Your eyes crack open as if the last weariness has come on you. You reach into your pocket, pull out your hand in a fist, and raise it up. The car leans as we go around a turn, and Tom accelerates onto the back roads. You open your fist, and in your palm is the thin shimmer of what looks like sand, but lighter, like a teaspoon of talcum powder. When you speak, your voice is so weak that I have to lean in closer. Each word is a quiet whisper.
“She brought this for me. As a thank-you.” I can barely hear your voice, and I have to lean in closer. “I have no idea how she was able to go in and get it. But she promised, I guess.”
Outside, lightning strikes.
You hold out your hand, offering the powder to me like a gift. I reach out to take it, but a gust of wind shoots through the windows, blowing the dust around us like starlight. I try to grab at it, but this precious stuff, whatever it was, is gone.
“No,” you whisper.
You reach up and touch the knot on my head, tears forming. It is the only time you ever touch it. You close your eyes. Your breathing slows. I grab your wrist and cannot find your pulse.
“Faster, Tom,” I say. “Faster.”
The Fly
Tom?” I say hesitantly, walking into Tom’s house at the end of that day, the longest of my life.
It has been a wearying stretch of tests and doctors. Tom left us at lunch because there was nothing to do, and I don’t think he knows what to do when there is nothing to do. I stayed beside you until dark, but I needed to get our things, get my car, and they said you were stable. So I returned to Tom’s house.
The sound of my voice dies quickly in the empty house. I can hear the taxi—probably the most expensive taxi ride of my life—make its way down the driveway. The sun is setting on this longest day of my life, and everything has that after-storm stillness, that quiet ache, that broken-down weariness.
I start to walk to your room, but I notice the deck door is wide open, so I cross the living room and look out into the dying light.
“Paul,” Tom says, his voice sad and strange and wavering. If he hadn’t said my name, I might have missed him.
I walk that long expanse of deck.
“Sit,” he mumbles. “Sit.”
So I do. I sit in the same chair I sat in on our first night here. The sun is setting, but all we can see from the deck, the eastern side of the house, is an easing into the darkest blues, a few strands of clouds, and a lake that fills me with sadness, because I know in that moment I will never come back to Nysa.
This is my final farewell.
“Paul,” he starts again, taking a deep breath. Even from where I am, I can see his mouth trembling with emotion. “Pearl?”
“She’s . . . stable but not well. The doctor is having problems diagnosing exactly what’s wrong. He said he’s not seen anything like it. Her breathing is the main problem, and the fever. They had to put her on a ventilator.” My voice breaks. I swallow hard. “They’ll try to wean her from it in a few days. But they don’t expect . . .” The lake water rustles in the dark. My vision blurs.
“What? They don’t expect what?”
“They say her chances of survival are small. She gets weaker by the hour.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Tom startles me when he swears and slams his hand against the armrest of his chair. There is a rustling sound in the sky to the west, and a large shadow skims the treetops, then heads north, over our heads. It’s the largest bird I’ve ever seen.
“What was that?” I ask, awe in my voice.
“Some species of owl,” Tom says absently. “I’ve never gotten a good enough look to identify it.”
It disappears among the trees.
“I packed your things in a bag and put them in your car,” he says. “The clothes are clean. With a few parting gifts for you and Pearl.” His voice catches when he says your name. “I wish you would have called me to come and get you. You didn’t have to get a cab.”
I wave him off, not sure what to say. The air shifts, and a wave of leaves, loosened earlier that day by the storm, falls from the trees.
“I never could understand what she saw in you,” Tom says, chuckling to himself.
I feel a coldness drop into my veins because I know he’s talking about Mary. I can’t tell what amuses him more—what she saw in me, or his inability to see what she saw.
“That first night, at the Halloween party, she was the one I had my eye on.” His speaks reluctantly, as if walking out slowly on the ice, testing the thickness.
I am surprised at this. I never had any idea Tom had feelings for Mary. I always assumed he felt the same brotherly affection for her that I felt for Shirley. But the tone of his voice doesn’t invite a reply, and I find myself growing rigid, bracing myself for a punch.
“But of course, Shirley was special too. And after that night in the field, after Shirley and I kissed, and after we came out of the field and found Mary clinging to you, I knew things were set. You and Mary. Me and Shirley. Sometimes these things can’t be changed, you know? I knew it from that moment. The longer things went, the more solid the arrangement. Like setting concrete. One moment it’s a liquid, and before you know it, firm.”
The air grows cold. I rub my arms, wishing I had worn a jacket. To be honest, all I want to do is leave—get out of this damp autumn air, avoid hearing whatever it is that Tom is going to tell me. But I can’t do it. I can’t leave. I’m too curious, and his voice is too commanding. I’m in it until the end.
“I don’t know what happened to me after John was born,” Tom says, his voice hollow and far away. “It was hard when you guys got married. I mean, you were so young. What were you thinking? But when John came along, everything I had felt for Mary when I first met her was resurrected out of nowhere. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Whenever I saw you holding John, a surge of jealousy coursed through me like electricity.”
