Eventually the questions get more serious. “Do you have a mom and dad?” Eric asks.
Ashton didn’t expect that question. I can tell because he falters, and I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. “Everyone has a mom and dad.”
“Where are they?”
“Uh . . . my dad is at his house and my mom isn’t around anymore.”
“Did she die?” Eric asks with complete innocence.
A flicker of pain flashes across Ashton’s face.
“Remember the deal, boys,” I warn with a raised brow.
“I thought that was just our deaths,” Derek says solemnly.
“No, it’s a blanket rule. It applies to everyone.”
“Okay, sorry, Ace,” Eric says, hanging his head.
Ashton leans forward and squeezes his shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing, little man. She’s a bit strict with her rules, isn’t she?”
Eric rolls his eyes dramatically. “You have no idea.”
The boys keep throwing out questions in typical innocent-child style and Ashton keeps answering them. I find out that Ashton’s mom was from Spain, which is where he gets his dark eyes and tanned complexion. I find out that he’s an only child. I find out that he was born and raised in New York. I’m finding out more about him in this brief interrogation by two curious five-year-olds than I thought possible. Maybe more than most people have ever learned about Ashton Henley.
Finally, Ashton stands and announces, “Sorry to leave, but I have somewhere I need to be. It was real, hanging with you guys.” He holds out a hand in a fist-bump.
“Yeah, it was real,” Eric mimics casually as he and his brother return the gesture, their fists so tiny next to Ashton’s. All three of them turn to look at me, and I realize that I must have made a sappy sound.
Pinching my elbow lightly, Ashton says, “I’ll be back in three hours to pick you up by the main entrance, okay?” With that, he’s gone.
The rest of the volunteer shift goes downhill quickly. Lola comes in, looking smaller and paler and more feeble than the last time I saw her. Derek whispers to me that she’s been coming in less and less. The boys last only another hour before they say that they’re not feeling well, twisting my stomach. I spend the rest of the shift with other children—one recuperating from surgery after a car accident, another one there for a rare heart condition.
And I find myself watching the clock for more than one reason.
A different guy picks meets me at the main entrance three hours later. Not the playful, teasing one who shared a miniature table with two sick kids and made them giggle. Not the one who listened with quiet ease while I disclosed my long string of embarrassing, psychiatrist-inspired adventures.
No . . . the guy sitting next to me says barely a word, shares barely a look as we leave the city. I don’t know what happened, but something has changed. Something to make his jaw taut and his eyes glaze over. To make him so discontented that my chest aches with the growing tension. More than I already left the hospital with.
I last an hour in silence, gazing out at the darkening skies and the streetlights, tucking my hair behind my ears a dozen times, adjusting and readjusting myself in my seat, before I decide to close my eyes and pretend to sleep, just as we approach the turnoff for Princeton.
“Did you get into the hospital’s Ambien supply before I picked you up, Irish?” It’s more the sound of his voice than his question that makes my eyes fly open with surprise. I turn to see a tiny smile breaking through that cloud and I heave a sigh of relief.
“Sorry,” I mumble. But I’m not. I’m happy to see Ashton more relaxed.
“How was the rest of your volunteer session?”
“Hard. Sometimes I wonder if it will get easier. I love being around kids and I want to help them, but . . .” Tears trickle down my cheek. “I don’t know if I can handle wondering which ones I’m around are going to survive.” Ashton is silent as I brush my hand across my cheek and sniffle.
“I wondered about that, back when you told me what you wanted to be,” he says quietly. “It takes a special kind of person to be able to sit back and wait for someone to die, especially when you can’t stop it from happening.”
Is that what happened to you, Ashton? Did you have to watch your mother die? I don’t say that out loud. Instead, I say, “I’m not sure that I’m that kind of person.” Pausing, I add, “Wow. I’ve never admitted that out loud before. To anyone.”
“Not even your doctor?”
“No! Especially not him. He thinks he has me all figured out,” I mutter.
“What do you mean?”
I shake my head. “No way, Ashton. You’ve already gotten enough out of me for one day.”
Strumming his fingertips against the steering wheel, he sighs. “Fine. How were the twins after I left?”
I smile. “They asked if you could come back,” I confirm with a chuckle.
