“This is weird,” I say.
“What?”
I squeeze once, then pull my hand away. “This.”
She doesn’t get it. “What do you mean?”
Even though it’s a different situation, even though we’re in an emergency situation right now, she’s still looking at me that way. I can feel her feeling things for me. I am receiving that.
I try to explain. “It’s not like the other day. I mean, it’s a different hand. You’re different.”
“But I’m not.”
I wish I could believe that was true. “You can’t say that,” I tell her. “Yes, you’re the same person inside. But the outside matters, too.”
“You look the same, no matter what eyes I’m seeing you through. I feel the same.”
If this is possible, what else is possible?
I can’t imagine what it must be like to live like that.
A is asking me to imagine it. I know she (he?) is. But it’s hard.
I go back to her argument about this girl, about not interfering. “You never get involved in the people’s lives?” I ask. “The ones you’re inhabiting.”
She shakes her head.
But there’s a contradiction here, isn’t there? “You try to leave the lives the way you found them,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“But what about Justin? What made that so different?”
“You.”
I cannot wear that answer. It can’t possibly fit.
“That makes no sense,” I say.
Then, as if to answer my thoughts, she leans in and kisses me. I am not expecting it. I am not expecting the feel of her lips, the chapped roughness. I am not expecting her fingers light against my neck.
I am not sure who I’m kissing.
I’m really not sure.
Because if it’s A, the person who kissed me on the beach, it’s one thing. But if it’s this girl, that’s another. This girl doesn’t want to be kissed by me. This girl isn’t a fairy-tale character who can be cured by a kiss. This girl needs much more help than that. I know.
After a minute of letting it happen, I pull back, even more confused than before.
“This is definitely weird,” I say.
“Why?”
I feel it should be obvious. “Because you’re a girl? Because I still have a boyfriend? Because we’re talking about someone else’s suicide?”
“In your heart, does any of that matter?”
I know the answer she wants. But it’s not the truth.
“Yes,” I tell her. “It does.”
“Which part?”
“All of it. When I kiss you, I’m not actually kissing you, you know. You’re inside there somewhere. But I’m kissing the outside part. And right now, although I can feel you underneath, all I’m getting is the sadness. I’m kissing her, and I want to cry.”
“That’s not what I want.”
“I know. But that’s what there is.”
I can’t stay on the bed. I can’t stay in this conversation. I didn’t come here to talk about us. I came here because we need to save this girl’s life.
I stand up and try to push us back on course.
“If she were bleeding in the street, what would you do?” I ask.
A seems disappointed. I can’t tell whether it’s because I’ve changed the conversation back, or because she knows she has to make the call.
“That’s not the same situation,” she says.
Not good enough. “If she were going to kill someone else?” I challenge.
“I would turn her in.”
Aha. “So how is this different?”
“It’s her own life. Not anyone else’s.”
“But it’s still killing.”
“If she really wants to do it, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
If A weren’t in someone else’s body, I might try to slap some sense into her, this logic is so damaged. You can’t cry for help, then claim to be a bystander.
“Okay,” she says before I can go on, “putting up obstacles can help. Getting other people involved can help. Getting her to the proper doctors can help.”
“Just like if she had cancer, or were bleeding in the street.”
I see it’s all sinking in. It’s still amazing to me that she’s never had to deal with this before.
“So who do I tell?” she asks.
“A guidance counselor, maybe?” I offer.
She looks at the clock. “School’s closed. And we only have until midnight, remember.”
“Who’s her best friend?” I ask.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s what A confirms—there’s no one.
“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?” I try.
“No.”
“A suicide hotline?”
“If we call one, they’d only be giving me advice, not her. We have no way of knowing if she’ll remember it tomorrow, or if it will have any effect. Believe me, I’ve thought about these options.”
“So it has to be her father. Right?”
“I think he checked out a while ago.”
I’ve always felt like the expert on checked-out parents. What’s interesting is that now I discover another truth underneath: Even if they seem that far gone, they’re rarely all the way gone. If they were already gone, they would’ve left.
“Well,” I say, “you need to get him to check back in.”
Because that has to be possible. Maybe not easy. But possible.
“What do I say?” A asks.
“You say, ‘Dad, I want to kill myself.’ Just come right out and say it.”
That would wake my parents up. I know it would.
“And if he asks me why?”
“You tell him you don’t know why. Don’t commit to anything. She’ll have to work that out starting tomorrow.”
“You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?”
“It was a busy drive over,” I tell her, even though the truth is that most of it is just appearing to me now.
“What if he doesn’t care? What if he doesn’t believe her?”
“Then you grab his keys and drive to the nearest hospital. Bring the journal with you.”
I know it’s asking a lot.