The holding cell was cold, and I had to share it with this kid who kept crying and another who was picking on the crier. I told the idiot to chill or I’d hammer him, and he chilled. My experience is that people often confuse tall with tough.
The next morning, Thursday, my court-appointed lawyer pled not guilty for me. My father was there to post bail. He’d had to hock one of his paintings. We were driving a while when I said, “Dad? Marathon. Those two trips-”
He grabbed my jacket collar, his eyes wet, face red. He spit as he yelled. “You’re spying on me? I’m scrambling like an idiot to raise bail yesterday, last night, all these years. For you. You know what, Jay?” He let go of my collar with a shove and hit the gas. “It’s none of your goddamn business what I was doing in Marathon.” He turned up the stereo, annoyingly repetitive baroque organ. A few minutes later we were home. He pulled up to the lobby entrance. “Get out,” he said.
“Where you going?”
“Food shopping.” He sped out of the lot.
Nicole had called. I called her back. A half hour later her Saab was pulling up to my lobby. I hopped in. “I’m furious with you,” she said. “You could’ve been killed.” She kissed my cheek.
“Let’s go visit Emma,” I said.
“I was by this morning. She’s feeling sick today.”
Nicole wanted to walk around. We went to Jersey City. We parked by the waterfront shops and hiked to Liberty State Park. It was packed. The weather was crazy for November 4, low seventies, dry, breezy, no clouds. At one point Nicole just stopped and drew in a deep breath. “Nice,” she said. “I keep forgetting to do that. Let’s go into Manhattan.”
“I can’t leave the state.” I lifted the cuff of my jeans to show her the tracking bracelet.
She took my hand, led me to a bench and rested her head on my shoulder. “The detective said she’ll be tested today. At the lockdown hospital. A prolonged psychiatric evaluation. If they declare her sane, she goes to juvenile detention. According to the detective, she’ll likely cop a plea.”
“Do you hate her?” I said.
“I want to.”
“You should.”
“You don’t have to tell me how to feel, Jay.” She leaned forward and looked out onto the water. “I do, okay? I hate her.” She did a double take to something on her right. “Oh god, let’s get out of here.”
Some kid in a leftover Halloween mask was flying a skeleton kite intentionally low, buzzing us. The mask was Phantom of the Opera. The half face mask.
We went back to her house. Sylvia was in Newark with her family for her day off, and Mrs. Castro was with Emma. We shot some one-on-one hoop out in the driveway, under a flickering garage light. “You throw some sharp elbows there,” I said, rubbing my ribs.
“You have me by like ten inches and seventy pounds, and you’re crying about my D?” She stole the ball, quick-stepped over the paint line to check it and drove for the hoop. I grabbed her at her waist, lifted her so she could slam-dunk the eight-foot rim.
A woman called out to us from the mansion across the street. “Nicole? Is that you making all that racket?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Wooly.”
Another one from the svelte-granny-in-the-canoe section of the L.L.Bean catalog. “That ball bouncing is awfully loud, isn’t it? We don’t do that here.” She was talking to me.
“Sorry,” I said.
“As indeed you should be. It’s almost dinnertime. Can’t we eat in peace?”
“I apologize,” I said.
“Don’t,” Nicole said. She took my hand and led me into the house.
We were up in her room, at her desk, ostensibly to cram for her home school chem test. “Do you think you’ll come back now?” I said. “To the Hollows?”
“Maybe eventually, I guess. I don’t know, maybe not.”
“I forget, you know? When I’m with you. About the seizure. The pep rally.”
“Me too. About the attack, I mean.” She looked away and combed her hair over the bandage on her cheek. “Until I remember.”
I held her hand. “Six years ago. I was ten. My folks and I were at the Clarion for the annual holiday party. My father promised he would stay dry and be designated driver, but ‘just one’ turned in ‘just one more’ and so on. He asked my mother to drive. She’d had a few herself. She liked to have a good time, my mom. To laugh, you know? This guy Pete, my uncle sort of, said he’d drive us home, just give him a minute to get his coat. He got hung up talking to his boss, and after a couple of minutes my father was like, I’m exhausted, I have to get home, let’s go. My mom voted we wait for Pete, but Dad was on his way to the car.”
“Oh Jay.”
“My father says the car hit black ice, but my mother was looking at me, in the rearview, right before the crash. Her eyes weren’t on the road. Whatever happened, she swerved to avoid an oncoming truck, and the car spun out into a light pole, head on. The airbags deployed, and my Dad was okay except for some minor neck trauma and a broken collarbone, but Mom hadn’t been wearing her seat belt. I didn’t do too well in the backseat. The doctor defined it as ‘serious head trauma.’ The swelling in my brain went away a couple of weeks later, and then they came on fast. The seizures.”
“He’s trying, though, right?” she said. “Now, I mean. Trying to stay sober. He’s there for you as much as he can be. He didn’t abandon you. He created a situation, and he’s owning up to it.” We were facing each other. She turned to hide her left cheek.
I put my fingers to her chin and gently turned her face to mine. “I won’t run away. You don’t have to hide from me.”
“I do, though. You don’t want to see it. Trust me. I’ll be right back.” She went into the bathroom. The door closed softly, the lock clicked.
I flipped the textbook to a page she’d flagged, the chemical diagram for hydrochloric acid.