That I should teach her a lesson. That I shouldn't care. But I do. Just short of impact, I stop myself. 'Get out of the way,' I growl.
'C'mon, Michael, what else do you want me to say? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry it happened. To work that fast, you must've got a bad one or something.'
'Obviously I got a bad one! That's not the damn point!'
'I'm trying to apologize--why're you getting so upset?'
'You want to know why?' I shout. 'Because you still don't get it. This isn't about the acid--this isn't even about our trust--it's about the fact that you're a grade-A quality psycho! Rationalize all you want, this puts you in a whole new league!'
'Don't you dare judge me!'
'Why not? You drug me; I judge you. The least I can do is return the favor.'
She's starting to boil. 'You don't know what it's like, asshole--compared to me, you've had it easy.'
'Oh, so now you're an expert on my entire childhood?'
'I met your dad. I get the picture,' she tells me. 'He's retarded. It's frustrating. The end.'
Right now I'd love to smack her across the face. 'You really think it's that simple, don't you?'
'I didn't mean--'
'No, no, no, don't back down,' I interrupt. 'You saw Rain Man--sure, that was autism, but you know how it works. I just wish you could've had more than a few hours with dear old Dad. Then you would've got the real highlights--like when his medication's messed up and you have to keep him from swallowing his tongue. Or that time in fourth grade when he ran away because he realized I was smarter than he was. Or when he shit his pants for a full month because he was worried about being abandoned if I went off to college. Or how 'bout when an evil little scumbag named Charlie Stupak convinced him that it's okay to take other people's cars as long as you promised to bring them back? Armed with a clueless public defender, Dad can show you just how well the legal system works. Oh, yeah, you saw everything today.'
'Listen, I'm sorry your dad's retarded. And I'm sorry your mom ran away . . .'
'She didn't run away--she was gone for treatments. And when those didn't work, she died. Three months after she entered the clinic. She was trying to spare us the pain of watching her deteriorate--she was scared it would slow me down. Now try explaining that to a man with a sixty-six IQ. Or better yet, try protecting him from everything else that's ready to rip him apart in this world.'
'Michael, I know it was hard . . .'
'No. You don't. You have no idea what it's like. Your parents are both alive. Everyone's healthy. Besides reelection, you've got nothing to worry about.'
'That's not true.'
'Oh, that's right, I forgot about your secret horrors: the state dinners, meeting all the bigshots, attending the college of your choice . . .'
'Stop it, Michael.'
'. . . and let's not forget all the ass-kissing: staffers, reporters, even Johnny Public and Suzy Creamcheese-- everyone's got to love the First Daughter . . .'
'I said stop it!'
'Uh-oh, she's getting mad. Alert the Service. Send a memo to her dad. If she throws a fit in public, there'll be some bad press . . .'
'Listen, dickhead . . .'
'We have cursing! The story goes national! That's really as bad as it gets, isn't it, Nora? Bad press that goes national?'
'You don't fucking know me!'
'Do you even remember what a bad day's like anymore? I'm not talking bad press--I'm talking bad day. There really is a difference.' She looks like she's about to snap, so I push a little harder. 'You don't even have them anymore, do you? Oh, my, to be the First Daughter. Tell me, what's it like when everything's done for you? Can you cook? Can you clean? Do you do your own laundry?'
Her eyes are welling up with tears. I don't care. She asked for this one.
'C'mon, Nora, don't be shy. Put it out there. Do you sign your own checks? Or pay your own bills? Or make your own b--'
'You want a bad day?' she finally explodes. 'Here's your fuckin' bad day!' Lifting her shirt, she shows me a six-inch scar, running down toward her navel, still red where the stitches used to be.
Dumbfounded, I can't muster a syllable. So that's why she wouldn't let me touch her stomach.
Lowering her shirt, she finally falls apart. Her face contorts in a silent sob and the tears flood forward. It's the first time I've ever seen Nora cry.
'Y-You d-don't know . . .' she sobs as she staggers toward me. I cross my arms and put on my best heartless scowl.
'Michael . . .'
She wants me to open up . . . to pull her close. Just like she did with my dad. I close my eyes and that's all I see. Without another thought, I reach out and take her in. 'Don't cry,' I whisper. 'You don't have to cry.'
'I-I swear, I never wanted to hurt you,' she says, still sobbing uncontrollably.
'Shhhhhh, I know.' As she collapses against me, I feel the little girl return. 'It's okay,' I tell her. 'It's okay.'
A full minute goes by before we say another word. As she catches her breath, I feel her pull away. She's wiping her eyes as quickly as possible.
'Want to tell me about it?' I ask.
She pauses. That's her instinct. 'New Year's Eve, this past year,' she finally says as she sits on her bed. 'I'd read that stabbing yourself in the stomach was a great way to kill yourself, so I decided to test the theory for myself. Needless to say, it's no jugular.'
Frozen, I'm not sure how to respond. 'I don't understand,' I eventually stutter. 'Didn't they take you to a hospital?'
'Remember where we are, Michael. And know your perks. My dad's doctors are here around the clock--and they all make house calls.' Sending the point home, she taps her hand against her mattress. 'Didn't even have to leave my room.'
'But to make sure no one found out . . .'
'Oh, please. They hid my dad's cancer for ten months--you think they can't hide his junkie daughter's suicide attempt?'
I don't like the way she says that. 'You're not a junkie, Nora.'
'Says the guy I just tried to drug.'
'You know what I mean.'
'I appreciate the thought, but you're working with only half the information.' Picking at the lace on her pillowcase, she asks, 'Do you have any idea why I'm home?'
'Excuse me?'
'It's not a trick question. I graduated college in June. It's now September. What am I still doing here?'
'I thought you were waiting to hear from grad schools.'
Without a word, she heads to her desk and pulls a stack of papers from the top drawer. Returning to the bed, she throws them on the mattress. I take a seat next to her and flip through the pile. Penn. Wash U. Columbia. Michigan. Fourteen letters in all. Every one of them an acceptance. 'I don't get it,' I finally say.
'Well, it depends who you want to believe. Either I'm still holding out for that final grad school, or my parents are worried I'm going to take another crack at myself. Which do you think is more likely?'
Listening to her explain it, it's not hard to figure out. The only question is: What do I do now? Hunched over on the edge of her bed, Nora's waiting for my reaction. She's trying not to look at me, but she can't help herself. She's worried I'm going to leave. And the way she's rubbing the side of her bare foot over and over against the carpet, it wouldn't be the first time someone's walked out on her.
I pick up the letters and toss them to the floor. 'Tell me the truth, Nora--where're your other drugs?'
'I don't--'
'Last chance,' I bark.