A wide smile stretches across his face. “Yeah? They liked me that much?”
I roll my eyes. “I think they liked you more than they like me. Eric said that I must get really angry when I’m Irish if you don’t want to be my boyfriend.”
A deep, throaty laugh escapes Ashton’s lips and my body instantly warms. “What’d you say?”
“Oh, I assured him that I get plenty mad even when I’m not ‘Irish’ and you’re around.”
That earns another laugh. “I love it when you don’t censor yourself. When you just say what’s on your mind and don’t worry about it.”
“Then you and Stayner would get along well . . .” We pass campus signs, indicating we’re not far and my day with Ashton is almost over. I don’t know when I’ll see him again. The thought hurts.
“That’s right. You’re supposed to be spilling your guts to me, right?”
My head falls back against the headrest as I mutter, more to myself, “You first.”
I didn’t really mean anything by it. Ashton is riddled with secrets, but I know they’re not going to start trickling out of his mouth anytime soon. Still, I sense the temperature in the car plummet.
“What do you want to know?” His tone is low and quiet. Hesitant, even.
“I—” My voice falters. I start with what I think is an innocent question, my voice as casual as possible. “You told the boys that you want to be a pilot. Why?”
With an exhale, he mutters, “Because you told me not to lie to them.”
Okay. “What about being a lawyer?”
“I’ll be a lawyer until I can be a pilot.” His tone is so calm and quiet that it lulls me into a sense of comfort.
Switching gears, I ask, “What’s your favorite memory of your mother?”
There’s a slight pause. “I’ll pass on that one, Irish.” Still calm and quiet, but the cutting edge is there.
I watch him as he begins absently fingering the strap. “How old were you?”
“Eight.” The answer comes with a crack. I close my eyes and turn to watch the house lights pass by, hoping they’ll replace the vision of the scared little boy that’s blazing in my skull.
Ashton’s hand curls around mine. “He only lost control the once. The scars, I mean. He never left evidence the other times.” The other times. “The closet was usually his favorite. He’d put me in there for hours. Usually with duct tape, to keep me quiet.” I try to suppress the sob with my free hand but I can’t, and it comes out in a strange, guttural cry.
Ashton didn’t expect that question. I can tell because he falters, and I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. “Everyone has a mom and dad.”
“Where are they?”
“Uh . . . my dad is at his house and my mom isn’t around anymore.”
“Did she die?” Eric asks with complete innocence.
A flicker of pain flashes across Ashton’s face.
“Remember the deal, boys,” I warn with a raised brow.
“I thought that was just our deaths,” Derek says solemnly.
“No, it’s a blanket rule. It applies to everyone.”
“Okay, sorry, Ace,” Eric says, hanging his head.
Ashton leans forward and squeezes his shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing, little man. She’s a bit strict with her rules, isn’t she?”
Eric rolls his eyes dramatically. “You have no idea.”
The boys keep throwing out questions in typical innocent-child style and Ashton keeps answering them. I find out that Ashton’s mom was from Spain, which is where he gets his dark eyes and tanned complexion. I find out that he’s an only child. I find out that he was born and raised in New York. I’m finding out more about him in this brief interrogation by two curious five-year-olds than I thought possible. Maybe more than most people have ever learned about Ashton Henley.
Finally, Ashton stands and announces, “Sorry to leave, but I have somewhere I need to be. It was real, hanging with you guys.” He holds out a hand in a fist-bump.
“Yeah, it was real,” Eric mimics casually as he and his brother return the gesture, their fists so tiny next to Ashton’s. All three of them turn to look at me, and I realize that I must have made a sappy sound.
Pinching my elbow lightly, Ashton says, “I’ll be back in three hours to pick you up by the main entrance, okay?” With that, he’s gone.
The rest of the volunteer shift goes downhill quickly. Lola comes in, looking smaller and paler and more feeble than the last time I saw her. Derek whispers to me that she’s been coming in less and less. The boys last only another hour before they say that they’re not feeling well, twisting my stomach. I spend the rest of the shift with other children—one recuperating from surgery after a car accident, another one there for a rare heart condition.
And I find myself watching the clock for more than one reason.
