“Pointillism. Yeah. It represents the two sides of art that I love—on one hand, it’s just beautifully rendered because the artist made sure every inch of the canvas was pulsing with life. But there’s a whole other side of it—pointillism is a metaphor for society and politics. Painting dot by dot stands in for the industrial revolution and how it was filtering into leisure time in society. I could write a whole paper on it.” She smiles. “Idid.”
“Sounds like a perfect marriage of skill and significance,” I say.
“A perfect marriage,” Win repeats. “Yes.”
We stop in front of a Pollock mural. Win stares at it, silent, and I look, too. It is full of swirls and sharp edges, yellows and blues and crimson flicks that remind me of blood spatters from aCSIshow on television.
“I like the blue in it,” I say.
“Yes,” she breathes. “The blue.”
“So when you painted, was it like this, or like Manet?”
“Neither.” Her lips are bloodless, white. I watch her shrink within her own bones. “I don’t feel well,” Win says. “We should go home.”
Immediately I give her the strength of my body. I wrap an arm around her waist, holding up her slight weight. As we walk through the galleries, I feel a prickle at the back of my spine, a magnet that twists my gaze to the right.
Through the entryway I can see the wooden models that came from the tomb of Djehutytnakht and his eponymous wife. If I take three steps in that direction, I will be able to see the coffins, nestled into the case against the wall. The wavy lines of the Book of Two Ways drawn against the wall of one of them.
I wonder who looked at that and first thoughtit was a map.
Then I see him, crouching in front of the glass.
I gasp, and the man stands up. Younger, then. Less blond. A stranger, not a ghost.
“Dawn?” Win says, her voice a frayed thread.
“I’m right here,” I reply, and I help her move forward.
—
YOU CAN ARGUEthat all fear is related to death. Fear of spiders? You’re really afraid of being bitten and killed. Fear of heights? Falling to your death. Fear of flying? Crashing. Snakes, fire—you get it. Jerry Seinfeld even says that people are more terrified of public speaking than dying, so if you’re asked to give a eulogy, the person inside the coffin is better off than the one giving the talk. Why are people so afraid of dying? Well, that’s easy. Because it’s hard for us to conceive of a world without us in it.
As Win’s health deteriorates, she becomes more anxious and she can’t sleep. Felix tells me she is eating less, and I can see her fear eating away at him, too, like termites at the foundation of a house.
“What did you do before to relax?” I ask her.
“Every now and then I’d take a Xanax,” Win answers. “But I’d rather not sleep away the limited amount of life I have left.”
“We can try magnesium, if that doesn’t interfere with your meds,” I suggest.
She grimaces. “No more pills.”
“How about more holistic methods? Meditation, aromatherapy, massage, sound bath—”
“You know what?” she interrupts. “I want to get stoned.”
Pot is legal in Massachusetts, which makes it simple. I have a choice of weed, lollipops, CBD pills, even milkshakes. In the end, I bring gummy bears.
I have no plans to partake, but Win—who has, amazingly, never tried pot—is so anxious about the possibility that it is negating all the benefits. I finally say I will be right there with her, and she makes me chew the gummy bears in front of her like she is Nurse Ratched fromOne Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I settle down next to her on the couch, letting the corners of the room go pleasantly furry, feeling my eyelids grow heavier.
“How long have you been married?” Win murmurs beside me.
I slide my glance to her. Her arms are crossed over her chest, in the archaic position of death. I decide not to mention it. “Fourteen years,” I say.
“Why did you get married?”
That follow-up makes me blink. Usually, you ask how or why someone fell in love; how you knew he was the one. I’m reluctant to answer, not just because I don’t feel like poking at an open sore, but because in this relationship with Win, I’m supposed to be helping her, instead of the other way around.
