“Oh shit. Lena. I didn’t think.”
“It’s all right,” Lena lied.
“He was a year behind me in high school,” Annie said. “We were in the same group of friends, but I never brought him up because I thought it would—and see, you are upset.”
There had been a circle of young women at the funeral, neat dark suits and shining hair. Their high-pitched sobs of disbelief had lassoed Lena with shame. Had Annie been among them?
“It’s fine,” Lena said. She felt and sounded cross. “Don’t worry about me, Annie. I’m the last person you should feel sorry for.”
Feel sorry for Gary Neary. Feel sorry for Bryce, and the life he might have constructed, given the chance.
Lena could still feel, all these years later, the sickening soft bump under her tire late at night, see the boy’s empty blue sneaker planted upright in the middle of the road.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jen sat in a garnet-cushioned hotel chair, in the empty front row of the ballroom where Maxine Das had just completed her Q and A. Maxine was still onstage, trying to extract herself from the group of overly enthusiastic elephant fans grouped around her.
Maxine’s latest documentary had been framed by the heart-pulverizing story of Flower, a baby elephant born with a birth defect, and consequently ostracized by his herd. Jen still felt slightly sick from watching poor Flower desperately wander the savanna to the soundtrack of mournful violins.
Nature was brutal.
So was the nasty little voice in Jen’s head. It sounded a lot like Scofield and tended to lie in wait, piping up when Jen was weak and shaky.
Abe’s the vandal, the voice said. You know he is.
Jen did not know that. School, therapies, Colin; things were more hopeful than ever.
Only because you’re in denial.
Jen felt the world lurch.
Was she in denial? Maybe her brain was spending all of its energy obscuring unsavory facts about Abe, which was why she couldn’t focus on anything of substance?
Or maybe the Scofield voice had piped up because Jen had developed a warped kind of Münchhausen syndrome, where her identity had gotten so wrapped up in Abe’s conditions—
Jen stood up abruptly and marched herself to the long table with coffee urns and metal trays of cookies.
Another woman perused what was left of the picked-over treats. With that bushy gray hair and the long floral scarf overwhelming her tiny frame, she reminded Jen of Nan Smalls.
It was Nan Smalls, which made no sense at all unless Jen was now hearing voices and hallucinating. She slipped her right hand inside the left sleeve of her cardigan and pinched her forearm.
The woman, still there, turned and smiled. “Hello, Jen. So nice to see you here.”
“Nan?” Jen said hesitantly.
“My son got me into elephants,” Nan said. “He found them fascinating.”
Jen felt an ache deep in her heart. Sweet chubby-cheeked Danny Smalls had toddled around, stuffed elephant in hand. Years later, his mother was at Maxine’s talk, maintaining the connection.
Nature was brutal.
“Have you ever seen gummy elephants before?” Nan was regarding the tray of mini cupcakes, which were white-frosted with pink elephant gummies on top.
“No. Just gummy bears,” Jen said. “Well, everyone’s seen gummy bears, right?”
“Mmm.” Nan selected a cupcake, plucked the gummy elephant off the top, and popped it in her mouth. “I always feel a little thrill eating sticky candy. My ex-husband hated it.”
Jen managed a sympathetic cluck.
“It’s the ritualized bonding that amazes me,” Nan continued.
“With gummy candy?”
“With the elephants.”
“Yes.” Jen nodded vigorously. “Yes.” Speaking of bonding … “I’ve been meaning to check in with you.”
“Oh?”
“About Abe.”
“What about him?”
“Just, you know, how’s he doing?”
Do you think he might be destroying private property in his spare time and lying about it for kicks?
Nan beamed. “Colin’s wonderful, isn’t he?”
The nonresponse said it all.
Danny Smalls. Flower the elephant. The worry about Abe. The moment—this world—was gray and hopeless and suddenly all too much. Jen felt the prick of tears in her eyes.
Nan reached out her hand, paper-thin skin, knobby blue veins, to Jen’s shoulder. She spoke in a soft, quiet voice that made Jen’s eyelashes flutter. “Please draw strength from this.”