Equilibrium (19 page)

Nick took advantage of Aidan’s divided attention and got in his face. Spittle creased at the sides of Nick’s mouth. “What’re you, some kind of whacko pervert guy who likes teenage girls? Talk to me, loser.”

Aidan’s jawline ticked, but he didn’t budge. “I’m just a friend, and you know it.” Close enough to breathe Nick’s exhaled air, Aidan set his jaw, crossed his arms, and waited for the boy to stand down.

The situation called for Laura’s measured reason, not a testosterone competition. “Guys, why don’t we all take a moment and settle down?” Laura said, but neither man nor boy took her bait.

Instead, Aidan treated them to the serious version of his papa-bear scowl. “You want to see Darcy, you need to show respect for women,” Aidan said, and Nick’s gaze jostled. “Show respect for her mother by getting her home on time.”

Laura seconded the sentiment and nodded in agreement. She only wished she’d said it herself.

“I wicked respect women!” Nick glanced at Darcy. “What the hell?”

“You don’t have to answer him,” Darcy said. “He’s not my father. He’s just some guy who rents an apartment from us.”

Aidan’s macho act was misguided, but he was sweet and wonderful and he wasn’t
just some guy
. “Darcy Ann,” Laura said. “That was uncalled for.”

“I haven’t done anything!”

“Get the fuck away from me,” Nick told Aidan. “I fucking mean it, asshole.”

“Disrespectful language, buddy. I don’t like—”

“Screw you! So what if we were a little late? We were driving around and—”

“Stop right there. No excuses. The reason doesn’t matter,” Aidan told Nick, and man and boy glowered at each other.

“This can’t happen again. Show some pride, Nick. Know what I’m talking about?”

Nick shifted in Aidan’s glare. “I got pride.”

“Then show respect for women, and follow the rules.”

Nick gritted his teeth. “I told you, I respect women. So get out of my face.”

“And next time you take Darcy out?” Aidan asked. “What are you going to do?”

“Jesus!”

“What has to happen?”

“I’ll bring her home on time. Okay? Is that what you want me to say?” Nick said, a white flag and a final attack.

Aidan flashed an honest to goodness grin and moved aside to give the boy breathing room.

Nick’s gaze flicked to Darcy and back to Aidan. “So we cool, now?” Nick asked through a sneer.

“Yeah, we’re cool,” Aidan said. “Why wouldn’t we be cool?” he said, as if they hadn’t been half a shade away from beating each other to a pulp.

“Excuse me. What just happened here?” Laura directed her question to all of the room’s occupants, but she hoped Aidan understood she’d designed her tone for him.

“I’ve got it,” Aidan said, and Laura recognized the take-charge expression he’d used when he’d prepared a cold compress for Darcy. This had gone too far. Laura wasn’t anyone’s charity case. She knew how to discipline her children and their friends. She’d been taking care of Darcy and Troy without any help long before Aidan had moved into her house, long before the man had grown facial hair.

“You’ve got it,” Laura said, forcing a light tone. “But I didn’t ask for you to get it.”

Aidan met Laura’s gaze. A deep inhalation stretched his T-shirt across his chest.

“Mrs. Klein, can I use your phone to call my mom?” Nick asked. “I don’t want her to worry ’bout me being late. ’Cause I respect her,” he said, and aimed his snarl at Aidan.

Ah,
respect
was Nick’s magic word. And
respect for women
was the miracle phrase. Who knew what would’ve happened if Aidan hadn’t stumbled upon Nick’s Achilles’ heel? “You’re welcome to use the kitchen phone,” Laura told Nick. “Thank you for asking. I appreciate you not
assuming
.”

Aidan blew out a breath. “For Pete’s sake.”

Laura watched Darcy follow Nick into the kitchen. “Don’t ever do that again,” she told Aidan. “Taking over like that—just because I mentioned a problem, doesn’t mean I was asking you to fix it. Not at all. I’m perfectly capable—”

“Never said you weren’t.”

