Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

“You don’t fucking know me!”

“Do you even remember what a bad day’s like anymore? I’m not talking bad press-I’m talking bad day. There really is a difference.” She looks like she’s about to snap, so I push a little harder. “You don’t even have them anymore, do you? Oh, my, to be the First Daughter. Tell me, what’s it like when everything’s done for you? Can you cook? Can you clean? Do you do your own laundry?”

Her eyes are welling up with tears. I don’t care. She asked for this one.

“C’mon, Nora, don’t be shy. Put it out there. Do you sign your own checks? Or pay your own bills? Or make your own b-”

“You want a bad day?” she finally explodes. “Here’s your fuckin’ bad day!” Lifting her shirt, she shows me a six-inch scar, running down toward her navel, still red where the stitches used to be.

Dumbfounded, I can’t muster a syllable. So that’s why she wouldn’t let me touch her stomach.

Lowering her shirt, she finally falls apart. Her face contorts in a silent sob and the tears flood forward. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Nora cry.

“Y-You d-don’t know… ” she sobs as she staggers toward me. I cross my arms and put on my best heartless scowl.

“Michael… ”

She wants me to open up… to pull her close. Just like she did with my dad. I close my eyes and that’s all I see. Without another thought, I reach out and take her in. “Don’t cry,” I whisper. “You don’t have to cry.”

“I–I swear, I never wanted to hurt you,” she says, still sobbing uncontrollably.

“Shhhhhh, I know.” As she collapses against me, I feel the little girl return. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s okay.”

A full minute goes by before we say another word. As she catches her breath, I feel her pull away. She’s wiping her eyes as quickly as possible.

“Want to tell me about it?” I ask.

She pauses. That’s her instinct. “New Year’s Eve, this past year,” she finally says as she sits on her bed. “I’d read that stabbing yourself in the stomach was a great way to kill yourself, so I decided to test the theory for myself. Needless to say, it’s no jugular.”

Frozen, I’m not sure how to respond. “I don’t understand,” I eventually stutter. “Didn’t they take you to a hospital?”

“Remember where we are, Michael. And know your perks. My dad’s doctors are here around the clock-and they all make house calls.” Sending the point home, she taps her hand against her mattress. “Didn’t even have to leave my room.”

“But to make sure no one found out… ”

“Oh, please. They hid my dad’s cancer for ten months-you think they can’t hide his junkie daughter’s suicide attempt?”

I don’t like the way she says that. “You’re not a junkie, Nora.”

“Says the guy I just tried to drug.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I appreciate the thought, but you’re working with only half the information.” Picking at the lace on her pillowcase, she asks, “Do you have any idea why I’m home?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not a trick question. I graduated college in June. It’s now September. What am I still doing here?”

“I thought you were waiting to hear from grad schools.”

Without a word, she heads to her desk and pulls a stack of papers from the top drawer. Returning to the bed, she throws them on the mattress. I take a seat next to her and flip through the pile. Penn. Wash U. Columbia. Michigan. Fourteen letters in all. Every one of them an acceptance. “I don’t get it,” I finally say.

“Well, it depends who you want to believe. Either I’m still holding out for that final grad school, or my parents are worried I’m going to take another crack at myself. Which do you think is more likely?”

Listening to her explain it, it’s not hard to figure out. The only question is: What do I do now? Hunched over on the edge of her bed, Nora’s waiting for my reaction. She’s trying not to look at me, but she can’t help herself. She’s worried I’m going to leave. And the way she’s rubbing the side of her bare foot over and over against the carpet, it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s walked out on her.

I pick up the letters and toss them to the floor. “Tell me the truth, Nora-where’re your other drugs?”

“I don’t-”

“Last chance,” I bark.

Without a word, she looks down at the letters, then over to the slightly opened door of her closet. Her voice is soft, beaten. “On the floor is a can of tennis balls. They’re inside the middle ball.”

I walk to the closet and quickly find the can. Emptying it in my hand, I let the other two balls fall to the floor, then take the middle ball and give it a tight squeeze. Sure enough, like a fish opening its mouth, it spreads wide where the seam is sliced open. Inside is a brown medication vial-there’re a few pills at the bottom and, on top, what looks like a roll of seven or eight stamps, but with yellow smiley-faces on them. That’s the acid. “What’re the pills?” I ask.

“Just some Ecstasy-they’re old, though. I haven’t taken them in months.”

“Months or weeks?”

“Months… at least three… not since graduation. I swear, Michael.”

I stare down at the vial, which is still inside the ball, and let the seam close. Gripping it in a tight fist, I hold it out to Nora. “This is it,” I tell her. “No more games. From now on, it’s all in your control. If you want to be a headcase, do it on your own. But if you want to be a friend”-I stop and stuff the ball in my pocket-“I’m here to help you, Nora. You don’t have to be alone, but if you want to earn my trust, you do have to get it together.”

She looks absolutely stunned. “So you’re not going to leave?”

I once again picture her cradling my dad in her arms. Identifying with what’s missing. “Not yet-not now.” As my words sink in, I expect to see her smile. Instead, her brow furrows in distress. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

She looks at me, her chin down, her eyes completely lost. “I don’t understand. Why’re you acting so nice?”

From the foot of the bed, I move in toward her. “Don’t you get it yet, Nora? I’m not acting.”

Lifting her head, she can’t hold back. Her eyes well up and out comes the smile. The real smile.

I lean in and give her a light kiss on the forehead. “I’m just telling you one thing-if you ever do anything like this again… ”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“I’m serious, Nora. I see any more drugs, I’ll personally put it in a press release.”

She looks me straight in the eye. “I swear on my life-you have my word.”

Sometimes in my dreams, I’m real small. Six inches small. Simon reaches down and I step into the palm of his hand. He raises me to his cracked lips and whispers in my Barbie Doll-size ears, “It’ll all be okay, Michael-I promise it’ll be okay.” Slowly, his deep voice gets louder, like a churning siren. “Don’t cry, Michael-only babies cry!” Then suddenly, he’s screaming, his voice thundering as his hot breath blows me back: “Dammit, Michael, why didn’t you listen! All you had to do was listen!”

I shoot up in bed, startled by the silence. My body’s covered in a film of cold sweat-so cold, I’m shivering. The alarm clock says it’s only four-thirty in the morning, so I lie back and try to lose myself in Nora. Not the drugs or the scar. The real her. The one underneath; or at least the one I think is underneath. Last night… and the day-my God-the roof alone’ll keep me going for the rest of my life. NASCAR drivers, paratroopers, even… even pirates don’t have that much excitement. Or that much fear.