Katrina Kittle’s Books

Whenever Sarah thought back to that morning twelve years ago, she remembered the chick.

She cracked open an egg, but instead of a yolk, a bloody chick embryo fell into the bowl. She stared at its alien eyes and gaping mouth, and the hair rose on her arms and neck. The maimed chick felt important somehow, a sign of how bleak and bad things had become. Sarah sensed that this was an omen, but she couldn’t imagine for what or how to prepare herself.

The chick—in addition to giving Sarah second thoughts about buying free-range eggs at the local farmers’ market—made her remember the robin’s nest she’d found the day before in the apple tree. There had been four eggs, pale and delicate, like the sugar-dough decorations on the wedding cakes she was known for.

Sarah looked at the chick in the bowl and wanted to make sure the robin eggs were all right. She knew that this need was irrational—her sons were expecting breakfast, it was typical springtime in Ohio with the rain running in sheets down the window, and the robin certainly didn’t require her assistance. Sarah knew she had more pressing things to focus on—she had to cater Thai red seafood curry for twelve today, she needed to start production on a wedding cake, and she was supposed to be developing recipes for a “salads as whole meals” spread for Food & Wine, whose deadline was rapidly approaching. Sarah mentally inventoried these obligations, but she slipped out the back door anyway. She jogged across the sodden ground and stepped on the bench under the tree. At the sight of Sarah’s gigantic head, the mother robin shrieked and fluttered to a higher branch. Sarah peered down at the nest, dry and cozy even in this downpour, and the eggs that, to her relief, still sat there like jewels. Four perfect eggs. Nothing but promise and potential ahead of them.

She’d once felt that way about her own family.

The eggs and that contorted chick reminded Sarah of the sappy assignment she’d been given in her grief support group two years ago, back when Roy, her husband, died. The counselor had told her to find three things each morning for which she felt grateful. The counselor told her not to count her two children—they were “givens.”

The robin screeched at her in urgent, one-note cries, and Sarah tried to think of something that inspired gratitude. Weariness and regret weighed her down, but she stubbornly shoved them away. She could do it, damn it; she could come up with three blessings. She scanned the yard, appraising it, as if it were a property she’d never seen. She looked at the old sandbox the boys used to play in and at her garden, its recently tilled earth as dark as Black Forest cake. One of these days, if the rain ever stopped, she would plant.

The mother robin hopped to a lower branch and continued the staccato warnings. Sarah felt bad prolonging the bird’s worry, so she stepped down from the bench. As she did, she reached for a branch, for balance, and in a flash the robin dove at her. Sarah jerked her hand away, but not before she felt the stab of beak and the surge of adrenaline at the attack. The robin flew one more swipe at Sarah before settling defiantly back onto her nest. Sarah examined the wound. A drop of blood welled on the back of her hand but washed away in the rain. More blood rose from the tiny puncture when she clenched her fist. The entire hand throbbed, and the slight pain felt almost good. This was pain from outside, not from within. And not only did her hand ache, but she shivered, aware of how wet and cold she was, skin tight with goose bumps, nipples erect. She felt something. She was alive.

There. That was a blessing. She looked up at the tree, wanting to thank the bird for this sensation. This apple tree belonged to her younger son, Danny, who was eleven. Roy and Sarah had planted trees for both sons, in the ancient tradition that the branches from the trees would later be used for the chuppahs at their weddings. Danny used to be as sweet and cheerful as the tree’s early-April bloom, but a crab apple tree might have suited him better lately. He’d changed. They’d all changed. And Sarah didn’t know how to stop it, how to go back to the family they’d been before.

Sarah walked across the yard, through the rain, to Nate’s dogwood tree and touched the trunk. This tree was planted nearly seventeen years ago. Now it stood taller than Nate.

Thank God, Nate’s suspension from school was over—that would be the second blessing of the day. He’d already been suspended twice this year for truancy; once more and he’d be expelled. Actually, this was the second for which he’d been caught. She knew he’d skipped more than that, because she’d seen him in the middle of a school day. Once, visiting Roy’s grave at Temple Israel cemetery, she’d been outraged to see someone sitting on Roy’s stone, smoking, but when she recognized Nate, she’d slunk away before he saw her. She’d never told him she’d seen him there, never scolded him for cutting class. And from the cigarette butts that accumulated at the grave, she knew he went frequently. She never mentioned the butts, for fear he’d cover his tracks, and she took comfort in knowing some small thing about his life. Plus, her approval of the visits might make him stop. Everything she said to Nate these days seemed only to insult and anger him. That’s why she was making his favorite burritos this morning. She hoped they could be a peace offering.

