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Spring and summer 1999
When Luce got home that afternoon, she found Henry lying on the couch. She thought he was asleep at first, which was strange; despite his mile-long list of complaints and ailments, Luce had never known him to sleep during the day. She tiptoed past him and into the kitchen to make herself some lunch and think about something other than Aaron’s kiss, now two days passed but branded onto her lips. She’d watched him at church that morning, wondering how a guy that could kiss like that could be the same guy with his hands up in the air and his eyes closed, singing along with everyone else. No one in her life had ever smiled at her as much as Aaron did, but even he never smiled at her like he smiled when he was at church. That kind of joy, peace, contentment—whatever it was—came from something deep and permanent that Luce didn’t understand. She did understand, though, that Aaron had something she didn’t and that she wanted it, if only to ensure that she wouldn’t be left behind.
“Where were you this morning?” Henry called out, before she’d even gotten the bread out of the pantry. She went back to the living room and looked at him, surprised.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“No. I just wanted to rest my eyes for a bit.”
“Do you want a sandwich or anything?”
“No, you go ahead. I think I’ll just stay here a while, if that’s all right.”
“Yeah, sure.” What do I care? “You probably do need rest, Henry. You’re old.” As soon as she said that, she regretted it. She’d seen evidence of Henry’s temper, and she figured a comment like that would evoke it if anything would. “I didn’t mean old,” she said, backpedaling. “I just meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Henry cut in. “And you’re right. I am old. In fact, I’m probably old enough to be your grandfather.” Luce rolled her eyes and made her way back into the kitchen, listening to Henry’s soft chuckles. Had he just made a joke? Had Henry Sullivan actually just made a joke?
Luce took out the fixings for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. As the bread warmed in the toaster oven, she realized that this was the first time in weeks, certainly since coming to stay with Henry, that she had made her own meal, instead of grabbing a handful of crackers or slurping down a smoothie or picking at what someone else had prepared for her. Today, finally, she was hungry.
As she spread the peanut butter, she thought about the last couple of days with Aaron. She felt very odd. She wasn’t happy, exactly. Or at least, she didn’t think so. Maybe she was—what did she know about happiness?
There had been moments, before Jason had found out about the baby, that she could swear she’d actually been happy. Luce put a hand on her stomach now, remembering.
Jason had had to make multiple appointments for her before she could go through with the abortion. The first few times, she’d sit down, hear her name called, and get so scared that she’d run out of the building. She only went through with it the day she did because Jason had told her the night before, “If you don’t get this fucking thing taken care of tomorrow, I’ll take care of it for you.” He’d grabbed her then, pulling her so close that she could see the pores on his face and said, “And trust me, sweetheart, you’ll feel a lot worse afterwards if it’s me.”
He’d walked her to the clinic that day and watched her walk in and choose a seat, only leaving after staring her down for several seconds. She’d had to get herself home, in pain, clutching a bag of pads and instructions that the nurse had given her. She let herself into the apartment and saw, on the fridge, a note from Jason: I hope it’s taken care of. I’m crashing at a friend’s house—see you in a few.
“A few what?” Luce had murmured.
She’d grabbed a blanket and gotten as comfortable as she could on the pullout bed and turned on the TV, falling asleep almost instantly. When she woke up, it was dark. Jason hadn’t come back, and she’d bled all over the sheets. She’d shuffled to the bathroom, changed her pad, gotten a glass of water, and settled back with her blanket, wondering if Jason was with another girl. She never knew how many girls he was sleeping with; the fact that he always came home to her (well, almost always) had been enough.
Crampy and achy, she fell back asleep before too long. She woke up in the middle of the next morning. Jason still wasn’t home, and she’d bled through that pad, too. She felt wavy when she stood up, but she made it to the bathroom and managed to take a semblance of a shower.
Later that day, she took the subway to a park and sat on a bench, watching the people walk by. She wondered if they could tell, just by looking at her, what she’d done.
