Catherine McKenzie - Hidden

“Well, that’s that, then.” She pushed it back to me.

“What’s that?”

“Tim wanted to go to Australia. That’s why we broke up.”

“You didn’t want to go?”

She shook her head, looked away.

“I know how that feels.” I took a sip of my Coke to wet my drying throat. “Lily, I told you about her, right? Anyway, she didn’t want to move here. So…”

“So?”

“We broke up.”

“I heard.”

I wondered what else she’d heard. Not too much, hopefully.

“Small towns.”

She played with her napkin. “The funny thing is, I would’ve gone with him if he’d really wanted me to, but the minute I expressed some reluctance he blew it up into this big thing, like he was looking for an excuse to break up.”

“Idiot.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, my brother’s an idiot.”

“Yeah, well, some things aren’t meant to work out. I mean, if he really loved me, we would’ve figured it out, right?”

Did that mean I hadn’t really loved Lily? Because I thought I had. It certainly felt like love during the good parts. But one thing was certain: Claire loved Tim enough to move around the world for him. I’d better put my dreams away if I knew what was good for me.

She put her hand on my knee. Thoughts of Tim receded.

“You won’t tell Tim about any of this, will you?”

“Of course not.”

“Thanks, Jeff, you’re a really good friend.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, then pulled back, looking confused. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I…I’ve wanted that for a while now.”

“You’ve wanted me to kiss you on the cheek?”

“Among other places,” I said, hoping I was striking the right flirty tone, my heart racing against my chest.

“Well, then, maybe we should do something about that,” she said slowly.

“What did you have in mind?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Do you like Asian food?”

As I stood in the shower two nights later, a riot of rationalization skipped through my brain. He broke up with her. She’d asked me out. He’d barely communicated with any of us for months. Maybe he was never coming back. Besides, if I even wanted to ask his permission, he’d made that impossible. We had no address, no phone number, no way of contacting him. He’d untethered himself from us. How could he complain if things happened? How could he be surprised if life moved on?

I toweled off and climbed into fresh clothes: a new pair of jeans, a collared shirt, and my trusty blazer. Maybe it was too dressy for the occasion, but it felt like a time to dress up.

I drove to Claire’s, wishing I’d taken the time to clean out the inside of my beat-up Toyota. She was waiting on the stoop—something I took as a good sign—wearing a wool skirt and a turtleneck sweater. She had on some makeup and her hair was shiny. I was glad I’d gone with the blazer.

We went to dinner at the only Thai restaurant in town, and the conversation flowed in an easy way I hadn’t felt in a while, maybe never. She teased me about my lack of knowledge of Asian cuisine, and I ate whatever she put in front of me, struggling with my chopsticks. Some of it was slimy, and some of it was too spicy for my taste. I washed it all down with too many Chinese beers, and by the end of the meal I was slightly drunk.

After dinner, we took a walk through the town square. The bare trees had lights strung through them, a leftover from Christmas. They glinted off Claire’s hair, and to me, she looked perfect. It was coming on spring and the air was warm, though there was still some snow on the ground. A gentle breeze blew through the trees, and I breathed in the loamy smell of wet earth, dead grass, and old snow. I’d be golfing in a month if I was lucky.

I felt light on my feet and happy.

Happy in my soul.

Claire strolled next to me, her hands clasped behind her back, like she was keeping them to herself. I wanted possession of her hand—I wanted more than that, but the hand would do for now—so I said something silly to distract her, and it worked. Her arms fell to her sides and I seized the opportunity. She started slightly, looking down at her soft white hand encased in mine, then up at me.

By the smile on her face, I knew we’d be kissing soon.

Any moment now.

Any moment now.

One of the police officers(the one I can’t place) tells me he’ll check on Seth. The other leads me to the couch, giving me the barest of details before asking if he can call anyone for me. I mutter something about the emergency contact list taped next to the kitchen phone. And all the time I’m feeling stunned, detached, a million miles from the tragedy that’s unfolding in my house like space after the big bang.

Time passes. People start arriving. My mother. My father. My doctor. Friends, friends, friends, until the house is full, there have never been this many people in the house, I couldn’t get away from them if I tried.

At one point I begin calling Seth’s name and my mother, I think it’s my mother, shushes me and says Seth’s fine, Seth’s being taken care of, what do I need? I give her a look that says, Are you seriously asking me that? She knows what I need. Everyone knows what I need, but I’m not getting that again. Not ever.

More time passes, and now I have to go to the bathroom, but I seem glued to the couch, kept there by the prison of people talking low, some fighting back tears, some crying openly. They all want to hug me, but the feel of their skin on mine, the words they say in my ear, make me feel worse. I’m convinced in this moment that if I choose to, I can leave my mind and never come back again.

A family friend and my lifelong doctor, Dr. Mayer, sits next to me and presses something into my hand. Pills. I don’t want to take them, but he guides my hand to my mouth and gives me a glass of water to swallow them down with. I do it and he nods approvingly. He takes me by the elbow, maneuvering me through the throngs of people (do I really know this many people?) and up to my bedroom.

Without asking, he takes me into the bathroom and suggests I use the facilities. He leaves me alone long enough to pee, and to register, as I stand up, that whatever he gave me is acting fast, that I really am in space now.

I wobble as I come out of the bathroom. Dr. Mayer catches hold of me and walks me to my bed, removes my shoes, pants, and sweater. He folds me into the covers, and in an instant all is black but the stars.

I spend most of the weekend in bed, in proper pajamas now, courtesy of my mother. Every couple of hours someone comes to check on me, or bring me food I can’t swallow, or more pills, which I reluctantly do. My bedroom’s been transformed into a hospital ward, all the comings and goings, the checking on the patient. It reminds me of the days I spent in the hospital after Seth was born by emergency Caesarean. It was too loud to sleep, and food and meds were pushed on me there too. All I wanted to do then was hold Seth, and that’s the same now. He’s spent the last two nights sleeping next to me, in Jeff’s place, his body in the same half-pike position his father sleeps (slept, slept, it’s slept now, Jesus) in.

My sister, Beth, arrives Sunday night. I can hear her downstairs talking to my parents, asking how I’m doing. Unlike everyone else, she makes no effort to talk low, despite my mother’s shushing. Instead, she takes the stairs two at a time and, in an instant, she’s climbing into bed next to me fully clothed, curling onto her side like we used to do as kids.

“You look like shit,” she says.

“God, Beth. Jeff—”