“Her brother called yesterday afternoon. Kit’s dad maybe had a stroke. They don’t know much yet. She flew out to Ohio last night.”
“Zoe, Jesus. Do you know where she is? What hospital?”
“I’m not telling you that. I’ve told you enough.”
It doesn’t matter. I’ve listened to everything Kit has ever said to me. I know roundabout where her dad lives these days, or at least where she sends his money. I’ll find the hospital closest. I’ll go to every goddamn hospital in that state if I have to. I can’t imagine her alone right now. I can’t imagine not being with her.
* * * *
In my job as a recruiter, I’m on the road for probably 150 days out of the year, and while that’s pretty exciting at first, mostly, after a while, it sucks—it’s all mediocre food and nondescript hotel rooms and a regular feeling of jet-lagged fatigue. But it’s also massive frequent flyer miles, and I use God knows how many to get myself on a flight to Ohio.
I don’t bring extra clothes, a toothbrush, anything. I call my dad from the airport, where I drive immediately after leaving Kit’s, asking if he’s okay for at least the rest of the day and tonight. I call Sharon too, to make sure I haven’t dropped the ball on his care in any way, and thankfully neither of them asks much of anything, other than whether I’m all right.
I’m not all right. I’m panicked. I’m not a nervous flyer, ever, but on both of those shitty regional flights I’m a sweaty first-timer, clutching my armrests and keeping my jaw clenched tight. I keep thinking,what if I don’t get to see her?By the time I’ve touched down, I’m sweaty, tense all over, and I take a few minutes in the airport bathroom to rinse my face, calm down so I can think long enough to make the calls I need to make.
I luck out, at least, in finding the regional medical center where Kit’s father has been admitted, paying an unholy amount of money to a cab driver to make the hour drive there. And I lie like a fucking dog to the receptionist in the lobby, saying I’m family, and it’s wrong, but I don’t care.
All I care about is seeing Kit.
When I do see her, she’s at the end of a long hospital corridor, her small form huddled in the hard plastic chairs that are always an extra cruelty at hospitals. I spent days in an almost identical one, next to my dad. Sitting across from her is a small, plump woman with bottle-blond hair, her hands clasped as if in prayer. And beside her is a tall, lean man with jet black hair and a beard. He sees me first and stands as I approach. This is Kit’s brother—despite his height and his light-colored eyes to Kit’s almost black ones, there’s a similarity to their faces, to the arrangement of their features.
Except on this dude, those features look mean as hell.
“No,” he says, walking toward me, putting out a hand.“No.”
“I’m Ben Tucker,” I say needlessly, because from the look on his face I know already that he’s heard everything he thinks he needs to know about me.“I came to be with Kit.”
“I’m her brother. And I don’t give a shit what you came for.”
“Alex,” Kit says from her chair, and then she unfolds herself, standing wearily. Oh, fuck, she looks so tired. Her cheeks seem gaunt, and the pale skin under her eyes, nearly transparent even when she’s well, is purpled with fatigue. I level a look at this Alex person, try to fill it with as much accusation and judgment as I can manage. Why isn’t he feeding her, making sure she sleeps?
As if you have any right, I think to myself.
Kit stands beside her brother, setting a quelling hand on his forearm, which I now notice leads down to a clenched fist that he has rested at his side. I’m not immune to such a show of aggression. Part of me wants to take out all my anger, all my frustration, on this guy, this guy who’s acting like he’s Kit’s protector and I’m the big bad wolf come to blow her house down. I feel it close to the surface, that urge, that hair-trigger intensity that was under my skin almost every day of my teen years. But I won’t do that to Kit. I won’t make this worse for her.
“I’ll talk to him,” she says, looking up at Alex, who scans her face in concern.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
“I know. But it’ll be faster this way. I’ll take care of it.”Faster this way. Faster, I know she means, to get me out of this hospital, out of her face, out of her life. I feel sick.
Alex nods, then turns to glare at me before heading back down the hall. But he sits a few seats closer than he was before. He’s keeping an eye on us.
When Kit looks at me, she’s wiped any expression of recognition from her face. I could be anyone. I could be another hospital employee, someone she just wants to deal with and get rid of.“Kit,” I say, but even though I’ve thought of nothing but her since I left home, I haven’t thought at all about what exactly I’d say in this moment, when I’d see her, white-faced under these fluorescent lights, looking slight and weary and so, sofinishedwith me.“How is your father?”
She crosses her arms over her chest, but it’s less defiant than it is an effort to stay warm, or to self-contain, somehow. She’s holding the pieces of herself together.“He’s not awake yet. We’ll know more when he is.”
“Has the—is the doctor good? Answering all your questions? Because sometimes it helps if you—”
She cuts me off.“The doctor is fine. She’s very helpful.”
“That’s good,” I say dumbly.
“Ben. I don’t know how you heard about this, but—”
“Zoe told me.” Kit clenches her teeth together, and I know Zoe must’ve broken confidence, must’ve done exactly what Kit had told her not to do. But somehow that gives me a strange sort of hope, that Zoe would do that, that she’d believe in me enough to tell me where Kit was.“Don’t be upset with her.”
“I’m not,” she snaps, then takes a deep breath.“But listen, this is a family matter. And I know you’ve come a long way, but—I’d really prefer that you leave.”