The back door opened, and Nate stood at the screen. “What are you doing? You’ve been standing out there forever.”

Sarah laughed. An excitement rippled through her, a vaguely familiar sensation—of looking forward—and she wished she could articulate it to Nate but decided not to bother. He stood and stared at her as she came back into the kitchen and grabbed a dish towel to dry her hair and dab at her soaked clothes. Her heart caught, as she realized afresh she now had to look up to face him. His green eyes, so like his father’s, met hers, then darted away, a blush obscuring his freckles. He had the same straight, gingerbread-brown hair as his father, too. Danny had inherited Sarah’s thick, black curls.

Nate poured himself some coffee. He took his cup and the paper into the living room, spreading the paper on the coffee table.

After changing into dry clothes and putting a Band-Aid on the back of her hand, Sarah returned to the kitchen. This huge room painted ripe-tomato red was the only modern and completely renovated room in the old house. She and Roy had knocked out a wall and combined the existing kitchen with a downstairs bedroom. It was state-of-the-art, with two wide, blue marble-topped kitchen islands—both with sinks—two industrial-size refrigerators, double ovens, and a walk-in floor-to-ceiling pantry.

Remembering the damaged chick, Sarah opened six other eggs and inspected their yolks before whisking them. She rolled homemade salsa, scrambled eggs, and cheese into flour tortillas and garnished them with avocado slices.

“Here.” She handed Nate his plate in the living room.

He wrinkled his nose. “Eggs?” he asked, as if she’d handed them to him raw.

“There’s bagels or cereal if you don’t want it.” She tried to keep her voice light, her buoyant new sense of purpose already waning.

Danny came in, yawning, his wiry black curls poking up like porcupine quills. She ruffled his hair and set a plate for him on one of the kitchen islands. “Burritos? Cool,” he said, and began to eat standing up. She reveled in his grin, a sign that the day was at least beginning on a bright note, and in the fact that she could still make him happy.

Sarah leaned in the doorway, where she could see both the kitchen and living room, and sipped her coffee. Nate skimmed through the sports section, eating the offensive eggs after all. Sarah didn’t want any eggs herself, still unsettled by the baby bird she’d found, its gnarled claws reaching up to her like little hands.

She missed Roy all the time, but the mornings were when she missed him the most. Mornings when he’d been home to eat with the kids had always been minor celebrations, with stacks of pancakes or waffles, bad jokes, and wild stories from the ER where he worked. She reached out and touched the bright walls he’d helped her paint. She’d actually taken a tomato with her to match the paint. She and Roy had made a ritual of bringing a salt shaker out to the garden each summer to eat the first ready tomato off the vine. She remembered kissing him, with the tangy juice still on their lips.

That’s enough, she told herself. No point in going there. She left the door frame and walked back into the kitchen, where Danny still stood. He held open his vocabulary workbook with his left hand and ate with his right.

Sarah touched his arm. “Sit down and eat your breakfast.”

He puffed air through his lips. “I gotta study. I get extra credit on the test today if I can use these in sentences.”

“I’ll help,” she said, “but sit down at least.” He did. The words were fairly simple, although she tried to put herself back into a fifth-grade mind. “Review.” “Deceive.” “Salvage.” She looked over his shoulder at the remaining list.

“ ‘Epiphany’? That’s a hard one.” She checked the cover of his workbook, skeptical that it could be a fifth-grade text. Oakhaven, an affluent suburb of Dayton, was known for its excellent schools, but she often felt frustrated that Danny seemed to be challenged too much and Nate not at all. “Can you think of a sentence for ‘epiphany’?”

“I don’t have to know that one. Only the smart kids have to know the ones with stars.”

Sarah swallowed. “You’re a smart kid.”

Danny shook his head. “I’m in Track Three. The retards. Only the Track One kids have to know ‘epiffle’ . . . whatever that word you said was.”

An ache unfurled through Sarah’s rib cage, as if she’d pressed a bruise. Of her two boys, Danny was the more obviously affected by Roy’s death. In the last two years, he’d lost all confidence, all sense of himself. And in the last two weeks, he’d apparently lost his best friend at school, too. And he didn’t have that many friends to start with. “You are not a ‘retard,’ Danny. I don’t want to hear you say that again.”

He lifted one shoulder and dropped his head back over his workbook.

“Did you get your assignments?” she asked Nate, crossing to the doorway again.