He stops, seems to be overcome by the force of his own emotion.
“I hated you, Paul. I didn’t know what to do.”
I try to take slow, deep breaths, but a trembling has begun in me.
He takes a long drink from a small glass I hadn’t noticed before. Takes a deep breath. Shakes his head. I can tell that part of him is telling himself to shut up and the other part is forging ahead.
“That morning, when the three of us took out our kayaks—Shirley and Mary and me—and you stayed back with John, it wasn’t supposed to be that way. I had invited Mary to go out. Just Mary. I was up early that morning, couldn’t sleep because of how I felt for her, and she came down, radiant.”
His voice trails off, then returns with regret in it.
“I never meant for that. For Shirley to come along. I couldn’t find my oar, and I was pretty sure it was Shirley’s fault, that she had borrowed it the night before. So I took the heavy wooden canoe oar with me. You know, the one we found in the woods? And I got upset at Shirley while we were paddling out. How was I supposed to tell Mary how I truly felt while Shirley was there? But really I was angry at the world, Paul. An ocean of anger. It kept building and building. And on top of everything, a fly.”
He shakes his head and laughs, but it’s a laugh completely devoid of any humor, the kind of laugh that chills to the bone. I feel myself tense, ready to run.
“This horsefly, Paul, you wouldn’t believe it. This thing kept landing on me. And it bit me right when we got out to The Point. I crawled up onto the rock, and the girls were down in their kayaks, not sure what we were doing out there, why I was getting so worked up over a fly, but it was so much more than that.”
“Why are you telling me all this, Tom?” I ask, but he waves me off.
“Even when I climbed up on those base rocks around The Point, the fly wouldn’t leave me alone. In one instant I saw it clearly, hovering, and I raised that oar and swung it as hard as I could. I put every ounce of anger into that swing, Paul. How I felt about everything. All for a stupid fly.�
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There is sadness in his voice, and regret, but also the heaviness of guilt. My stomach drops.
“I missed.”
Those two words empty me of everything.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. And as the oar swung around, it struck the rock of The Point so hard that it stung my hands. I dropped the oar, Paul. That’s how hard it hit.” His voice trembles. “But when I turned to pick it up, I realized I hadn’t hit the rocks. Paul. I hadn’t hit the rocks.”
I don’t want him to say it. But I need him to say it.
“Tom.” That’s all I say. His name.
His face crumbles, and he holds it in his hands. His body shakes with sobs, but he doesn’t make a sound. He gasps once for air.
“I hit Mary, Paul.” He’s shaking his head, as if I’m the one saying it and he’s denying it. “Right above her ear.”
I stare up at the sky, now almost completely dark, and I feel like I’m spinning higher, higher, higher. I reach up and touch the knot above my ear.
“I didn’t even know she had gotten out of her boat, Paul. I guess she followed me up there to talk, to see what was wrong. Honest to God, it was an accident. After I hit her, she crumpled and sort of slid down over the edge of the rock, real gentle, and disappeared into the water.”
Tears ache in my eyes, but I can’t touch them. They’ll burn me.
“Shirley was in complete and utter shock. She couldn’t move. She sat there in her kayak, mouth open, like that guy in the painting. You know, The Scream? Even had her hands up on her cheeks. And I couldn’t move either. I don’t know why not. I should have jumped in right away, but I was frozen in place.”
The crickets are singing now, chirping, and I wonder how late in the fall they go, how cold it has to get for this lake to fall into silence. I picture Mary slipping under, and I try to imagine the silence that greeted her there.
“I waited too long, Paul. By the time I jumped in, she was gone. The water’s deep at The Point, and the underwater currents are unpredictable.”
“Shirley knew?” I ask, my voice trembling from the cold and the story.
“Shirley knew.”
I try to rearrange things in my mind now that I know. I try to change my perspective on the last forty years, the nature of your grandmother’s death, the years I spent away from here. I don’t know how to think anymore. If I didn’t know Tom and Shirley, did I even know Mary?
But I think of Pearl’s vision, of the story she told me about going through the water and seeing Mary in the white farmhouse beyond the shore.
Waiting for me.
“A month later, after a storm, I found her.” Tom’s voice is so far away now that I can barely hear him. I can barely see him. “I did some research on it. They say storms can dislodge bodies that have sunk to the bottom of lakes and ponds. She was bobbing against the bank. I buried her where I found her, right here, where my house is now. And you were gone. No one knew where you went. So I didn’t tell anyone that I found her. Not even Shirley.”
I stand up, and I’m surprised that I’m not angry. The only thing I can think about instead of his words are the words Pearl shared with me, the message Mary told her to tell me.
“Tell him I’ll be waiting here.”
“Goodbye, Tom.”
I walk back through the house. When I get to my car, I can see our packed bags in the back seat. The trees droop down low over the lane in the dark, and the headlights shine on the autumn leaves that coat the drive.
Driving through Nysa at night, I realize memories are heavy things, heavier still when we don’t let them go. Everything feels like a dream, and all I can think about is you lying motionless in your hospital bed and the image I have of Mary with silver streaks in her hair, standing on some far green bank, looking out over a glassy sea.
