“I don’t care that she was sick. I don’t care if she’s sick now.”
“I know you don’t.” Something’s changed in her posture. She’s got her head cocked slightly to the side as she looks at me. “But Alex, she is going to be okay. All of us are here to help her, and watch over her. And you were—I mean, you were leavinganyway, right?”
I look up at her sharply, like she’s just done something simultaneously incredibly stupid and incredibly smart—like she’s tested my boundaries in the same way she used to. Taking apart our dad’s old weather radio, laying out tiny pieces all over the floor to test herself for reassembly. Making dry ice with a plastic bag and a hallway fire extinguisher. Growing rock candy on a skewer inside a jar—a development that’d near given me a heart attack, thinking Kit had somehow found her way into the world of manufacturing hard narcotics at theage of eleven.
“I’m not leaving her,” I say. “I’m inlove with her.”
There’s a long stretch of silence. The couple at the other table gets up, clears their trays. The lone cashier’s turned on a television set in the corner, and I recognize the urgent chords of the intro that plays on the local news station I’ve been watching while I’ve been in town. Breaking news, maybe, and I have never cared less. Kit folds her hands, one on top of the other.
“Alex.” It sounds like my voice again, a version of it that I’d use on her. A thread of discipline to it. “You’re always leaving. I love you, and it’s okay with me that you leave. I’m fine with that now—it’s who you are. But Greer—” She breaks off, takes a deep breath before restarting. “What happens when she gets better? You love her, okay. But you’ll leave again.”
For the first time in years, there’s no accusation in what Kit’s said about me. It’s been a tender spot for us ever since she settled here, ever since she’d started to make herself a true home—her need for me to want one too. Holidays, short visits, whatever, it was always the same: Kit pushing me to stay. And me desperate to go.
“It’s not who I am. It’s what Ido.”
“Okay,” she says, sort of drawing out that last syllable. Like she’s not really clear on the difference. Like she’s just indulgingthe semantics.
I’m worried about what I need to tell Kit about this, to make her understand. I’m worried it’ll hurt her feelings, make her feel somehow like Greer’s been more to me in the course of a few weeks than Kit was for her whole life. But Kit—Kit’s a married woman now. Kit’s lived a whole life here, learning what it means to belong somewhere.
“I don’t want to leave her. I didn’t want to leave her before this. I hadn’t slept in days before the showcase, thinking of how I couldstay with her.”
“Weren’t you already booking a—” Kit begins, but I shake my head no, cutting her off.
“I hadn’t booked it. I didn’t want to book it until she and I—”
Something blinks alive in my memories then, fleeting at first—a late August day in northeast Ohio. A pickup truck I borrowed from a buddy at the paper. A Soundgarden song on the radio. It feels so important that I close my eyes, trying to catchthe rest of it.
When I do, I lean back in my chair, almost as though I’ve been pushed. “Holy fuck,”I breathe out.
My first panic attack.I remember it.
“What?” Kit asks, her voice concerned, higher pitched thanusual. “Alex?”
“I have panic attacks,” I say, bluntly, loudly. Probably the cashier’s heard it. “An anxiety disorder.”
Kit stares at me, her mouth slightly open. “You—?”
I stand from my seat, grab my phone in my hand. Press the button on the side to light up the screen, in case there’s some minuscule chance I missed a message while I had my eyes closed. Some chance Greer has changed her mind. But I know already she won’t have. Why would she? When have I ever shown her I was the kind of man who’d stay, who’dreallystay in the ways that matter most to her?
Kit stands too, her brow furrowed. If she’s still shocked, she’s covering it well; she’s pure concern now. “Are you having one now?”
“No. But I need to step outside for a minute. I’ll stay right by the front doors. Can you call me if—” I scrub a hand through my hair.If Greer wants me,is how I want to finish that sentence, but I saw the way she looked at me. I saw how determined she was. I know I’m going to need to have something real to tell her if I want to change her mind. “Will you call me?”
“Yeah, sure. But, Alex—what are you going to do?”
I swipe a hand over my face, feel the way my beard’s grown in. “Well, Kit,” I say, a strange, breathy laugh escaping me. “This is going to sound pretty fucking surprising to you, I guess, but I’m going to start by callingmy therapist.”
* * * *
Thirty minutes later, I’m pacing outside a long panel of sliding glass doors that lead into the hospital lobby, my phone in my hand like a crutch. While I’ve been waiting, I’ve used it for three things: First, to text Jae to tell him I’m not taking the job in Syria, but that I’ll call him soon. Second, to frantically tap out what I remembered in that cafeteria, a poor substitute for my journal. Third, to cling to the relentless, stubborn hope thatI’ll be needed.
“Youlook terrible.”
I stop midpace, turn to face Patricia, who’s wearing track pants and a Yale T-shirt, a pair of huge, teal-framed sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head, her steel-gray hair curling riotously around them. “I slept here. Thanks for coming.”
She nods, her face grim. “Isshe all right?”
“They say she’ll be fine,” I answer, feeling slightly guilty. When I’d first called Patricia, I’d figured I’d probably catch her voice mail—I’d tell her I’d remembered something. I’d ask her if I could get in first thing Monday. I’d wait for her to call me back. But instead she’d picked up on the second ring, and I’d been so relieved that I’d blurted out, “Greer was in an accident.” In my haste I’d forgotten. Patricia, of course—Patricia who’s half the reason Greer’s as healthy as she is today—would care about that news.
