I shake my head, my eyes smarting.
“Well have you asked him?” Chrissy asks. “Maybe he’ll tell you. You’ve always been close.” Her thumb strokes my hand. I tug it away. Alex used to do that.
“The doctor said it’s best not to talk about it until he’s ready,” I tell her.
Chrissy nods. “OK. I guess the doctor would know. But listen, I’m worried about you. You haven’t been yourself since . . .” She doesn’t say since Merrit or since Alex though I know that’s what she’s thinking. She watches me pull on my jazz shoes. “It’s just, all this work and no play, it isn’t good, Isa.”
“I’m OK. Really. And the extra practice is good for me. I might even get a solo out of it for the spring performance. Or at least something good for The Nutcracker.”
“What you’re going to get out of it is a sprain. Dance is an escape. I get that. It’s an escape for me too. But if you don’t slow down, you’re going to get injured.”
I undo my towel, shaking my hair loose. My smile is tight. “I’m fine,” I tell her. I jam my hair into a bun. I pack my old tights and leotard into my bag, pausing when my fingers glance off a square of paper. I pull it to the mouth of my backpack. I unwrap it just enough to see Alex’s handwriting.
Chrissy’s staring at my back. I can feel it.
The locker room is clearing out. There’s nobody else talking.
“Come on. We’re going to be late,” I tell her without bothering to turn around.
“You’re making me nervous.” Her voice sounds disant. “Kevin says I should talk to your parents.”
No. I crush the poem in my fist. I shove it to the bottom of the bag. I make my smile bigger, brighter. “You don’t have to worry. I would tell you if I needed help.”
Chrissy scans my face. “I wish I believed you.” She walks out. I reach for my lip balm. My hand comes back out with Alex’s poem. His words jump out at me through my tears, words I’ve read a hundred times.
DREAMING
You sit on a bench
as the first batter approaches,
y te lo juro,
my chest becomes feathers
quivering
before you.
My grip tightens and I remind myself,
my fingers know the firm curve
of this ball stitched with red,
the white skin of it soft
and smelling of earth
and grass stains
and sweat.
From my hand, this ball takes flight,
soaring toward fate,
aiming for the worn pocket of a mitt,
slipping past swinging wood,
hopefully.
The ball comes back,
thrown high in the air.
I catch it
but sink down to cradle
You,
Your foot,
the firm, soft curve of it,
the part of you that gives you flight
as you soar toward fate
across a stage of lights.
I grip this ball reverently,
tenderly.
This ball I do not want to let go
though your head tipped back in the grass,
laughing, begs me to.
I read it three times before I cinch my backpack closed. I’ll tell Chrissy I’ll go to her place. I’ll agree to a Halloween costume. I’ll do whatever it takes, always.
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 7
ISA
Snowflakes drift into the rose-colored halos of the street lamps below. They settle onto the dingy sidewalks and disappear. It’s supposed to snow for less than an hour. There won’t be much accumulation. I imagine being outside, letting the snow land on my face and my upturned palms, watching the flakes fade to nothing as if they were never there.
“Isabelle?”
I look away from the window. Dr. Patel, our family therapist, watches me. His face, as always, is kind and expectant. Dad is watching me too—only, he looks worried.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I was wondering if you would feel comfortable sharing with us how your mood’s been this past week?”
Dad scratches at the stubble of his beard. Mom is looking at Merrit, who’s staring into his lap, into the void left by his phone, which is on Dr. Patel’s desk. Mom reaches out and presses her hand to Merrit’s knee, an attempt to stop his constant jiggling. He only jiggles his leg harder, until her fingers slide off. Dad takes up Mom’s hand, but his eyes stay on me.
“Fine,” I tell them. I want to look out the window, at the snow.
Dr. Patel moves his head. It’s not quite a nod. It’s just something he does to show he’s heard me. “How has it been taking the subway with your brother? I know that was a source of concern for you in the past.”
“Also fine.” Merrit’s been so mellow these past few months. It’s hard to imagine he did the things he did. I glance at my brother. He’s still not looking at me.
“What has it been like taking on so much responsibility?”
“It’s no problem at all.” If I didn’t bring Merrit with me, Mom and Dad wouldn’t be able to meet with their own psychologist for couple’s therapy the hour before ours. No one thought leaving Merrit alone was a good idea.
“Everyone appreciates the effort you’re making for the family, Isabelle,” Dad says.
I give him my own not-quite-nod to let him know I heard him. Dr. Patel asks Merrit the same question about mood he asked me. I can’t help myself. I turn to look at the snow. It’s my only chance to see it. By the time we go back outside it will all have melted. It will be as if it never happened.
•••
Merrit and I take the subway home alone. Dad and Mom have gone out to dinner, just the two of them. We wait for the train in silence. I search the platform, half worried, half hoping to see the strings of a black hoodie or the tips of Adidas or Converse. I don’t need to worry. There’s hardly anyone on the platform.
Merrit’s face carries a blank stare that probably mirrors my own, like he’s trying not to let any emotion in or out. The train comes, sparing me from thoughts of Alex and Merrit and Chrissy’s words asking me if I’ve talked to my brother about that day. She’d said it as if she were talking to the old Isa, the one who was close to her brother, who knew her brother better than anyone except maybe himself. I don’t know if that’s true anymore. I don’t know why he did what he did, whether he meant it or not. That frightens me the most.
Our shoulders bump, Merrit’s and mine, as the train rockets us back toward Ninety-Sixth. I turn to Merrit, desperation making me bold. “What really happened that day Dad found you? The day he had to call an ambulance?”
Merrit sinks back against the bench, arms crossed in front of him. He stares at his gangly legs, bouncing again with nervous energy. His wary glance shifts to me. “What do you want to know?”
I want to know if he meant to take those pills, if he meant to leave us, and to shout at him asking what was so horrible that it was worth doing that to Mom and Dad and me. I want to know what he remembers from the weeks that followed, being hooked up to machines in intensive care, unable to even pee on his own. I want him to tell me if it was terrible enough to make him never do it again. Mostly, I want to know if he blames me like I blame myself. I want to know that he wouldn’t have done it if I had been home.