The Outliers (The Outliers, #1)(30)
“Psychologist.” I consider mentioning my dad’s research, but I feel like it will diminish him in Doug’s eyes.
And I hate that I’ve thought of my dad. Because my condition is the next thing I think of. And I feel so embarrassed and alone all over again. I can’t believe he really said those things. Your condition. That’s just not the kind of thing you can forget. No matter how much you want to.
It is even darker now when I look out the window, like we’ve driven off the edge of a cliff. And it feels like that is what we’re doing. Because what exactly is our plan now that we don’t even have a car? We were supposed to swoop in and save Cassie. Now we’re going to walk in on foot? We’re going to need another car, that’s the bottom line. I look at Lexi in the front seat, wonder how far she would go to help us. Would she rent us a car? Then I look at Doug. There’s no way he’s going to go for putting his name on a car we might never return.
I need to stop thinking about this. Because not having a solution is winding me tight. My eyes drift instead down to the car seat and that little baby’s feet wrapped so snug and safe in her pale-green blanket.
It’s weird that her feet haven’t moved once since we got into the car. Isn’t it? Lexi said she was supposed to sleep the whole way. Okay, fine. But don’t babies move a little even when they sleep? Maybe she’s wrapped too tight, covered in too many blankets? Was I expected to be keeping an eye out for that kind of thing? Because sometimes people expect things of you with no warning. What if she’s stopped breathing or something? Lexi is so nonchalant, but none of us have any way of being sure anyone will ever be okay. Not really. And I may think about that way more than your average person, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
“How about some music? We’ve got satellite—a million options even in the middle of nowhere,” Lexi says, but like that kind of disgusts her a little bit. She leans forward to fiddle with the radio. “We’ve probably never heard of whatever you guys listen to these days. That’s how old we are now, sweetheart, we don’t even know what kind of music the young people listen to.”
My heart is beating hard as Lexi turns the radio past one song to the next, rejecting each. No matter how hard I try not to, all I can think about is the baby and her breathing now, or maybe lack thereof. Because something is wrong. I can feel it. There’s a hollowness in that car seat next to me. A huge sucking emptiness.
“Hey, speak for yourself,” Doug says. “I’m not old. And I definitely still have good taste in music. Use one of my Spotify playlists.”
“Ugh, you’re not going to make me listen to Wilco, are you?” Lexi asks. But she sounds so far away now. Like her voice is muffled through a wall. “You know a little piece of me dies every time you do.”
My heart is beating harder now. I try to center myself in the present, like Dr. Shepard says. The seat is under my legs. My hands are resting on my legs. But my palms are sweating so much, and all I can think about is how babies do stop breathing suddenly. They die of SIDS with no explanation. And no warning. They do that all the time.
But I’m afraid to ask again about the baby. Lexi has already said once that she’s fine. Mentioning it again could sound like I think Lexi is a bad mother. Instead, I could just check on the baby myself. All I need to do is feel her warmth, or squeeze her toes a little and make sure they move. If she starts to cry, God forbid, I’ll snatch my hand right back before anyone knows what happened. Yes, that’s what I am going to do. Even though I know that it might be a very bad idea. Even though I know the baby isn’t the real reason there’s so much pressure in my chest. I still believe that knowing she’s okay might release it a little bit.
I keep my eyes on the rearview, as I inch my hand slowly over to the car seat. Lexi and Doug are still talking about Doug’s playlists—Lexi trying to decide which one she thinks is the least bad.
“I don’t know, I kind of like Wilco,” Jasper offers, his eyes still on the window.
And my hand is so close now, only an inch or two more and I’ll have my answer. I’ll have my relief. Because the crazy thing about being so worried all the time, and having worked for so many years with Dr. Shepard, is that there’s this whole part of me that knows that the baby isn’t the point. She isn’t what I’m actually freaking out about. I’m worried about Cassie being okay, who my dad has become, surviving this, and above all else, surviving my mom being gone. That’s the way anxiety works. It’s a decoy. Because I can’t do anything about those big things, I worry about something else. I worry about this baby next to me, who is definitely, totally fine. But maybe, just maybe, might not be.
Already my fingers are on the baby’s seat, then the edge of her blankets. Crawling across the folds. But it’s not as easy to find her toes as I imagined. Not easy at all. When I move my hand around, all I feel are blankets and more blankets.
Too many blankets, actually, the more I think about it. So many that it doesn’t seem right. Boom, boom, boom, goes my heart as I push my hand one last time, deep into the center of the car seat.
And inside, I do not find the warm body of a baby. But I do not find a cold baby either. Inside, I find nothing at all.
Stop! Your baby is gone!
The words shoot to my lips, but my mouth stays shut as my pulse surges and my brain gets fuzzy on the rush.