“Douglas?”I couldn’t believe this. “What doesDouglas think he knows about it? You think my brother Douglas knows more than the thirty thousand shrinks the army sent me to, to try to get it back? You think Douglas is some kind of posttraumatic stress expert? Douglas works in a comic-book store, Rob. I love him, but he doesn’t know anything about this.”
“He might know more,” Rob said, looking completely unaffected by my rather impassioned speech, “about you than the shrinks the army sent you to.”
“Yeah,” I snapped. “Well, you’re wrong. I’m done, okay? And this time, it’s for real. It’s not just a put-on to get me out of the war. I’m out. I’m sorry about your sister. I wish there was something I could do. And I’m sorry if Douglas misled you. You shouldn’t have come all this way. If you’d called instead, I could have just told you over the phone.”
And spared myself having to see you again, just when I’d thought I’d finally gotten over you.
“But if I’d called instead I wouldn’t have been able to give you this,” Rob said, and reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. I wasn’t exactly surprised when he pulled out a photo—one of those school portraits taken on picture day—of a young girl who looked a lot like him. Except that she had braces and multicolored hair. I mean it. She’d dyed her hair, like, four different colors, blue, hot pink, purple, and a sort of Bart Simpson yellow.
“That’s Hannah,” Rob said as I took the picture from him. “She just turned fifteen.”
I looked down at Hannah, the girl who was responsible for bringing Rob back to me.
But not, of course, because that’s where he wanted to be. I knew the score. He was only back because ofher .
And because, according to him, he and I are stillfriends .
“Rob,” I said. I think at that moment I kind of hated him. “I told you. There’s nothing I can do for her. For you. I’m sorry.”
“Right.” Rob nodded. “You said that. Look, Jess. I don’t know what you went through during the—” He caught himself before he could say theW word and changed it to “—year before last. When you were…overseas. I can’t even pretend to be able to imagine what it was like for you over there. From what Doug says, when you got back—”
I glanced up at him sharply. I was going to kill Douglas. I really was. What had gone on in our house after I’d gotten back—night terrors, the doctors had called them—wasmy business. No one else’s. Douglas had no right to go around talking about them. Do I discuss Douglas’s mental state with his exes? Well, no, because he has no exes. He’s still going steady with a neighbor girl, Tasha Thompkins, whom he’s been seeing for almost three years now, while she’s taking classes at Indiana University and traveling back and forth every weekend to see him.
But if Douglashad had an ex, I wouldn’t have discussed his private anguish with her. No way.
Rob must have noticed the angry flush I’m sure was suffusing my face, since he said in a gentle voice, covering my hand that held his sister’s picture, “Hey. Don’t blame Doug. I asked, okay? When you came back, you were so…you were—” He nodded at the small cactus sitting on the windowsill, amid more chili-pepper lights. “You were like that plant. Covered in prickles. You wouldn’t let anybody get anywhere near you—”
“How would you know?” I demanded, angrily snatching my hand away and letting the picture drop to the middle of the table. “You were so busy with Miss-Thanks-for-Fixing-My-Carburetor, I’m surprised you even noticed.”
“Hey,” he said, looking wounded. “Take it easy. I told you—”
“Let’s cut to the chase here, Rob,” I said, my voice shaking. Because I was so angry, I told myself. That was the only reason. “You want me to find your sister. Fine. I can’t find her. I can’t find anyone. Now you know. It’s not a lie. It’s not a stunt to get people off my back. It’s real. I’m not Lightning Girl anymore. But don’t try to snow me with fake sympathy. It’s not necessary, and it won’t work.”
Clearly stung, Rob blinked at me from across the table. “My sympathy,” Rob said, “isn’t fake, Jess. I don’t know how you could say that to me, after everything we’ve been through toge—”
“Don’t even start,” I said, holding up a single hand, palm out, in the universal sign for Stop. Or Tell It to the Hand. “You only seem to remember everything we’ve been through when you want something from me. The rest of the time, you seem to forget it all conveniently enough.”
Rob opened his mouth to say something—probably to deny it—but he didn’t get the chance, since Ann came up to the table and asked, sounding concerned, “Everything all right here, guys?”
I noticed the only other couple in the place was glancing at us surreptitiously from behind their menus. I guess our conversation HAD gotten pretty heated.
“Everything’s great,” I said miserably. “Can we just get the check?”
“Sure,” Ann said. “Be right back.”
The minute she was gone, Rob leaned forward and, elbows on the table—his knees brushing mine beneath it and his fingers just inches from where mine lay by the picture of his sister—said in a low voice, “Jess, I understand that you went through hell the year before last. I understand that you were under unbelievable pressure and that you saw things no one your age—or any age—should have seen. I think it’s incredible that you were able to come back and lead a life that bears any semblance to normalcy. I admire that you didn’t crack up completely.”
Here his voice dropped even lower.
“But there is one undeniable fact that you seem to be overlooking about yourself, Jess, that apparently everyone but you can see: You came back from wherever you were broken.”
I sucked in my breath, but he went right on talking, right over me.
“You heard me,” he said. “And I’m not talking about the fact that you can’t find people anymore. I’m talking about YOU. Whatever it is you saw out there—it broke you. Those people—the government—used you until they had everything they wanted from you—until you had nothing else to give—and then they cut you loose, with a thank-you and smile. And you came back. But let’s not kid ourselves here: You came back broken. And you won’t let anyone near enough to try to help you. I’m not talking about shrinks, either. I’m talking about the people who love you.”
Again I tried to interrupt. Again, he stopped me.
“And you know what?” he said. “That’s fine. You’ve rescued so many people, you think you’re above letting anyone try to rescueyou ? That’s fine, too. Rescue yourself, then…if you can. But let’s get one thing straight: You may have been able to find missing people at one time. But you were never a mind reader. So don’t presume to tell me what I’m thinking and feeling, when you really have no earthly idea what’s going on inside my head.”
He leaned back as Ann approached with the check.
I stared down at the photo sitting between us on the tabletop, not really seeing it, I was so blinded by anger. That’s what I told myself, anyway. That I was angry. How dare he? I mean, seriously, where did he get off? Broken?Me? I wasn’t broken.
Messed up. Sure. I was messed up. Who wouldn’t be after a year of basically no sleep, because every time I shut my eyes, I heard and saw things I really never wanted to hear or see again.
But not letting anyone try to help me? No. No, I had let people help me. The people whoreally cared about me, anyway. Wasn’t that what I was doing, working with Ruth on her inner-city arts program? Wasn’t that what letting Mike live with us was all about? Those things were helping me. I was beginning to sleep again. Most nights, all the way through.
No. No, I’m not broken. The part of me that used to be able to find people, maybe. But not ME.
Because if that were true—what he was saying—then the past twelve months of coldness between us—Rob and me, I mean—were…what? MY fault?