“Yup.” He didn’t look up from the paper. “There’s a chemistry test I can’t make up, but I have, like, a hundred and five percent on every other assignment in that class, so I’ll still get an A in there, I bet. I’m going to Mackenzie’s, and she’s gonna help me catch up before practice tonight.”

A weight spread across Sarah’s shoulders. Why, why, why did he have to do this? “No, Nate. You know the new rule.” He turned to her with that look on his face. The look she saw at least ten times a day. The look one might give a person who wasn’t just insane but who also reeked of body odor and spoke with her mouth full of rotten food.

He snapped the sports section closed and dropped it on the coffee table. “Why not?”

“Her parents aren’t home until ten.”

“I thought that rule was about Tony!”

“No. It’s about you. I don’t need to trust Tony.” She managed not to raise her voice, but heat burned in her cheeks. He knew all this already; why did he insist on making her the villain over and over again?

“Who’s Tony?” Danny asked.

“So I can’t go anywhere? I’m still grounded?”

“Don’t act like this is some brand-new thing I just made up.” Nate wouldn’t have dreamed of pulling this crap if his father were still here, even though Roy had rarely handled the kids’ discipline. He was gone too often, even before he was gone for good, and they’d grown used to that fact, as all doctors’ families do. But there had never seemed to be any discipline problems when he was still here. Everything seemed fun and adventurous then. Without him Sarah was just a nag. She felt like a mean, haggard harpy. She took a deep breath. “As we discussed after your court date, you can’t be at a friend’s house without adult supervision for a month. At least. If you keep—”

“Look, Mackenzie doesn’t even like Tony, okay? He won’t be there.”

“Which Tony?” Danny asked. “Tony Harrigan?”

“Well, good for Mackenzie. I like her even more for not liking Tony. But you still—”

“Tony Harrigan?” Danny repeated.

“Yes, Tony Harrigan!” Sarah snapped. “What other Tony do we know?” Danny looked crestfallen, and she immediately felt guilty. She breathed deep again. “Please don’t interrupt, Danny. You know that makes me crazy.”

“Is Tony who you skipped class with?” Danny asked Nate.

“That’s a lie!” Nate yelled at Sarah, as if she’d said it. “He wasn’t with me. I was by myself. But you don’t care. You just decided you hated him after his party. You always make these sweeping generalizations about people based on zero facts.”

“Okay. This discussion is over,” Sarah said. She couldn’t say any more, or she’d be yelling, too, and if she did that, she felt she would have lost.

“This sucks!” Nate bumped the table as he stood, slopping his coffee. Sarah entertained a brief fantasy of hurling the coffee cup at his head. He stomped upstairs.

She looked at Danny, who still held his vocabulary book open. “Oh,” he said. “Tony had that party, right? The party where Nate got . . . where the police brought Nate home?”

Sarah paused and sighed. She was so tired. Danny knew that story; there was no reason for him to ask. She tried to remind herself to be patient, but this new habit of asking questions he already knew the answer to made Sarah wild. “Yes,” she said, forcing a neutral tone. “You know that party was at Tony’s house. Now, finish your breakfast, sweetie.”

Danny nodded happily. How could he be happy when he’d just been screeched at? When every morning began with this friction and nastiness in the house? Is that all he wanted—a reaction from her, any reaction? She had to do better, she had to get it together.

She shook her head as she poured more coffee. She told herself those things every morning.

Nate had gotten trashed at Tony’s party on one of Sarah’s rare evenings of solitude since Roy’s death. Danny had been spending the night at his friend Jordan’s house. Sarah had sunk up to her chin in a bubble bath and drunk three vodkas with cranberry juice in a row. She’d thought of Roy without her customary anger—anger that infuriated her further with its irrationality. It wasn’t as if he’d gotten cancer on purpose. She’d even managed to think of him without crying. That made her bold, and she ventured into memories that warmed her with a heat quite different from the bathwater and steamed walls. She’d allowed her hands to slip beneath the bubbles when the police had banged on the front door, bringing a stumbling-drunk Nate home from Tony’s.

Bad enough to be interrupted. Even worse to face the Oakhaven police. Sarah imagined they were disdainful of her disheveled hair, flushed cheeks, and clutched-closed robe, certain they could sense she was tipsy herself and knew just what they’d caught her doing.

Nate had been too far gone to notice and had puked for half the night.

The worst of it, though, was juvenile court. Sarah had refused to plead for leniency, as Tony’s father had. She liked to think she and Roy would have done the same thing if Roy had been alive, but especially with him gone, she wanted a punishment that would be a genuine deterrent to this stupidity. But that day in court, Nate had whispered to her, and seared into her brain, “Why couldn’t you be the one who died?”