“Then have a little respect for my authority,” she said, and softened when Aidan caught her gaze and held it. “Please.”

The kids came back into the mudroom. “G’night, Mrs. Klein, Mr. . . . Aidan.” Nick glanced at Darcy and lowered his gaze. “And uh, s-sorry about my language.” Laura nodded. Nick sent Darcy a final full of longing teenage look before he slipped out the door. Oh, the melodrama.

“Mom, I—”

“Give us a minute,” Laura said.

Darcy stamped her foot. “No, I want to talk to you now. Alone. Without
him
.”

“His name is Aidan,” Laura said, wishing Aidan had asked her kids to call him Dr. Walsh.

“It’s all right, Laura.”

Darcy glanced from Laura to Aidan to Laura. “What’s going on? Is something going on because I don’t think I can take another—”

“I said, I will meet you upstairs. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t!” Darcy said. “Where does he get off talking to Nick like that? He acts like he’s—”

“Upstairs!” Laura said, and pointed to the doorway.

“Fine!” Darcy shot them her best look of righteous indignation, turned on her heel, and stormed from the room. Her footsteps echoed through the kitchen, the living room, the foyer. On the stairs, each tread received its own Darcy stomp.

Laura sighed.

“I was going to tell you about how much Darcy and Nick reminded me of Caroline and He Who Must Not Be Named,” Aidan said. “But that’s making an excuse, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

Aidan nodded and came over to where she was standing. “I’m sorry,” he said, and damn if his voice didn’t remind Laura of molten chocolate. He hugged her, and her cheek pressed up against his chest. Caught in his warmth, Laura’s body relaxed until her breathing slowed; until it occurred to her the reason the two of them had butt heads. Way before she was a single parent, years of single-parent thinking had honed Laura’s personality to the sharp point of independence. Her children had already lost their father. If she fell into a pattern of letting Aidan take care of her problems, her children would lose their mother, too.

Laura and Jack had squabbled due to their differences. But wasn’t it worse if a man and a woman were too much alike?

Her heart clenched, and she stifled a sigh. His hands caressed the small of her back, and a tingle rolled up to her chest.

“So are we cool?” Aidan said.

“We’re cool.”

“Then let me make up for my latest misstep by taking you out on a date. A movie? Dinner? A walk in the woods?”

She smiled at his perseverance. At the small of her back, the warmth of his handprint branded her. Nothing compared to the flame scorching all her secret places. Nothing compared to all her hellfire girlish wants.

She squelched them both and deferred to good old dependable logic. Logic, unlike people, had never let her down. “Aidan,” she began, and his hands stilled on her back. His expression soured. And his gaze disengaged from hers, reflecting her response. “I’d very much like it,” she said, “if we could be friends.”

 

If anger had a scent, her daughter’s smelled like white cake with vanilla frosting.

Darcy sat on her bed, back to headboard, working body butter into her hands with a vengeance. She screwed the lid on the jar and slammed it down on her nightstand. “Aidan’s not my father.”

Laura’s stepped into Darcy’s room and shut the door behind her. “No, he most certainly is not.”

If Jack had been alive and Darcy had been late for curfew, Jack would have trudged up to bed and left Laura to play the role of the parent. And Jack would have retained the role of Darcy’s friend.

Laura wouldn’t share that tidbit of information.

“What’s going on, then?” Darcy asked.

A flush tingled Laura’s cheeks, and she sat on the edge of Darcy’s bed. Could Darcy have sensed an attraction between Laura and Aidan? An afterglow from their kiss? Flirtation in their wordplay?

“I mean, where does he get off yelling at Nick? He has no right. It’s just weird. He’s freaking me out!” Darcy said, and her voice thickened.

Darcy might be getting used to Aidan living in Jack’s studio, but taking her father’s place was a whole different story.

“Aidan’s my friend. He knew I was worried about you missing curfew. Because I wasn’t in the room when you and Nick got home, he thought he should act on my behalf.” Not much different than how Laura imagined she’d want a man she was dating to behave, except for the part where she’d returned and Aidan hadn’t backed off.

That wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have known her preference. Now he knew.

“I don’t like him. I don’t think you should be friends.” Darcy’s bottom lip jutted out, giving away her pique of jealousy. Darcy was so busy trying to convince Laura she was all grown up, Laura sometimes forgot she was just a girl. A girl missing her father and needing her mother.

Darcy’s nostrils fluttered, as if she might cry, setting of a corresponding twitch in Laura’s stomach.

“Aidan’s a nice man. I enjoy his company. And he’s been good for Troy. Why don’t you like him?”

Darcy’s bottom lip quivered. She went back to the body butter, lifted it from the dresser, and unscrewed the lid. “As I was saying,” Darcy said, as if she were trying to rewind the conversation. Instead, she inadvertently gave Laura a truthful response: “Aidan’s not my father.”

Chapter 23

L
ate April wasn’t supposed to hover in the eighties. Laura wasn’t supposed to sleep through her children leaving for school. And she wasn’t supposed to shut off her alarm clock so she could continue dreaming about Aidan.

Laura stared at the bedside clock in utter disbelief, peeked into Troy’s and Darcy’s empty bedrooms, and then ran down the stairs in her short satin nightgown, not bothering with the longer robe. Searching for Aidan’s truck, she stepped out the side door and onto the cement steps. Faint tire tracks crisscrossed the sand by his apartment door, marking his early morning departure. She wasn’t sure whether she was disappointed or glad she’d missed him.

The way Aidan had rushed to action Monday night, lecturing Nick on getting Darcy home on time and matters of respect had annoyed Laura to no end, true enough. She would never admit it to Aidan, but his toe-crushing misstep had also made her like him even more, right when she was supposed to discourage his crush.

Laura tiptoed across the gravel drive to retrieve her daily
Union Leader
. Underfoot, the sun-charged pebbles burned the balls of her feet, sparking a snippet of Monday night’s conversation with Aidan. They’d squabbled and made up, like any new couple learning to navigate a romantic relationship that included kids. The image shouted soul mates. The thought made her question her sanity.

Laura shook her head and, newspaper in hand, stepped back into the house. She couldn’t handle Aidan’s sense of humor, his gentle nature, his unflinching confidence, or the way his voice lifted when he spoke her name.

Her name was written in Aidan’s tidy block letters on an envelope sitting on her desk.

She dropped the newspaper, tore into the envelope, and slid out a folded sheet of yellow-lined paper. Based on the ghosts of erased words, the note likely resulted from a second or third attempt.

He’d asked her and the kids over for dinner. Not a date. This was a good thing, right? After all, she carried the kind of baggage no fancy-free bachelor need entertain: teenager troubles, financial worries, a son who might be sick.

Troy’s appointment with Dr. Harvey was this afternoon, and each of the hours between now and four carried the weight of uncertainty. No matter the diagnosis, she and Troy would enjoy Aidan’s lighthearted company. And Darcy? Darcy and Aidan could start over. Who didn’t deserve a second chance?

She folded the note over and over until the paper formed a touchstone, a little piece of her dear friend Aidan she’d keep with her all day till she could come home to the real thing.

At a quarter to four, Laura pulled past the gate announcing their entrance into the campus of what Jack had termed U-Nuts. They drove past the cozy cottage of the Women’s Treatment Program, the tri-dormered Transitional Living Center, and the plush and all-too familiar Pavilion, where Jack had memorized the meal plan. The private pay hospital ran the gamut of mental health services, ranging from child psychiatry to Alzheimer’s disease. Considering the amount the Klein family had spent on Jack’s mood disorder, she wouldn’t have been at all surprised by a Klein bipolar wing, if not an entirely new structure, sprung up along the collegiate landscape.

The Admissions Building looked exactly as she remembered it—an unimposing two-story brick structure providing confidential outpatient treatment for previous in-patient residents and, very occasionally, outpatient appointments for immediate family members of the previously contained.

