Break(50)

I dial her number as Will and I walk down the street. The raindrops are so heavy and thick like hail, or God-spit.

A girl’s voice says, “Hello?”

“Charlotte?”

“No. This is Ellie. Her sister.”

Oh. Mini-Charlotte. I guess she does have a name after all.

Ellie’s voice reminds me of Charlotte’s, and it’s like a milkshake on my sore throat.

“Is Charlotte there?”

“Uh-uh. She’s at a party. Who is this?”

“Jonah.”

“Oh. Hi, Jonah.”

“Hi.”

She’s quiet and I hear her breathe. She’s got these loud inhales like Jesse, and I wonder if she has asthma.

“How are you doing?” she says.

I shift Will against my chest. He’s getting wet. I should have brought his hat. I shouldn’t have taken him out. He’s supposed to stay in the house, my parents say. What if he gets sick?

I say, “I’m good.”

She says, “You know, my dad was in an institution for a little while. Before I was born.”

The rain picks up, and I feel like it should be snowing.

“He’s okay now,” she says.

“That’s good. Good. We should all be okay now.”

I open my mouth to catch the invisible snowflakes. My cheekbone stretches like angry Silly Putty. Rain covers my eyes. I wonder if the phone will explode in the rain, if it’ll catch me on fire.

Why not die?

I’ve done enough, and it doesn’t sound like a compliment.

Will whinnies and rubs his head on my chest. He’s got to stop crying. For Mom and Dad and Jesse and me and himself, he needs to stop crying and it’s up to me.

“How’s your brother?” she says.

“Which one?”

“Jesse.”

My chest pounds. “Oh, Ellie, listen. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so sorry.”

“What?”

“I should have told him you liked him. I should have let it happen. I did a lot of things with him, okay? And he doesn’t . . . I shouldn’t have.”

“Okay.”

She answers me like she is a fantastic actress in a play. Like she knows exactly when it’s her turn to speak, and when she needs to stop and let me ramble.

But it’s hard to hear her over Will.

“I messed up a lot with him.” I tighten my grip. “I’m trying to be better. . . . I’m trying something else now. . . .”

“Jonah, are you okay?”

I say, “Can you tell Charlotte something for me?”

“All right.”

“I don’t really know what’s going to happen next,” I say.

I don’t know if I’m going to get septic. I don’t know if they’re going to amputate my hand. I don’t know if I’m crazy. Or if I’m going to die. Or if Jesse’s going to die. Or when.

I keep walking and walking. “But can you tell her I love her?”

“What?”

I think I’m going to throw up again. “And that I really want to be with her? And that we can make it nice and not stupid. And I should have told her a long time ago, and I’m sorry I waited—”

The phone is so cold against my ear. Ellie starts to speak and the connection dies.

“Hello?”

Too far away from the house, I guess. Shouldn’t have left my cell phone at the psych ward.

I’m too far away from the ground. I’m going to fall and I’m too far away. I put my forehead on the ground, holding Will like he’s a yelling teddy bear.

No. No. Shit.

I think I’m going to throw up.

I think I’m going to—

It can’t end like this.

Not like this. Not on the street. Not without making sure Will’s okay.

All I can hear is the footstep sound of rain on the street. The rest is silent, because Will has stopped crying.

He stopped crying. I feel his body, so cold against my fever-cheek. He licks a raindrop off my chin.

The pavement digs into my forehead.

I made him stop crying. Maybe it can be o— Will coos, “Jo.”

I pretend he’s saying my name. I pretend he’s calling me back.





forty-three


THE FIRST FEELING IS DUST.

His voice slides to me. “I know you’re awake. And don’t think I’m not mad at you just because of this life-threatening infection thing.”

I raise the corners of my mouth. “Hi, Jesse.”

“Hi. Open your eyes.”

I do, so quietly I’m barely aware of any movement. The white sheets under me crunch like they’re made of butcher paper.

Everything is slow and white.

Jesse sits by my bed, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, muscular hands folded in his lap.

I say, “I figured the first time I woke up there’d be people standing over my bed holding flowers.”

“You’ve woken up a few times before. You were just too feverish to remember.”

“Oh.” I blink and feel my eyelashes. “How long have I been here?”

“Just a few hours.”

“And how the hell did I get here?”