“So you don’t go to school,” she says. “Obviously.”
I shake my head.
“And when I went over last night, your father couldn’t actually see you.”
“Correct.”
“What other lies have you told me?”
There’s a cutting, wounded tone in her voice now. And I think, This is not how I want to tell her. But I can’t avoid it any longer.
“My mother’s dead,” I say. “She lived with me for most of my life. Until a year ago. My dad isn’t really in the picture; he just pays for things. But my mother was everything.”
It’s Laurie who says, “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
Elizabeth, though, is still caught up in the larger anger. “You lied about that? Why would you lie about that?”
“Elizabeth,” Laurie cautions.
“No,” I say, “it’s a valid question. Even though there isn’t really a valid answer. I mean, I don’t know. That’s the answer. It was just something that came out of my mouth the first time we talked about it, and then once I’d said it, I was pretty much stuck there. And, I admit, there were moments when it was nice to pretend she was still alive. Bittersweet, but nice.”
“I guess I gave you a lot of chances to pretend,” Elizabeth says. “Pretend to be visible. Pretend to have a mom. Pretend to like me. What a joke. What an amazing joke that must have been.”
I really can’t comprehend why she’s saying such things.
“It wasn’t pretend,” I tell her. “Not with you. I’m genuine with you. More than I’ve ever been allowed to be. Because you can see me.”
“It’s not fair,” she says. “It’s just not fair.”
Now the anger is subsiding, but it’s sadness, not tenderness, that’s emerging in its place.
It’s Laurie who says, “I think you should probably go.”
“No,” I say. “Not until . . .” And then I freeze. Not until what? Not until she recognizes that the time we’ve had together was never a lie? Not until she says that, hey, even though I’m invisible to most people, she’s happy to be with me forever? Not until someone in the room acknowledges that this isn’t easy for me either? That it’s never been easy for me, and this is taking all the hopes I’ve ever had and pulverizing them into one neat, tidy black hole?
I’m trying to think of something else to say when Elizabeth surprises me by starting to laugh.
“What?” I say.
She shakes her head. But she can’t stop laughing. “It’s just that—I thought to myself, ‘You have to tell him you can’t see him anymore.’ Isn’t that funny? I can’t see you anymore. That’s so incredibly funny.”
“All right, Jo, c’mon,” Laurie says. He moves over to comfort her again, but she pushes him away.
“No, Laurie—don’t you think it’s funny? Isn’t it hysterical? My life—everything that’s happened so far in New York—is a complete joke. So shouldn’t I be allowed to laugh at it?”
“You can laugh all you want,” Laurie says gently. “But I don’t really think you find it funny. And I don’t think Stephen finds it funny either.”
“Thank you, Laurie,” I say.
Now it’s his turn to shake his head, as if he can’t accept my thanks.
“Really,” he says, “you have to go. Although we all know this isn’t a joke, you have to admit that it is extremely, extremely messed up.”
“Believe me, I know. I’ve lived it my whole life.”
I know I have to go now. I know that by leaving the room, I am running the risk of never being allowed inside again. That’s not my call to make. I know that.
“I’ll go,” I say. I look at Elizabeth again. “Is that what you want?”
She doesn’t say a word. Just nods.
I turn to leave. But then Laurie calls out to me.
“Hey—just one more thing,” he says.
“Yes?”
“Sean—he’s not, like, one of you, is he?”
“One of me?”
“Like, we haven’t moved into an apartment building that’s secretly for mutants, have we?”
It’s probably a good thing Laurie can’t see my expression.
“No,” I assure him. “It’s just me.”
“Thanks.”
I concentrate on the doorknob, on letting myself out. Then, when I get to my own door, I concentrate on the doorknob, on letting myself in. I think that this might be the easiest way to live—just concentrate on the small things, and never let your mind wander to the big things. But it’s a faulty premise, built on the notion that you can choose where your mind goes. Or where your heart goes.
I’m sorry. I should have said it again to her, before I left. Even though I didn’t choose this, I’m sorry she’s become involved. Because if she’s feeling even a fraction of the loneliness I’m feeling, or even a fraction of the disappointment—well, then, she’s right. It is deeply unfair.
“I’m sorry,” I say aloud. And again. “I’m sorry.”
But who’s around to hear it?
Nobody but me.
Chapter 10
LAURIE GUIDES ME to the couch. I’m shivering and a little nauseated. My skin is too tight and my head throbs.
“I’ll get you some water,” he says.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to rub away the chill that’s settled over me.
Words that end in ble turn in my brain like a wicked carousel. Impossible. Improbable. Inconceivable. Unacceptable. Undeniable.
But it all brings me back to one word: invisible.
“Here.” Laurie folds my hands around a glass.
I take a sip.
“You’re going to be late,” I say.
He laughs. “Josie, we’ve just learned not only is it possible for someone to be invisible, but the invisible person isn’t being discussed on Dateline. He’s your boyfriend.”
I flinch.
“Sorry.” His voice gets softer. “Maybe you’re not ready to hear this, but I know how you get. Don’t blame him for stuff that isn’t his fault. Before this happened, how were you feeling about Stephen?”
I drink more water. I thought he would grind my heart up in the garbage disposal when he broke up with me.