She’d wanted to die; that’s what he didn’t understand. She would have gladly died instead of Roy if she could have. She would have done anything in her power to save him. And to hear Nate whisper those words made her wish she was dead. She forgave Nate, though. She remembered telling her own mother “I hate you” and meaning it with all her heart in the second she said it—but not after. Those memories of her thoughtless cruelty pained her, and she hoped the day would come when Nate was pained as well. But all the same, it hurt to hear, and remembering it made her blink back tears.

She cleared the kitchen, while Danny continued poring over his vocabulary list. She scraped the uneaten portions into the sink but couldn’t bring herself to grind the chick in the garbage disposal, too. She wrapped the chick in the empty tortilla bag before she set it in the trash can.

When Nate came back downstairs to leave for school, Sarah asked, “Do you want me to drive you? Since it’s raining so hard?” The high school was only a block away, but she wanted to offer something, she didn’t want the argument to be the last words spoken before he left. He didn’t answer, though. He didn’t acknowledge her in any way; he just went out the front door. Sarah’s intention to drive him turned into wanting to run him over.

“How about you, Danny?”

“No, that’s okay,” he said. “I like the rain. But thanks.” Her eyes teared again when he hugged her before he went out the door. He at least wore a raincoat and carried an umbrella. Nate had left with just his sweatshirt hood up. He’d be wet and cold all day. Sarah felt a pang. She should have stopped him. She was a horrible mother.

She stood on the porch and watched Danny walk away up the boulevard. His elementary school was two blocks in the opposite direction from the high school. Oakhaven was so small there were no buses. When Danny waved before turning at the end of the street, she went inside.

Sarah snapped into action in the kitchen. Chopping and slicing were usually meditative tasks for her—time that her mind filled with new ideas and inspiration—but this morning, as she chopped onion, pressed garlic, and grated ginger for the Thai curry, she found her rhythm off. She kept thinking about the dead chick. What was wrong with her? Why had it unsettled her so? Was it just the argument with Nate?

She heated oil in a deep skillet and added her chopped ingredients. This curry was for a book club she catered every month, one of the jobs that was the “bread and butter” of her business, the Laden Table. The Laden Table had first started here in the house when Nate was a baby. Before that, Sarah had been one of the chefs at L’Auberge, a four-star restaurant in town. Once Danny entered kindergarten, she had moved the Laden Table downtown, opening a catering and carryout shop. Every day hundreds of people had wandered in and chosen lunch from her daily-changing menu. She had closed when Roy got sick and sold when he died. Now the Laden Table operated out of her home again. Sarah missed the excitement of the interactions with her regulars—from the Dayton Ballet dancers to the Sheraton Hotel’s shoeshine man to the lawyers from the firm that had been next door.

Gwinn Whitacre, one of Sarah’s former employees she’d been able to keep part-time, had been urging her to reopen the carryout shop. As much as Sarah missed it, she thought it was insane to even consider, as overwhelmed as she felt at the moment. “Simplify,” she said aloud, as she added mushrooms, sweet pepper, and lemongrass to the skillet, tossing and stirring. Her father had always said that to her. She feared she’d forgotten how.

And actually, while the vegetables cooked, she needed to check the amount of sugar-dough flowers already made, as it was time to get serious about Debbie Nielson’s daughter’s wedding cake. Sarah stirred the skillet contents, then dashed down to the basement. In one corner of the basement sat her son’s rabbit hutch, the black-and-white rabbit, Klezmer, blinking at her in the light. On the other side, beyond the storage freezer, were shelves and shelves full of sealed plastic storage containers of sugar-dough flowers. Debbie had ordered a three-tiered spice cake filled with apricot praline cream. It was to be decorated in antique white buttercream icing to match the bride’s dress. Debbie had wanted real flowers on the cake—the same used in her daughter’s bouquet—but Sarah had talked her out of this. There was always someone who ate the flowers, after all, especially at a reception so large, and the chemicals from the flowers tainted the flavor of the cake. So Sarah and Gwinn would cover the cake with cascades and swags of sugar-dough roses, lilacs, orange blossoms, and hydrangea. Sarah could hear herself telling the students in the class she’d taught just months ago, “Don’t wait until the week of your cake project to start making flowers. Flowers can be made and stored for up to six months in advance. If you’re organized and give yourself plenty of time to complete a cake, it can be a work of art.”

