Page 54 of Fade into You
“I can’t believe that guy did that.”
“I can.” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “My sister can really push people to their limits when she gets like that.”
“Was she… on something… or drunk, or high, or whatever?”
“No.” She brings her fingers to my wrist, holding on for just a moment before she pulls my hand and the ice pack away. “Imean, she’s drunk, but that’s not why she was acting like that. She’s sick.”
“What is it?”
“She’s bipolar… you know, manic-depressive?” she says, and I nod to let her know that yes, I know what that is. At least, I’ve heard of it. “She just gets really high and really low and she sometimes goes off her meds and it just messes her up even more. It’s not really her fault, though; she’s just…” She pauses, looking into my eyes like she’s trying to make sure I understand.
“She’s sick,” I repeat.
“Yeah,” Jessa says. “She’s just sick, and she needs more help than… I don’t know.” She stops and shakes her head, lets it fall into her hands.
“No, say it.” I touch her shoulder and she sits up again. “What?”
“She needs more help than I know how to give her.”
“Well, what about your parents? They’re—”
“Fucking oblivious,” she says, laughing sadly through the words.
I place my hand on top of hers, sitting there on the bed between us. “I’m sorry. “She’s lucky to have you looking out for her.”
She shakes her head dismissively.
“Mack is lucky to have you,” I repeat more firmly.
“Thanks,” she says, her voice tight. She pulls her hand from beneath mine and stands abruptly. “I mean, thanks for your help tonight.”
“Yeah, of course.” I resist the urge to stand up too, themuscles in my thighs fighting with my brainnotto go to her,notto pull her into a hug,notto stop her pacing. “Are you okay?” I ask instead.
“You know what? I’ll be honest with you—I’m not.”
“Okay.” And now I do stand. I do go to her. I do reach for her. And she backs away. My hand freezes. “Um, I’m sorry, I—”
“No, it’s me. God!” She shouts this last part at herself.
“What would help? Is there anything I can do? Do you want…” I hesitate, before finishing. “Do you want me to leave? I could walk home or—”
“No,” she answers. “I don’t want you to leave. But…” She pauses.
“What?”
“Listen, I know you hate it, but would you hatemeif I smoked up right now?”
“Jessa, no.” I laugh. “I wouldn’t hate you.”
She flings open her desk drawer and pulls out a plastic container. “Oh, thank god, because I could really use some right about now.” She brings the container to a wooden bench under the nook carved out for a gabled window and sets it on her lap. I take a few steps closer to her, kind of entranced by this unfamiliar ritual. She opens a tiny cardboard box and pulls out a small piece of paper, delicately setting it on the lid of the container, then she opens a baggie, pinches out a portion of the weed, and sprinkles it carefully inside. She rolls it between her fingers so gently. And as she swipes her tongue along the edge to seal it, my heart does a strange little stutter in my chest.
She reaches into her pocket for her trusty Zippo and quicklylights the end of the joint, inhales deep, then rushes to get her window open before she exhales.
I can’t stop myself from going to sit down next to her. When she turns back from the window, she seems surprised to find me so close. She’s inhaling and trying to fan the smoke away from my face. “Sorry,” she croaks, before blowing the smoke out the window again.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Um, I—I was w-wondering…” I take a breath, apologize for my stupid stutter. “Sorry.”
“No, what?”
