divorce is amicable, but that would still be awkward.
But I don’t say anything as we ride the elevator back down and walk out to the car (which has fortunately not been towed in the fifteen minutes we were gone). The car ride is silent, too, Eric’s thoughts no doubt on his daughter.
Just as the first rays of sun start to lighten the night sky, we pull up to a small, yellow-slatted Cape Cod, a brick chimney peeking over the back of the roof like bunny ears in a class picture. Though the roads have been clear, the driveway and walk up to the house are caked in half a foot of snow. Eric parks on the street and we crunch our way single file to the front door.
I expect to be greeted by warmth when we step into the foyer, but it’s not much better than being outside. “Gotta turn up the heat,” Eric mumbles. “Turn the water on, plug the fridge in.” He’s making a running list in his head, while I’m busy trying to catch up to the fact that no one lives here.
Eric busies himself throughout the house while Aja and I walk into the kitchen. He plugs his iPad into a wall socket and sets it on the counter.
“Aja,” I whisper.
He looks up at me.
“Whose house is this?”
He juts his head toward me, nose wrinkled, jaw slack, as if I’ve gone completely mental.
“Eric’s,” he says, and then: “Mine, too, I suppose.”
“But you live in New Jersey. Is he trying to sell this one?”
“No,” he says, as if that’s the end of the conversation. As if that explains everything.
“Aja,” I say, my voice a little firmer. “Why does Eric still have this house?”
His eyebrows are horizontal parentheses. “Because we live in it? New Jersey is just temporary. Six months. For his job.”
He takes off down the hall, presumably toward his room, and I’m left standing there, mouth agape at this revelation. Eric lives in New Hampshire, which means . . . Eric will be leaving.
My knees, no longer interested in holding me upright, bend. There’s no kitchen table, so I just lower myself to the tile I’m standing on.
“I don’t have much for breakfast, but you both probably want to just sleep right now anyway. Pizza or Chinese OK for later? They deliver—” Eric’s voice breaks through the fog of my thoughts. “Jubilee?” he says when he sees me. “You OK?”
I lift my head to look at him, my arms propped on my knees. He looks so solid, so sturdy. Not at all like a phantom. But now I know that’s exactly what he is. “Yeah,” I say. “Just tired.”
“God, of course you are,” he says sincerely. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I brought you here. Into all my problems.”
“It’s fine,” I say, lowering my head back on my forearms. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“You’re not fine,” he says, coming closer. “You’re sick, and I dragged you all the way out here. God, I’m an idiot. What can I get for you? What do you need?”
You, I want to respond. I need you.
But I don’t. I’ve lived twenty-seven years without him. I can live twenty-seven more.
“Really, I’m OK,” I say, forcing myself to stand up.
“You sure?” he says.