Yeah, right. If you’re organized. Sarah skimmed over the labeled boxes. They had plenty of Gwinn’s lovely roses and rosebuds. Plenty of lilacs. She’d need to get started on the hydrangea, though. As behind as she was, she looked forward to it. She’d stop at the florist and pick up real hydrangea to review. She’d study it, take it apart petal by petal to note the configuration and shape. She prided herself on making the flowers botanically correct, with petals as thin as the real thing.

If she was going to the florist, she might as well check her stock of florist wire and tape. Moving one storage container, she bumped a roll of florist tape off the shelf and it rolled over near the rabbit hutch, behind a bale of straw used for bedding. Sarah cursed and followed it. As she bent to retrieve it, she spied a magazine jutting from under the bale of straw. A magazine that had obviously been hidden. With heavy arms she pulled it out and turned it over. A Hustler.

Sarah tried to swallow the rage that boiled up her throat. Breathe. She opened the magazine to an image of a woman bent over, legs spread, presenting herself to Sarah.

Breathe. Breathe. What the hell was she supposed to say about this?

She stared at the woman, and as she did, she heard the sizzling in the kitchen. “Shit!” She ran up the stairs, dropping the magazine on the kitchen island, and stirred the smoking skillet. Some of the peppers had stuck to the bottom, but she was able to salvage the rest.

Salvage. Hmm. A vocabulary word. Now she had a sentence for Danny.

She stirred in the coconut milk, the fish sauce, and the Thai red chili paste. Her chest ached.

She’d found a Playboy two months ago in Nate’s room, just weeks after finding condoms in his jeans pocket in the laundry. She expected the Playboy. He was sixteen, after all, soon to be seventeen. She hadn’t been surprised, or angry—mostly sad at having to navigate this territory without Roy. But Hustler? She didn’t care so much that he had it, but for God’s sake, did he have to leave it in the most likely place for Danny to find? It exhausted her to think how she’d ask about this magazine. She was tempted to ignore it, seeing as how they had a platterful of problems already.

She removed the skillet from the heat and covered it. Now all she needed was the seafood. The market that supplied all of the area’s restaurants had just opened.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Nate as she drove over and hunted for what was best in the market that morning. The mussels would look dramatic with their black shells against the creamy pink sauce, but she settled for halibut and shrimp for the book club. Completing the meal would simply require poaching the seafood in the base while the rice cooked.

Nate still hung heavy in her thoughts on her way home when she drove along the Oakhaven golf course and passed the sunny, welcoming house of her friend Courtney Kendrick. This yellow house, with its periwinkle trim and shutters, had been one of her favorites long before the Kendricks had moved into it four years ago.

Sarah slowed the van.

It struck her that she’d come up with only two blessings that morning, so she added Courtney as the third. Courtney had been doggedly devoted to Sarah’s survival in the months following Roy’s death.

Sarah looked at the big house, remembering those daily phone calls.

“Hi. So what did you decide to wear today?” Courtney would ask.

“I’m not dressed.”

“You should put on that pretty green sweater,” her tiny blond friend would declare. “And those black pants you wore to open house. Put those on and come meet me at the Starbucks on Brown Street.”

“No . . . I can’t.” Everything was so impossible then.

“Yes you can. I’ll come get you. I have a break in an hour. Get dressed.”

And Sarah learned that if she didn’t dress, Courtney would come in and make her. And drag her by the hand to the car and force her to go drink coffee like a normal person.

Those phone calls: “What have you eaten today?” “How about we get your hair cut?” “Today we’re getting your van an oil change.” “What’s Danny wearing for school pictures tomorrow?”

Sarah blinked away the tears.

Then she blinked again and squinted through the rain.

Courtney’s son, Jordan, walked alone down his long driveway toward the road. Jordan was in Danny’s fifth-grade class. He used to be Danny’s best friend, but in the past couple of weeks, they’d seemed to have had a disagreement that neither Sarah nor Courtney could figure out. It pained both women. Jordan was an odd child, shy and aloof, but Sarah liked him. She was more than a little aware that Danny was odd and shy as well, and that without each other the two boys seemed destined to be outcast loners. Before she’d gotten pregnant, she used to wonder aloud, “What happens if we have the kid no one likes?”

Roy used to kiss her and say, “Then we’ll just love him more, because he’ll need it.”

Courtney worried seriously about Jordan and had told Sarah yesterday that she and Mark were having Jordan tested for Asperger’s syndrome, known to cause the sort of social-interaction handicaps that Jordan seemed to have.

The rain poured as heavy as a waterfall, and Sarah knew that Jordan was more than an hour late to school. She pulled her van into the driveway beside him, and Jordan stopped walking and stared at her. He carried his green backpack in front of him, his arms crossed over it against his chest, as if he expected someone might snatch it from him. The rain matted his blond hair to his forehead. Sarah rolled down her window. “What are you doing out here?