She made do with merely pulling up on the emergency brake, when what she’d really wanted was to yank it out. Relaxing for a moment—trying to relax—she checked herself in the rearview mirror and then checked on Troy, mostly silent in the passenger seat for the entire ride. Legs falling apart, body reclining, chin to chest, and forearms resting on his inner thighs. She would’ve mistaken his expression for boredom had it not been for the jangling legs, betraying the thoughts she was unsuccessful at wrestling from him despite many leading questions.

“Good to go!” Laura hoped her voice conveyed courage Troy could take into his appointment with Dr. Harvey. She’d already relayed her version of Troy’s unusual behavior. Now Dr. Harvey would hear Troy’s take on the events.

They’d barely sat down in the waiting room when Dr. Harvey appeared at the door leading to the inner offices. Laura closed the
Psychology Today
she wasn’t reading and dropped it in the seat behind her.

Dr. Harvey raised his hand, both in greeting and to halt Laura from following along behind her son, like she’d done on the first day of nursery school. “I’ll come get you
after
,” he said, and the heavy door swung shut, swallowing the doctor along with her son.

Laura picked up a copy of
Vanity Fair
, and the glossy cover photo of an actress with a saccharine smile trembled in her hand. She tossed the magazine onto the side table. She sat down, she stood up. Breathed, held her breath. Paced.

A young couple checked in with the receptionist. The woman touched her husband’s expressionless face, gave his name, and confided that they were there for his first in a series of ECT appointments. She whispered the acronym to make the idea of electroconvulsive therapy lest objectionable, for herself, not her husband. Her husband didn’t appear as though he’d object to much of anything.

“Honey? We can sit down now.” The woman was shaking worse than Laura, all the while keeping a hand on her husband’s arm, no doubt afraid he’d die and leave her behind.

Laura had once thought avoiding expressing her worst fears, even to herself, could forestall them.

Hot and cold at the same time, Laura shrugged off her suit jacket. She balled the navy weave against her chest. She rocked on her heels, and the motion activated a wave of memory.

Jack’s blood-stippled right hand had straddled the revolver’s hard rubber grip. His fingers clenched the trigger. His left hand had rested in his lap, gold wedding band gleaming, palm open and beckoning.

Laura had sat beside him on the futon, facing forward, and stroked the smooth-skinned length of his forearm. She’d held his hand between hers, matching up three sets of fingertips. Finding the gesture ineffective, she’d pressed her lips to his still-warm palm and wrapped his fingers around her offering, hoping the kiss would remind him of their love for an eternity.

A tsunami of a heat flush rolled over her. She race-walked to the single stall ladies’ room, locked the door behind her, and splashed her face with cold water, sprinkling her blouse in the process. She was not about to throw up. Not here, not now. No way.
Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think.
She swallowed purposefully.

Three raps on the door.

“Someone’s in here.”

“It’s Carol.”

Laura wiped her hands with a coarse wad of brown-flecked paper towel, shot into her blazer, and buttoned to cover up the wet mess she’d made of herself. In her breast pocket, she found Aidan’s folded note and rubbed his words between her thumb and forefinger. A deep breath, and she pushed through the heavy metal door and hung a sunny-side-up smile on her face for the benefit of Carol, the receptionist who’d vacated her post to chase her down. Nothing was going on here.

“Dr. Harvey can see you now.”

Laura nodded like a bobblehead doll and walked alongside a woman she’d known slightly for years, a woman who’d known all the gritty nuances of her personal life.

“You look amazing,” Laura said, noticing Carol’s considerable weight loss, then wished she’d kept her mouth shut. What if the healthy appearance was due to grief or disease? One never knew.

“Weight Watchers.” Carol touched her hair, drawing Laura’s attention to the new addition of red highlights covering up the gray. “It’s the only thing that works.” Then, eyeing Laura, “You’ve always been such a tiny thing. What’s
your
secret?”

