Post-therapy, the Buchwalds told Adelaide it was
normal for her to feel anger. They also told her she should let go of that
normal anger, even though it was
normal anger, and remind herself that
Toby got sick.
It was the illness that did everything, they said.
The illness, not him.
Addiction changes the way the brain functions on a molecular level. That’s why it’s a disease. The shift in brain chemistry made it impossible for Toby to stop without help.
Adelaide answered Yes, yes, of course. She wanted to be compassionate. But she couldn’t help but feel that Toby cared more about
getting a fix,
than he did about her,
than he did about their parents.
He had left her. His wheezing sounded in her dreams each night to remind Adelaide how close he’d come to dying, and how little he seemed to care that it hurt her.
Toby is an addict.
* * *
—
Now, at the philosophy party, a second refrain: Mikey doesn’t love me. Mikey doesn’t love me.
Adelaide wondered: If she weren’t sad underneath her charm and painted nails, would Mikey have loved her all the way?
If she weren’t so talky, would he?
If she were wickedly funny, if she were mysterious and reserved instead of sparkly, if she were thinner or taller?
If she were a girl with more dramatically viable eyebrows, Adelaide felt, Mikey would never have left her. Or if she were a girl with long coltish legs and the kind of figure that draped over furniture.
She thought these things over and over, like a compulsion, even though she knew she should know better.
The cheese grew squashy in her hand. She bit off a big chunk and tongued it. She felt something of the thrill she remembered from stealing cookies from the cooling rack when her mother baked for holiday parties.
Then Jack appeared.
He was in the far left portion of her vision, talking to an elderly philosopher and wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt. His gold skin glowed.
Adelaide turned her head to look. Jack’s grin spread across his face. He reached up slowly to wipe the sweat off the back of his neck.
He was
exquisite.
* * *
He turned and saw Adelaide staring.
He said something to the elderly philosopher and came over to her.
He leaned down. She felt his lips against her ear. “Will you hide me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Now?”
She nodded. “Follow me.”
Aware of her hair against her forehead and the pumping of blood in her temples, Adelaide led Jack through the kitchen and out the back door.
They stepped into the thick summer air of Martin Schlegel’s yard. It was covered in summer roses and crawling vines. There was a smell of green. At the back of the yard was a white rope hammock strung between two trees. The sound of Oscar’s piano playing trickled out.
They sat awkwardly on the edge of the hammock, their feet still on the grass.
“What are you hiding from?” Adelaide asked.
“It all.”
“The party?”
“Myself at the party.”
“How so?”
“I was lying to that philosopher.”
* * *
He turned and saw Adelaide staring.
He said something to the elderly philosopher and came over to her.
He leaned down. She felt his lips against her ear. “Will you hide me?”
She grabbed his arm and pulled him into Schlegel’s half-bathroom. It was lit by a single tangerine-scented candle. It had illusion prints on the wall. A small row of cardboard 3-D glasses hung from hooks next to the towel rack.
Jack closed the door gently, a finger to his lips.
“Why are you hiding?” Adelaide asked.
“There’s a girl here I used to know. From back when.”
“When what?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“Tell me.”
He sighed. “Before we moved to Spain, I went to Alabaster, right? I was in ninth and she was a senior. She must be in college now. And she’s here.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I made a fool of myself.”
“How?”
“Poetry. I wrote her, like, a poem a day. I think I kind of stalked her, but I imagined I was dashing and romantic. I imagined her smiling as she found another envelope, reading my words over and over. But she was just trashing them and finally she told me to stop.” Jack laughed and shook his head. “I’m appalled that I ever did that.” He was leaning against the sink.
Adelaide reached for a pair of 3-D glasses. “Put these on so we can see the art properly.”
He put his on as she took a second pair. “Oh my.”
“What?”
“Here, you need to…Wait, shut your eyes.” He adjusted her glasses. “Now turn. Now open.”
“Oh what? Are they…”
“Yes, they absolutely are.” Jack collapsed, laughing. “Schlegel is a filthy-minded man.”
* * *
“Can you hide me?”
“Why?” she asked.
His hair curled in the heat. “I need to get away from B-Cake.”
“I saw her outside.”
“She’s inside now, and she’s been sitting in my lap for the past fifteen minutes. I’m covered in dog fur.”
“I can’t hide you from B-Cake. She locates things by smell.”
“Do I smell?”
It was the sort of thing Adelaide would never ask someone. She would worry that she did in fact smell, and smelled bad in some way, like sweat or nerves. Or like soup. You know, the way some people smell like soup.
She leaned in and smelled Jack’s neck.
He smelled faintly of coconut shampoo. Or maybe it was sunblock. She wanted to put her lips on the soft part of his ear.