Jordan looked at her and said, “Walking to school,” as if she were an idiot.

“Where’s your mom?”

“At work.” An ob-gyn, Courtney worked in a private practice as well as at Miami Valley Hospital, the same hospital where Roy had worked.

Sarah frowned. She knew that Courtney drove Jordan to school every morning. “Well, is this good timing or what, then? Get in. I’ll take you.”

But he stood there, as if uncertain. Water ran over Jordan’s face, beading in his lashes. It ran off his earlobes and fingertips and the bottom hem of his blue parka, but he didn’t move. Sarah remembered herself standing in the rain earlier that morning, how good the shocking cold had felt. She looked into Jordan’s face, and he, too, seemed to radiate a sense of new purpose. The wind shifted, and rain poured in the van window, soaking her sleeve. “Come on. Get in,” she said, as gently as she could.

Jordan walked around to the passenger side. He put his book bag on the van floor and climbed in.

“Is your dad at work, too?” Sarah asked.

Jordan nodded. Mark was president of Kendrick, Kirker & Co., a huge PR firm.

“Why are you so late for school?”

Jordan shrugged and looked out the window. “I fell back asleep.”

“Your mom left you alone?”

“She was on call. She had an emergency.”

“Well, we’ll get you there.” Reaching behind her, Sarah pulled a white cotton tablecloth out of the pile she’d packed for the lunch. “Here. Dry off.” He took it from her, and she backed out of the drive. For a moment he just held the tablecloth; then he wiped his face.

Keeping an eye on the road—she’d twice nearly hit deer down here along the golf course—Sarah attempted to elicit some kind of friendliness from this boy. She was never sure if he was just unbearably shy or simply hated talking to her, but she always wanted to try; it seemed too cruel to pretend he wasn’t there and drive along in silence.

“I’m cooking for you guys again Friday night,” she said. Tomorrow she’d cater curried chicken on rice noodles, with lime-and-pepper sauce, for three couples at the Kendricks’. Mark was entertaining some clients.

Jordan didn’t answer.

“Those parties are probably boring, huh?” She wanted desperately to fill this quiet, to be nice to him. “Are there ever any kids your age, or is it just grown-ups?”

Jordan looked straight ahead but whispered, “There’s kids.”

“Oh, good. Do you like them?”

He shrugged, then pulled the tablecloth around him, as if cold. Looking at him draped in white like that, Sarah remembered that kids at school mockingly called Jordan “the angel,” partly because he was so obviously the teacher’s pet but mainly because of an incident she’d witnessed at the choir concert rehearsal. The concert was very much a Christmas concert, even though the school called it a “holiday” concert, apparently in concession to the non-Christian families like her own. She’d been standing with Danny’s class lined up in the gym waiting their turn to go onstage and practice. They watched the fourth-graders sing “Silent Night,” and the lights changed to reveal a tableau of little girls dressed as angels. Jordan, standing at her elbow, had said, “I wish I were an angel.” He had a way of blurting out the most bizarre statements to no one in particular, and half the time Sarah thought he didn’t mean to speak aloud. She was certain he hadn’t meant to that time, as he startled and blushed at the derisive laughter from the kids in earshot.

“Ooh,” Billy Porter had taunted. “Jordan wants to wear a dress and wings.”

“Shut up,” Danny had said.

Sarah had quieted the kids and scolded Billy—and later praised Danny for sticking up for his friend—but five months later the nickname stuck.

Jordan, here in the van, sighed. She looked over at him. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Are you sick?”

She reached over and touched his forehead. In the second before he rolled his head away from her reach, ovenlike heat met her fingertips. “You’re burning up. You are sick.”

Jordan thrust the tablecloth from him and sat up straight. “Pull in here,” he said with urgency, nodding to a gas station at the intersection ahead. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Sure.” Sarah glanced at him. Was he going to throw up? The van bucked across the uneven gravel lot of the tiny station. Jordan grasped the dashboard, his face white.

“Oh, no. They’re closed. But we can—”

“There’s a port-o-john,” Jordan said, pointing.

“Oh, no, hon, you don’t want to go in there—” But he was already opening his door. “Jordan, they’re so dirty. Can you hang a few more minutes? I’ll get you to a cleaner bathroom.” He slid out the door, knees buckling as his feet hit the ground. He picked up his backpack, then hesitated. He looked at the port-o-john, then at Sarah, and carefully put the bag back on the floor.