“Oh, well.” Stress, sleepless nights, widowhood, the possibility of a life-threatening disorder snaring her son. “Why, Carol, I don’t
have
any secrets from you.” Laura made sure she caught the woman’s horrified gaze dead center. Once in a while, Laura couldn’t resist stepping into a character completely unlike herself and shocking the pants off people. She’d never tried skydiving or bungee jumping, so this little thrill would have to suffice. She found the necessity of allowing so many professionals front-row seats for observing her family life hugely unpleasant. As far as she was concerned, letting a health-care professional measure her height and weight violated her privacy.

They rounded the corner, and soft crying trickled from the waiting room. The young woman who’d checked in her husband was sitting alone, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, as though she’d already witnessed enough horrors. Laura wanted to tell her everything would be all right. Her husband wasn’t feeling a thing. He’d awake disoriented and headachy, and he’d most likely behave more like his usual self after a course of repeated treatments. But the facts that came next prevented Laura from speaking. ECT never provided a long-term solution or prevented the inevitable. If a man wanted to commit an act of violence—either homicide or suicide—no person or procedure could stop him.

Dr. Harvey poked his head into the waiting room and ushered her through the connecting doorway. “So nice to see you.” He pounded her back, like a guest at a cocktail party. She’d forgotten about the back thumping.

In the hallway, Laura noted the dated decor—beige patterned flooring to mask scuff marks, cheap art prints on the walls depicting a single rose, a raindrop, a bouquet of fall leaves, nothing too complex. Everything cheerful and mundane. No wailing Edvard Munch expressionist paintings. No impressionist van Gogh clouds curling into themselves. No cubist Picassos encouraging the alternative placement of body parts. No hint of the close quarters creativity kept with madness.

The sight of her son in Dr. Harvey’s office, sitting in the leather wing chair she associated with Jack, paused her at the threshold. She thought, for a nanosecond, she was watching a brutally clear home movie.

Jack had favored seltzer water with a twist of lime, and Dr. Harvey had made sure the ingredients were at the ready for every visit. A slice of the fluorescent green fruit wedged atop the rim of Troy’s clear plastic cup. He pressed his thumb to the top of his red-striped straw and slurped up a bubbly gulp from the bottom. So her son was having a great, good time, and she was falling apart.

Troy scrambled from the comfort of the wing chair. “I’m gonna wait outside. Okay?” He flew off before Laura could answer.

“Sit, sit!” Dr. Harvey said.

In addition to the back thumping, Dr. Harvey had also retained the peculiar habit of saying everything twice when particularly excited, his phrases like a double dose of optimism.

She chose a seat beside him on the overstuffed microfiber. The doctor’s soft belly pressed at the buttons of his starched white short-sleeved shirt, his light brown hair had turned silver at the temples. And he still wore those beige chinos with the overdone pleats, the type she didn’t think they made anymore. The very facts of him had once settled her nerves. She smoothed her skirt, waited.

“You’ve got a great kid.”

She smiled, waited more.

“It’s not at all unusual for an anniversary of a particularly stressful event to precipitate an extreme grief reaction. Especially if that grieving has never been fully expressed.”

When had she prevented Troy’s grieving? She refused to nod, despite Dr. Harvey’s contagious gesture. One little
reaction
could detour the course of her son’s entire life.

She pictured an ECT bite block in Troy’s mouth, preventing her son’s clenching teeth from sinking into his lips and tongue. She was sitting perfectly still but found herself breathing hard just the same. She clutched her blazer by either lapel to keep the fabric from opening and revealing her heart, thudding as though electrodes were disrupting its normal pacing.

Her sinuses swelled. Her ears pounded. Her gaze ratcheted over the dark painted woodwork, the bamboo blinds, the framed degree from Harvard Medical School, the walls that caged her.

“Look at me,” Dr. Harvey said, in the way of a person used to taking charge.

She jumped to standing, following an instinct she didn’t understand. On the third pass around the room, she replayed the conversation with Dr. Harvey and allowed the possibility she’d misunderstood. Perhaps he wasn’t heading her son toward a definitive diagnosis of bipolar. One negative thought had spiraled her heart rate, which had further spiraled her thinking, until mind and body had wound around her chest, coming at her from both sides.