Two girls had walked by, wearing preppy school uniforms and carrying messenger bags. They were about her age and were chatting in excited voices as they passed her. Luce watched them. If it had been two months earlier, she would have been too well guarded by the protective wall she put up to give a shit what they thought of her. But in her vulnerable, pained, and fragile state, she did give a shit. She started crying right there, which did nothing to ease the pain, to say the least. She wondered what those two girls had thought of her. She wondered if they’d ever done what she’d just done or if they ever would. She doubted it. Girls like that, with their schoolgirl skirts and perfect braids and perfect teeth never had to worry about things like rape or abuse or abortion. They had to worry about things like curfew and English papers and prom dates and finding a place to have sex without their parents finding out.
Suddenly, and blindingly, Luce wanted to see her mother. Needed to see her mother, in a way that left her breathless. That was when she decided to go to Maine, the next best thing to having Zannah back. She knew the address, and she knew her grandparents’ names, and she knew where Jason kept his cash.
It was four or five more days before Luce felt well enough to endure the bus ride. Jason still hadn’t come back by the time she left, but, by then, she didn’t care.
Good riddance, she’d thought as the bus had pulled out of the terminal.
So—no, she couldn’t say that what she was feeling now was happiness, given all that had had to happen in order to get her here. But even if she wasn’t happy, she felt…calm. She didn’t remember ever feeling calm before.
That calm related to Aaron and transcended her feelings about him, which were annoyance or embarrassment as often as they were anything else. He was so shy and so eager around her, so sincere and earnest.
On the other hand, he’d taken care of everything—the plan, the dinner, the sleeping arrangements, the truck—when she’d spent the night at his house. And that kiss…he’d been like a different person in that moment. She still got weak in the knees when she thought about it.
And he’d told her that she was strong and that he chose her. And she always felt safe around him. Those were things she didn’t want to give up.
Jason, and the men that Zannah had always brought home, were always full of danger. How far would he go tonight? Was she woman enough to take it or to change him? Would he come back to her? The questions had always turned her on.
There were no questions about Aaron. He looked the part—tattoo, shaved head, chipped tooth—but that was it. He was the most disarming, forthcoming person she’d ever met.
His story the other night had seemed to come out of thin air. After weeks of spending all of her time with the happy-go-lucky goody-two-shoes, all of a sudden, for just a few minutes, he’d sounded like everyone else: an angry, mistreated kid who didn’t know what he was looking for or how to find it.
How did someone go from that to where he was now? It didn’t happen. (She knew what Aaron would say: God. But she didn’t buy it. If all a person needed to do in order to be okay was believe it, why wouldn’t everyone do that?)
Luce licked the sticky jam and peanut butter off her fingers and thought about the baby as she carried her plate to the dining room table. How would Aaron feel about that? For all of his experience and goodness, would he ever be able to look at her in the same way again? He just thought she was a victim, a damsel to be rescued from the big, bad boyfriend. (If that’s even what he thought. Luce had barely told him anything of consequence.) How would he react if he knew what she’d actually done—stayed with a man like Jason and then killed the only good thing that ever came of it? Killed it.
The baby would have been able to hear her voice by now. He or she would have been developing eyelashes by now. She could have found out the sex soon. Luce knew all about pregnancy—she’d devoured all the baby books the library had in those first few weeks, before Jason had found out. She’d never wanted a baby before, she’d never even thought about it before. She had always assumed that whatever kept the universe in balance would see how inept she was and pass her by, but as soon as she saw the little blue lines on that stick, she’d wanted that baby so much. The desire had just about broken her heart.
And she’d gotten rid of it. Because Jason had told her to.
How would Aaron ever look at her again if he knew about that?
Henry had begun to snore, a loud guttural snore that seemed in keeping with his general nature. Luce walked to the doorway of the living room, chewing, and watched him sleep. What had he thought when Zannah had run away? Had he really been as mean and scary as everyone had thought, or was he terrified and trying not to show it? He’d taken her in. He’d never even known she existed, and he had opened his home to her. Not cheerfully, but he’d done it anyway. He had held her when she was sick, run Jason off without any questions to her, prepared every breakfast food in the house so she’d have something to eat. And he’d put up with her the whole time. She had avoided him, insulted him, and belittled him, but he hadn’t kicked her out.
And today, he’d even made a joke.
She stayed where she was, watching him and letting her mind wander, until he began to stir. She didn’t want him to know she was there, so she walked upstairs to her room as quietly as she could.