The Kindness of Strangers (4 page)

“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.

Chapter Two
Jordan

J
ordan? Jordan? Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”

He thought it was an angel. So he smiled. But moving his mouth made his teeth click against something. He wasn’t there. Not yet. Maybe soon.

“Jordan?” the voice asked.

The voice echoed in his head and spun around in his brain. It sounded in one ear, then the other. He ignored the voice. He liked where he was right now. Rocking on the warm water in the dark.

“You’re in the hospital, Jordan, and you’re safe.”

His raft rocked too far. He almost tipped. Water seeped in all around him. He’d sink.

He didn’t open his eyes, but his mind woke up. Really woke up. He was cold, and he hurt. The hospital? He wasn’t supposed to be in the hospital.

“Jordan? You’re waking up. Can you hear us? Can you blink your eyes?”

Don’t do it. It’s a trick. Figure it out first. Stay in the dark.

Jordan fell off the raft into the freezing water.

He remembered his plan.

If he was in the hospital, he’d screwed up bad.

And he didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help it—he heard himself make this sound, like a puppy. A whimper. He didn’t do it on purpose. It just came out. And it sounded like it came from far away, not from him.

“Jordan?” the girl voice said. “It’s okay. You’re all right. You’re safe.”

He’d never be safe. Not
now.
He tried to open his eyes. The light was too bright. His eyes burned like there was soap in them. His head was so heavy. Like a giant watermelon. Like his brain was swollen and pushing against his skull. And his throat. He tried to swallow. Something was in his mouth and throat. It gagged him. He’d choke. He couldn’t breathe.

“Jordan! It’s okay. Stop—hold him! Hold his arms!”

Someone else’s hands grabbed his and pulled them away from his mouth. He didn’t even know he had reached for his mouth. Just like that whimper sound, he didn’t mean to do it. Those other hands pinned his arms down by his sides. He stopped fighting. He gave in. He always gave in. He hated himself more than he hated those other hands. But he was so tired. Just go ahead. Get it over with.