“You need any help?” she asked, but he shook his head. He bit his lip, looked at his pack, then slammed the door. He weaved his way to the port-o-john and disappeared inside it. Sarah pulled up the hood of her rain jacket and followed him. “I’m right outside,” she called, feeling helpless. She wanted to go inside with him, but God knows what she’d be able to do to help him, and there’d hardly be room for two. Poor kid. How hideous to be sick inside one of those gross places. She wondered if diarrhea, not vomiting, threatened, because if it were vomiting, she knew she’d rather just do it out here in the parking lot.

When the wind blew the rain sideways against her, she walked under the shelter of the gas station’s overhang. A wiry brown-and-white terrier emerged from under a bench near the front door and wagged its stump of a tail at her. She scratched it behind the ears, keeping an anxious eye on the port-o-john.

Jordan was too sick to go to school. Sarah would take him to her house and call Courtney, glad to do this favor for her friend. What had happened that Courtney had rushed off and left him alone, so obviously ill? That wasn’t like Courtney at all; she usually seemed an almost overprotective mother. When the Kendricks first moved here four years ago, most of the teachers and parents had worried that Courtney was going to be high-maintenance because she asked so many questions at the back-to-school orientation. Was there much bullying? Did someone monitor the kids in the PE locker room? Could kids take an extra period of art instead of PE if they were involved in extracurricular sports? Everyone understood her worries when they met Jordan—so small, so shy, a loner who shunned the other kids’ prompted efforts to include him. Most of the adults found him likable in his oddball way. He was smart and a voracious reader, often lost, it seemed, in his own internal world. He’d won the school spelling bee every year that he’d been here.

It pained Sarah that the kids didn’t like him. Danny had at first befriended Jordan, without she or Roy even urging it, but even sweet, kind Danny had begun to speak disparagingly of Jordan lately. Sarah had tried to talk to Danny about it—what had happened? had they argued?—but Danny would only say that Jordan was “mean” to him. Courtney couldn’t get anything out of Jordan, other than Danny “didn’t like” him.

Sarah had seen Courtney just last night. They’d treated themselves and had made arrangements to go, child free, to El Meson, their favorite restaurant. The owner and the chef stopped at their table, recommended dishes, and offered them complimentary portions of new appetizers they were still toying with, asking Sarah’s opinion.

“It’s fun coming here with you,” Courtney said when they were alone at the table again. “You’re famous.”

“Only to people involved with food,” Sarah said. “And when it comes to food, these people are geniuses.”

After some sangria and the best paella Sarah had ever eaten, Courtney confided that Jordan’s teachers said he’d grown more withdrawn, even less social, since the winter break, even though his grades remained excellent. That’s when she’d told Sarah about the Asperger’s tests. Courtney’s blue eyes filled with tears as she told Sarah that Asperger’s was more common in males and its onset was recognized later than autism. She showed Sarah a brochure that said “clumsiness, social-interaction problems, and idiosyncratic behaviors” were reported.

Sarah knew that Asperger’s syndrome could not be completely cured, but Courtney said she didn’t care. “It would just be a relief,” she said, “to have a reason, something to tell people to explain why he is how he is.”

They’d talked for about two hours, but Courtney hadn’t mentioned anything about Jordan’s being sick.

Now Sarah looked across the gas-station parking lot and tried to will Jordan out of the port-o-john. What was taking the poor kid so long? As if it read her mind, the little terrier trotted through the rain to the blue plastic hut. The dog sniffed at the bottom of the door.

Sarah stepped back into the rain. “You doing okay?” she yelled, banging on the john door. “Jordan? Are you all right?” She hesitated but decided she was a mom after all; if she saw private parts of him exposed, it was no big deal. She pulled open the door and stood staring, not comprehending for a moment what she saw.

Jordan sat on the floor, his body facing her, with his knees up sharp by his shoulders. His head lolled to one side, hair touching that filthy seat. Sarah filed away every detail in slow motion—his eyes rolled back white in his head, the puff of gray foam on his chin dripping into his lap, the crotch of his jeans dark, a pool of urine under him. She looked up at his face again, finally seeing it: the needle in his neck.

A thin line of blood dripped from the hypodermic jutting out of his throat.

The terrier barked and jolted her into action.

“Oh, my God! Jordan!” She shook his shoulders, and a small glass vial rolled from the crook of his hip to the floor. She snatched it up—a trace of clear liquid rolled in the vial. “Jordan? What is this? What did you do?” She shook him again, and the needle bobbed. Without thinking she jerked it out, but her stomach somersaulted when she saw the drops of blood that blossomed and dripped down his neck in rhythm with his pulse.