A different guy picks meets me at the main entrance three hours later. Not the playful, teasing one who shared a miniature table with two sick kids and made them giggle. Not the one who listened with quiet ease while I disclosed my long string of embarrassing, psychiatrist-inspired adventures.
No . . . the guy sitting next to me says barely a word, shares barely a look as we leave the city. I don’t know what happened, but something has changed. Something to make his jaw taut and his eyes glaze over. To make him so discontented that my chest aches with the growing tension. More than I already left the hospital with.
I last an hour in silence, gazing out at the darkening skies and the streetlights, tucking my hair behind my ears a dozen times, adjusting and readjusting myself in my seat, before I decide to close my eyes and pretend to sleep, just as we approach the turnoff for Princeton.
“Did you get into the hospital’s Ambien supply before I picked you up, Irish?” It’s more the sound of his voice than his question that makes my eyes fly open with surprise. I turn to see a tiny smile breaking through that cloud and I heave a sigh of relief.
“Sorry,” I mumble. But I’m not. I’m happy to see Ashton more relaxed.
“How was the rest of your volunteer session?”
“Hard. Sometimes I wonder if it will get easier. I love being around kids and I want to help them, but . . .” Tears trickle down my cheek. “I don’t know if I can handle wondering which ones I’m around are going to survive.” Ashton is silent as I brush my hand across my cheek and sniffle.
“I wondered about that, back when you told me what you wanted to be,” he says quietly. “It takes a special kind of person to be able to sit back and wait for someone to die, especially when you can’t stop it from happening.”
Is that what happened to you, Ashton? Did you have to watch your mother die? I don’t say that out loud. Instead, I say, “I’m not sure that I’m that kind of person.” Pausing, I add, “Wow. I’ve never admitted that out loud before. To anyone.”
“Not even your doctor?”
“No! Especially not him. He thinks he has me all figured out,” I mutter.
“What do you mean?”
I shake my head. “No way, Ashton. You’ve already gotten enough out of me for one day.”
Strumming his fingertips against the steering wheel, he sighs. “Fine. How were the twins after I left?”
I smile. “They asked if you could come back,” I confirm with a chuckle.
A wide smile stretches across his face. “Yeah? They liked me that much?”
I roll my eyes. “I think they liked you more than they like me. Eric said that I must get really angry when I’m Irish if you don’t want to be my boyfriend.”
A deep, throaty laugh escapes Ashton’s lips and my body instantly warms. “What’d you say?”
“Oh, I assured him that I get plenty mad even when I’m not ‘Irish’ and you’re around.”
That earns another laugh. “I love it when you don’t censor yourself. When you just say what’s on your mind and don’t worry about it.”
“Then you and Stayner would get along well . . .” We pass campus signs, indicating we’re not far and my day with Ashton is almost over. I don’t know when I’ll see him again. The thought hurts.
“That’s right. You’re supposed to be spilling your guts to me, right?”
My head falls back against the headrest as I mutter, more to myself, “You first.”
I didn’t really mean anything by it. Ashton is riddled with secrets, but I know they’re not going to start trickling out of his mouth anytime soon. Still, I sense the temperature in the car plummet.
“What do you want to know?” His tone is low and quiet. Hesitant, even.
“I—” My voice falters. I start with what I think is an innocent question, my voice as casual as possible. “You told the boys that you want to be a pilot. Why?”
With an exhale, he mutters, “Because you told me not to lie to them.”
Okay. “What about being a lawyer?”
“I’ll be a lawyer until I can be a pilot.” His tone is so calm and quiet that it lulls me into a sense of comfort.
Switching gears, I ask, “What’s your favorite memory of your mother?”
There’s a slight pause. “I’ll pass on that one, Irish.” Still calm and quiet, but the cutting edge is there.
I watch him as he begins absently fingering the strap. “How old were you?”
“Eight.” The answer comes with a crack. I close my eyes and turn to watch the house lights pass by, hoping they’ll replace the vision of the scared little boy that’s blazing in my skull.
Ashton’s hand curls around mine. “He only lost control the once. The scars, I mean. He never left evidence the other times.” The other times. “The closet was usually his favorite. He’d put me in there for hours. Usually with duct tape, to keep me quiet.” I try to suppress the sob with my free hand but I can’t, and it comes out in a strange, guttural cry.
