waiting room and told us theyâd been unable to revive Caitlin, but that was instinctive. Like clinging to a life raft as the ship goes down. We held hands at the funeral, but thatâs been the limit of our physical contact. Itâs not that I donât think Ben is hurting. Thatâs not it at all. Maybe itâs the opposite. I know heâs hurting so badly that Iâm afraid to touch him, afraid his pain will rub off on me and it will be too much. Iâll collapse under the weight of our combined pain. Or maybe Iâll just disintegrate. Iâll disappear in a wisp of smoke or a puddle of green plasma goo.
âJules.â Benâs voice penetrates my thoughts. He and Laney are the only people who ever call me Jules. The only people who know me intimately enough to call me Jules.
He turns on the light on my side of the bed and I squint. I have to make myself look at him. I fight tears on the verge. I know heâs got to be sick of listening to me cry. Iâm sick of listening to me cry.
âDrugs?â he says. âSheâs doing drugs now?â
âMarijuana,â I say, meeting his gaze for just an instant. I sit up. His eyes are brown. Nice eyes. His eyes were the first things I noticed the night I met him at Cal State, Bakersfield, where we were both students. âItâs practically legal.â I consider reminding him that heâs been known to take a hit from a joint with his brothers on Sunday afternoons in their momâs backyard, but I donât. Itâs never really been an issue between us. I donât smoke it; I donât have anything morally against it for adults, but a glass of wine or beer is my limit to mind-altering substances.
âWhat about the pills?â he asks. âWhere did she get them? One of her friends, I bet. Cassie or . . . or that asshole Todd.â He strokes his receding hairline. âI told you we should have forbidden her to see him after that run-in with the police at Christmas. Mom said weâd regret it if we didnât.â
I exhale. âIt wasnât a run-in with the police. They were in a fender bender. He wasnât even at fault.â Benâs right, though. Todd is an asshole. Just not the responsible asshole, in this case. âHaley says she stole the Percocet from your momâs medicine cabinet.â
He doesnât react. He rarely does when the conversation has anything to do with his mommy doing something or saying something she shouldnât. Itâs like heâs totally blind to her flaws.
âWas Haley taking the pills?â he asks. âYou said it was a whole bagful. Was she taking them or selling them?â
I close my eyes for a moment. âProbably both.â
He pinches his temples between his thumb and forefinger as if he can squeeze the truth out of his head, or just the knowledge of it.
I note heâs not interested in discussing the fact that his mother is making drugs available to our daughter. There had to have been forty in the sandwich bag. I wonder how Linda didnât notice that she was missing forty Percocet.
âI canât believe sheâs been expelled.â He throws up his hand. âHow the hell is she going to graduate now? She canât even go to community college without a high school degree. I guess we could send her away for a semester or two.â His gaze darts to mine for just an instant and then he looks at his shoes.
I frown. âSend her away?â
âMom thinks we should consider a boarding prep school. St. Andrews wonât take her, of course, but maybe even outside the US . . . France, maybe.â Heâs talking too fast for these to be his own words. He and his brothers all attended St. Andrews boarding school from the sixth grade through the twelfth. Linda couldnât be bothered to parent through the difficult years. âHaley wanted to go on that trip last Easter to France. Kids do it all the