“Let’s drop it,” Veronika says. “Let’s just keep texting over who’s seen the latest episode of whatever dumb show we’re all bingeing on and keep our tragedies to ourselves.”
Now I’m positive that I don’t like where this is going, has already gone. I’m fidgety; I scratch and scratch my palms. I try to relax the tic in my neck, rotating it like usual, but it’s traveling down to my shoulders and spine, so I’m doing all sorts of stretches. I flick my wrists, weirdly tense as if I’ve been up late writing essays; I crack all my knuckles and even double-check to make sure they’re all cracked. I’m discomfort personified.
“Definitely don’t tell me if it’s about your recent breakup with the latest love of your life,” Jackson says. “I saw your status switch from In a Relationship to Single on Facebook; I’m all caught up there. At least he’s still alive.”
“Jackson, don’t,” Anika says.
Veronika’s face twists in a way I would’ve never assumed possible from all the deliriously happy photos I saw of her online. “Did my Facebook status mention I broke up with the latest love of my life because of the abortion I had to have? Did my Facebook status tell you all about how I wasn’t ready to be a mom and he wasn’t ready to be a dad and how we agreed this was a bad time, that we would go to the clinic together and he would hold my hand through this? Did my Facebook status tell you he didn’t show up and hasn’t responded to any of my texts? My texts certainly weren’t very nice, but the campus psychologist I’ve been seeing to deal with my guilt seems to think they were fair.” Veronika gets up. Her eyes are wide and she’s trembling. Anika clears out of her way. “I didn’t wish you any ill,” she says, leaning over the table. “I know you must’ve been hurting in ways I don’t know, but even when Theo was still alive, I lost a part of myself and lost a little person who was growing inside of me and was going to look like me. You will never get to be Uncle Jackson. I’ll never get to be this kid’s mom. Next time you see my relationship status change on Facebook, maybe check in and ask me if I’m okay.”
Before any of us can say a word, Veronika whirls and runs out into the night. There’s silence, a blast of wintry air. The door closes behind her.
“I had no . . .” Jackson is crying and, damn, I’m almost there with him.
It’s fair to say he had no idea, but it’s also fair to admit he could’ve known. I see myself in him more than ever right now; it’s almost as if we’re made of the same messed-up clockwork, ticking and ticking out of balance.
“She’ll punch me if I chase after her, right?”
“Is a punch really the worst thing that can happen to you right now?” Anika asks him.
Jackson’s head drops.
“If you’re not going to go after her, I should,” Anika says. She leans over and gives Jackson a quick hug. “Let me know when you’re leaving town. We should try and . . . well, not do this again, but we should catch up.” She waves to me. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more.” She rests her hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “Happy birthday.” She rushes off.
“I suck,” Jackson says. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve.
The waiter cautiously steps over. “Are you two going to order?”
I tell him we’re going to leave and apologize for the holdup. I leave a ten and usher Jackson out. I’m relieved my anxiety is going away, probably because I’m freezing to death once we’re back outside. I have to force Jackson’s arms back into my dad’s coat while he’s crossing the street, heading in the complete opposite direction from the train station.
“I’m the worst,” Jackson says. “I had no idea, but I could’ve called.”
“You don’t suck,” I tell him. “That whole thing sucked. We will never know what she’s going through. But she also has no idea what we’re going through. This isn’t some competition about who gets to be more upset.” Damn, grief is complicated enough without wondering how someone else is handling their own shade of it.
“Which way is the High Line?” he asks, sniffling. His nose is already red.
I respect Jackson’s silence as we walk toward Tenth Avenue. I try to convince Jackson to let us take a cab, but whenever I stop to hail one, he keeps going. If he’s reacting like this for offending his friend, I can only imagine what happened when he lost hold of you in the ocean.
I still can’t bring myself to ask him about that day. Your death is proof that I shouldn’t blindly trust these false promises of more years and months and weeks and tomorrows and hours and minutes just because I’m young. And I know Jackson is the only person who can fill in the blanks for me on the afternoon you drowned; he’s the only one who can delete all the horrific things I’ve imagined once and for all. If Jackson goes, those answers will be gone forever. But I still can’t get myself to go there, to press him on what it was like to be by your side when you died, what it was like to watch the lifeguard try and pump oxygen into your corpse.