Bloodstream

‘Why?’

‘I think it was a cost issue.’

She scanned the form, then checked off the box for gas chromatography/mass spectrometry; comprehensive drug and tox screen. In the space for comments at the bottom of the page, she wrote: ‘Fourteen-year-old boy with apparent drug-induced psychosis and aggression. This lab test is for my personal research only. Report results directly to me.’ And she signed her name.

Noah answered the knock on his front door and found Amelia standing outside in the dark. She was wearing a bandage, a bright slash of white across her temple, and he could tell it hurt her to smile. In her discomfort, the best she could muster was a crooked lifting of one side of her mouth.

He was so surprised by her unexpected visit, he couldn’t think of a single intelligent thing to say, so he just gaped at her, as dazzled as a peasant who suddenly finds himself in the presence of royalty.

‘This is for you,’ she said, and she held out a small brown package. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t find anything nice to wrap it in.’

He took the package, but his gaze remained on her face. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m okay. I guess you heard that Mrs Horatio…’ She paused, swallowing back tears.

He nodded. ‘My mom told me.’

Amelia touched the bandage on her face. Again he saw a flash of tears in her eyes. ‘I met your mom. In the emergency room. She was really nice to me…’ She turned and glanced over her shoulder at the darkness, as though expecting to see someone watching her. ‘I’ve got to go now –’

‘Did someone drive you here?’

‘I walked.’

‘You walked? In the dark?’

‘It’s not so far. I live just the other side of the lake, right past the boat ramp.’ She backed away from the door, blond hair swaying. ‘I’ll see you in school.’

‘Wait. Amelia!’ He held up the gift. ‘What’s this for?’

‘To thank you. For what you did today.’ She took another retreating step, and was almost swallowed up in darkness.

‘Amelia!’

‘Yes?’

Noah paused, not knowing what to say. The silence was broken only by the rustle of dead leaves scattering across the lawn. Amelia stood on the farthest edge of the light spilling from the open doorway, her face a pale oval eclipsing into night.

‘You want to come inside?’ he asked.

To his surprise she seemed to consider the invitation. For a moment she lingered between darkness and light, advance and retreat. She looked over her shoulder again, as though seeking permission. Then she nodded.

Noah found himself panicking over the disorder in the front parlor. His mom had been home for only a few hours that afternoon, to comfort him and cook dinner. Then she’d driven back to the hospital to see Taylor. No one had tidied up the parlor, and everything was still lying where Noah had dropped it that afternoon – backpack on the couch, sweatshirt on the coffee table, dirty tennis shoes in front of the fireplace. He decided to bypass the parlor and led Amelia into the kitchen instead.

They sat down, not looking at each other, two foreign species struggling to find a common language.

She glanced up as the phone rang. ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’

‘Naw. It’s another one of those reporters. They’ve been calling all afternoon, ever since I got home.’

The answering machine picked up, and as he’d predicted, a woman’s voice came on: ‘This is Damaris Horne of the Weekly Informer. I’d really, really like to talk to Noah Elliot, if I could, about that amazing act of heroism today in the classroom. The whole country wants to hear about it, Noah. I’ll be staying at the Lakeside B and B, and I could offer some financial compensation for your time, if that would make it more worth your while…’

‘She’s offering to pay you just to talk?’ asked Amelia.

‘Crazy, isn’t it? My mom says it’s a sure sign I shouldn’t talk to that lady.’

‘But people do want to hear about it. About what you did.’

What I did.

He gave a shrug, feeling unworthy of all the praise, of Amelia’s praise, most of all. He sat listening as the call ended. The silence returned, interrupted only by the soft beep of the message reminder.

‘You can open it now. If you want,’ said Amelia.

He looked down at the gift. Though the wrapping was plain brown paper, he took great effort not to tear it, because it seemed uncouth to go ripping it open in front of her. Gingerly he peeled off the tape and folded back the wrapping.

The pocket knife was neither large nor impressive. He saw scratches on the handle, and realized it was not even new. She’d given him a used knife.

‘Wow,’ he managed to say with some measure of enthusiasm. ‘This is a nice one.’

‘It belonged to my dad.’ She added, quietly: ‘My real dad.’

He looked up as the implication of those words sank in.

‘Jack is my stepfather.’ She uttered that last word as though it were an object of disgust.

‘Then J.D. and Eddie…’

‘They’re not my real brothers. They’re Jack’s boys.’

‘I guess I wondered about it. They don’t look like you.’

‘Thank god.’

Noah laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s not a family resemblance I’d want to have, either.’

‘I’m not even allowed to talk about my real dad, because it makes Jack mad. He hates to be reminded there was someone else before him. But I want people to know. I want them to know Jack has nothing to do with who I am.’

Gently he placed the knife back in her hand. ‘I can’t take this, Amelia.’

‘I want you to.’

‘But it’s got to mean a lot to you, if it belonged to him.’

‘That’s why I want you to have it.’ She touched the bandage on her temple, as though pointing to the evidence of her debt to him. ‘You were the only one who did anything. The only one who didn’t run.’

He didn’t confess the humiliating truth: I wanted to run, but I was so terrified I couldn’t move my legs.

She looked up at the kitchen clock. With a start of panic, she abruptly stood up. ‘I didn’t know it was so late.’