“My mom really likedThe Secret Garden.”
“Mine read me that book, too,” I say. Mom used to read to me all the time, through a lot of elementary school. We both liked to read. Spent a lot of high school curled up on couches side by side reading books. We’d trade them back and forth. I used to keep a steady supply of bookmarks in the house because she liked to grab whatever was nearby to mark her place—a tissue, a napkin, a straw, a plate, a pencil, her glasses. I wish she were here, reading on this couch, in our little yellow house.
“Yeah, stupid book,” he says. Quickly, he adds, “Unless you like it. Been a long time since she read it to me. Maybe it’s good.”
“Help yourself to any of the books on the shelves. Just use a bookmark.”
“Right. Okay. Good luck.”
I toss the towel over the windowsill and wade into the water.
“Hey, what’s your name?”
I pause. For some reason, I don’t want to tell him. Maybe it’s what Claire said, about needing to seem wise and mysterious. Or maybe I just don’t want to share. “I’m the one who’s going to help you. I think that’s good enough for you to know, don’t you?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
I immediately feel like that was totally cheesy and want to shout back that my name is Lauren, but I don’t. Instead, I turn my back on him and hurry into the water. It splashes around my legs, and I lurch forward to belly flop into the surf. A second later, I think I should have done that more gracefully if I’m impersonating some kind of oracle or savior, but whatever.
A minute later, I spot the familiar silver dorsal fin in the water. I swim to it with overhead strokes that I remember from the summer I thought I might train to be a lifeguard, until it occurred to me that lifeguards spend most of their time out of the water, watching, when what I really loved was being in the water and tuning out the world. I swim to the dolphin, and I stroke its side. It chitters at me. I grab its dorsal fin, and it shoots through the water. I feel the waves splash into my face. Salt water sprays into my eyes, nose, and mouth. I taste the salt as I breathe. Closer to the void, I release, and the dolphin veers away to safer waters. But I keep going. I swim directly into the void.
The water fades, and I lower my legs. It doesn’t feel quite so lonely this time. It’s oddly peaceful. The dust wraps around me, warm and soft on my skin. I walk through it. It’s not unlike pushing through water. I focus on Colin, think of his story, wonder if he’s told me everything, if it’s really forgiveness that he needs, and what happens if he never gets it. If I fail here, with all those people outside...I don’t think they’ll be forgiving, either. I try not to think about that, and instead I picture Colin, his face, his eyes. He did a horrible thing that had an even more horrible consequence, one he didn’t intend of course and maybe there were other factors in this girl’s life that led to her quitting life, but I believe he was a factor. More important, he believes it.
But if forgiveness isn’t possible for him...
I don’t know.
I quit trying to guess. Instead I just walk and think of Colin, whom I’ve known for all of five minutes but want to help and not just because if I fail, it will be bad for me. But because he sat in my living room—me, a total stranger—and tried to articulate where his life had gone wrong.
I can articulate when mine went wrong: Mom’s first diagnosis.
She came to my apartment after work and brought Chinese food. She set the table as I unpacked the food. As I unpacked it, I began to notice she’d ordered every single appetizer on the menu. No lo mein or fried rice. But fried dumplings, spareribs, egg rolls, crab rangoon... This is a woman who never orders appetizers at all because she doesn’t believe the cost-to-food ratio is worth it. If you want small portions, she’d say, you order regular and save the rest as leftovers. “We’re either celebrating or mourning,” I said.
“Just wanted something special tonight,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
Why hadn’t I let it lie? Why had I pressed it? She would have told me when she was ready, when she thought I was ready. This was for herself. She wanted this nice meal with me. But I didn’t let it go. I was like a dog that had grabbed one of those spareribs. I teased, begged, cajoled, pestered, and demanded.
Ovarian cancer.
“Surgery works for many, many people,” she said after she told me. Her voice was so bright that it was brittle. I’d been eating a crab rangoon, and I bolted to the bathroom and threw up. I didn’t come out until much later to find that Mom had transferred all of the food into plastic containers and stored them labeled in the refrigerator. She was sitting in front of the TV. The TV wasn’t on, but the remote was clutched in her hand. She smiled brightly when I came into the room.
“You’re going to be strong for me, aren’t you?” I said as I flopped onto the couch next to her.
“One of us has to be.” She pointed to my nose. “You’re a terrible crier. Makes you look all splotchy.”
“Your genes.”
“Sorry about that. And sorry if you inherit this.”
“Mom!”
“At least I won’t have to see you die first. Unless you’re hit by a bus. Please don’t get hit by a bus.”
“I can’t believe you’re talking like this.”
“It’s called gallows humor. Standard coping mechanism. Frankly, I’m suspicious of anyone who doesn’t find humor in death.”
