Long Bright River(86)

We looked at each other for a long time. Time, in fact, seemed to slow and then stop. What passed between us in that moment was an unbearable sadness, the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same, the crumbling to dust of all the ideas we ever had as children about the better life we’d one day make for one another.

From inside the car, I lifted my hand and put one finger to the window, pointing in her direction. Truman leaned forward to see past me.

Kacey looked her worst that day, as bad as I’ve ever seen her: already too skinny, her skin marred with red dots where she’d picked at it, her hair unwashed, her makeup smeared.

—You know her? Truman said. But there was no snideness in his voice, no disgust. In fact, I heard in the phrase he used a great tenderness, a readiness to embrace her if she was any friend or relative of mine. Yes, Truman, I thought. I know her.

—That’s my little sister, I said.





That night, I was inconsolable. I called Simon over and over again, but he didn’t answer.

At last, he picked up, sounding peeved, as he always did when he didn’t want to be contacted.

—What’s the emergency? he said.

I asked very little of Simon. I was always hesitant to seem too demanding, too desperate. That night, though, I was lost. I need you, I said.

He told me he would be by soon.



* * *



—

In an hour, when he arrived, I told him what I’d seen.

To his credit, he was extremely attentive as he listened, and extremely generous in his dispensation of advice.

—You don’t want to do this, he said to me, when I told him I had cut her completely out of my life.

I told him that I did. That I had to.

He shook his head. You don’t, he said. Not really.

—Let me talk to her, he said.

We were sitting side by side on the sofa. His leg was crossed ankle to knee, so that from above, his body would have looked like a four. Absentmindedly, he touched the place on his calf where the letter X was tattooed.

—One last try, he said. You owe her that much. And yourself. I don’t think you’d be happy with yourself if you didn’t give it one last try. I can help.

At last, feeling tired, I acceded.

—I have a history with this, he said. Don’t forget I have a history with this. Sometimes you just need to hear it from someone who’s been there.





Within a week, Simon had located Kacey at the abandoned home in which she was squatting with friends. He had put his detective skills to use, he told me: as he phrased it, he asked some of his contacts on the ground.

She was resistant at first, he told me, but he persisted.

Each day he interacted with her, he reported back to me: Kacey looked bad today. Kacey looked good today. I took Kacey out for lunch. I made sure she ate something.

For a month, he narrated his experience of seeking her out. And it made me feel better, feel cared for, to know that someone else in the world was watching out for her in this way. Someone else was helping me to shoulder the responsibility I felt I had been assigned at four years old. Simon still seemed to me so capable, so reliable, so adult, in some unquantifiable way.

—Why are you doing this, I asked him once, marveling at his generosity.

And he told me, I’ve always liked to help people.



* * *



—

After two months or so, one day, he called me and said: Mickey, I need to talk to you.

Which I knew sounded bad right away.

—Just tell me now, I said.

But he insisted.

He came to the house in Port Richmond. He sat down next to me on the sofa. Then, taking my hands in his, he said, Mickey. Listen. I don’t want to scare you, but Kacey’s bad-off. I think she’s delusional. She’s started ranting about things I can’t make sense of. I don’t know if it’s just the drugs, or something else. Either way, it’s something to be concerned about.

I furrowed my brow.

—What’s she saying? I said.

He sighed. I can’t even make it out, he said. I know she’s angry about something, but I can’t tell what it is.

Something about what he was saying sounded strange to me.

—Well, I said. What words is she using?

It seemed, to me, like a reasonable question, and yet Simon looked annoyed.

—Just trust me, all right? he said. She’s not herself.

—All right, I said. What should we do?

—I’m going to try to get her help, said Simon. I know some folks in social services who might be able to help her if we can get her a diagnosis of psychosis, or something like that. The first step is getting her seen by them.

He looked at me. Yes? No? he said.

—All right, I said again.





That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, awake, counting the hours until my morning shift began. It occurred to me that I had not seen my sister on the street in all the time Simon had been reporting on her—a development I took to be a sign of progress.

It was one in the morning, and I was due to start work at eight. But, discovering that no amount of self-hypnosis could coax me toward sleep, I at last gave up the chase and rose from my bed.

I put on clothing. I located the most recent picture of Kacey that I had.