She shoved the vial into her coat pocket before reaching under his arms and hauling him out of the john. Her adrenaline was too much and Jordan much slighter than she expected, so she barreled out of the port-o-john and fell. Jordan ended up on his back, looking up at the rain, mouth open, hands unnaturally bent, fingers fluttering. Sarah scooped him up and carried him to the van, the terrier yapping at her heels. She opened the side door and shoveled Jordan in among the plastic bags of wrapped fish and shrimp, then grabbed her cell phone and dialed 911. She realized she couldn’t describe where she was. She had no idea what side street she was on, and no name identified the gas station. “Never mind.” She slammed shut the van door and ran around to the driver’s side. “I’ll bring him to Miami Valley Hospital. Can you tell the ER?”

Sarah tossed the phone into the passenger seat before the dispatcher finished speaking. “Jordan! Jordan!” she screamed as she peeled out of the gravel lot and careened through the rainy streets. “Don’t die, don’t die, please don’t die. Jordan! Talk to me!”

As if in answer, more vomit gurgled out of his throat. In the hurried glimpses over her shoulder, she saw he was twitching, convulsing, but as long as she heard his ragged breaths, she could drive instead of performing CPR. She kept repeating his name until she pulled in to the emergency-room lot, ignoring the red sign that said AMBULANCES ONLY, PLEASE, driving onto the sidewalk, almost hitting the entrance doors.

Throwing the van into park, its windshield wipers still flapping, she yanked open the side door and pulled Jordan out by the ankles until she could reach under his arms. She half dragged him through the double set of doors into the registration area, where three people she recognized rushed to meet her, calling her by name. “Is it Danny?” Nancy Rhee asked her as she and an orderly took the child from Sarah’s arms and put him on a waiting gurney.

“No. No, he isn’t mine. His name is Jordan Kendrick. Courtney Kendrick’s son. She’s a doctor here. Obstetrics. I think she’s here now.” The receptionist bolted for the phone.

Nancy was already rushing Jordan away, announcing, “This kid’s in cardiac arrest,” and that she needed this and this and that, combinations of words and numbers that made up the language Roy used to speak. Sarah reached into her pocket for the vial. “He took drugs! Here! He took this!”

A nurse snatched the vial from her and ran after Nancy.

A male nurse led Sarah to a chair and said, “Give me your keys, Sarah. I’ll park your van.” She handed over the keys without speaking, wishing that she hadn’t needed to see his name tag to remember that his name was Alan. It had been two years since she’d set foot here, where Roy had worked and where she’d had to bring him at the unexpected end. They’d known he was dying, but she hadn’t realized the cancer would be so quick and greedy. She wondered if Roy had known that it would be and hadn’t told her. Sarah had sat right here, in this very chair, that last night, waiting for her mother to bring the kids, not knowing she should be holding Roy’s hand, listening to his last words. She’d thought they would admit him, that they’d have time to move to a hospice.

The receptionist announced, “Dr. Kendrick’s on her way down.” The police arrived first, though, and pulled Sarah into an empty exam room and asked her to describe what had happened. She told them and then was free to go.

Knowing that she’d missed Courtney’s arrival while she talked to the police, she sought out Alan, who told her Jordan had gone into a second cardiac arrest, which they were working on now. He told her Courtney couldn’t see her right then.

By the time Sarah reached home, there was a sobbing message on the answering machine. “Please don’t tell anyone. Please don’t talk about this. Sarah, please.” Sarah shuddered at the hysteria in Courtney’s voice. There was a pause, then a thump, as if Courtney’d dropped the phone. Hospital paging codes sounded in the background. When she spoke again, her tone had changed. Collected and soothing, as if she thought Sarah were the hysterical one, Courtney said, “I ask for your discretion, Sarah. I’m sure you understand. We’ll handle this. Everything will be just fine,” and hung up.

Sarah didn’t make the book-club lunch. She was hours late. She called and said there’d been an emergency and apologized profusely. Next month would be complimentary. The hostess was gracious and forgiving. Sarah fretfully paced the house, then rolled pale lavender sugar dough and made three bunches of sugar-dough lilacs she didn’t need, just to do something with her hands.

Her hands. She massaged the small blue bruise on the back of her hand, where the mother robin had pecked her. She thought about that blood-streaked suggestion of a chick.

It wasn’t until much later in the day, removing the ruined seafood from the van, that Sarah noticed Jordan’s green book bag still on the floor of her van’s front seat.