The Nesting Doll
This particular hospital where you are staying is small, and the lady working at the front desk glances up when I walk through the doors, then waves me on. I’m carrying the bag I packed when we left home to go to Nysa, the bag Tom had filled with our things and put in the back of my car. It feels like decades since you and I made that drive from the city to Nysa, but it hasn’t even been two weeks, apparently. Time is something I’m not entirely convinced I can trust at this point in my life.
“Oh, Mr. Elias?” the woman at the front desk calls after me in her singsong voice.
I turn around and raise my eyebrows but don’t say anything.
“Your daughter is so beautiful. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. She’s my granddaughter.”
“Well, she’s clearly a very special girl. I hope things turn out well.”
I nod and turn away, then walk seven or eight rooms down the hallway to your door. Somehow Tom’s confession has washed over me and left me strangely at peace. His words, in some ways, give me that satisfactory feeling of the last puzzle piece fitting in place.
And there are still your words as well. The story you told me, the vision you had of Mary and Shirley and the house beyond the sea. I don’t know what to think about it, besides sadness that I could not keep you from doing this thing.
I go into your room and set my bag down at the back, beside the window, before returning to the side of your bed. I can’t help but cry a little as I stand there, your limp body completely still, tubes going in your nose, a machine breathing for you while other machines chart your journey with beeps and dashes and numbers I can’t possibly understand.
I don’t know how long I stand there, tracing the lines of your hair, the perfection of your nose and mouth, the gracefulness of your closed eyes. I turn and arrange the chair against the far wall so that I can see you and also lean my head against the wall while I drift off. I unzip my bag, searching for a warmer shirt, and I notice a few things.
Tom washed and folded my clothes. He is a very organized packer. Everything is arranged perfectly.
He has included items I was not expecting.
The first is the notebook of photos taken of Mary during that summer before John was born. I page through them, reminded again of your grandmother’s beauty, how she moved, how she laughed. I set the notebook down beside me on the floor. I’m not sure I want to keep it—I’m not sure if I want to see her through his eyes. But we’ll see. I sure wish I could have shown these to you.
Under the notebook, tucked in with my socks, is the Russian nesting doll I saw all those long days ago when we first went to the cabin. I pick it up and spin the top half of the first doll, and on a whim I take off the top and pull on the next doll. I place the open halves on a small side table, pop open the next doll, and pull out the smaller one. I arrange all the halves on the table and keep going until there is what seems to be the last doll that can be opened.
I pull it apart, fully expecting to find that one solid doll in the middle of everything, the root of the entire exercise, but that is not what I find. I sit there taking it in, almost unable to breathe.
I reach in and take out the twist-tie wedding ring I gave Mary when we got engaged.
In the middle of the night, I wake up in your room, stiff from sleeping on the small hideaway bed. I sit up, feeling completely different. The air seems easier to breathe, the light clearer. Hearing Tom’s confession has cleared me of some deep anguish.
But that doesn’t seem to be it. There’s something else.
I don’t feel any pain.
For the first time in months, there is no dull throbbing at my core.
Your machines begin to go crazy, beeping and buzzing. Alarms sound. A nurse comes in quickly, followed by your doctor, followed by more nurses. More people than I thought were even on shift that late at night in this small hospital. I see the earnest nature of their attempts, the speed with which they move around the room. No one even looks at me. No one says anything.
I stand up, not sure what to do, not sure where to stand. I wonder if this is the end, and I reach up to touch the knot on my head.
I
t’s gone. It’s completely gone. I dig around the roots of my hair, check behind my ear, squeeze my skull. There is no pressure, no spreading ache.
No knot.
I bring my hand back down and stare it. My fingertips are coated in a fine white powder. The powder you took from your pocket when we were in the car, the powder that I thought had blown away.
The doctors, meanwhile, seem increasingly concerned.
I look at the nesting doll, pulled apart.
There is a long, steady beeping, as if the world has ended.
Two Months Later
I pull the car to a stop along the sidewalk in front of our house, and the sound of the gear stick dropping into park, the weightless sensation of my hands as they fall to my lap, the bright winter sunlight slanting through the window—all of it feels so much like the end that I lean forward and put my forehead on the top of the steering wheel. I take a deep breath. Another. I wipe my eyes, my nose, put my hands on the wheel as if I’m about to drive away, but I’m not. This is home. It feels good to be here.
It feels good to be here with you.
“Don’t worry,” I say to you. “I have to get your chair out of the trunk. Then I’ll get you out.”
I open the car door, and the air is cold, smells of snow. The sunlight glares off of everything—the windows of the row homes and the windshields of passing cars and the icy puddles that line the gutter. The trunk pops open, and I lift out your wheelchair, a parting gift from Tom, much nicer than the standard-issue chair from the hospital, the one my meager insurance would have paid for. I unfold the chair and wheel it over to your door.
He came to see you once. You should know that. Maybe you do. We didn’t say much and he didn’t stay long, but he was there, and that means something. I know he carries a heavy weight.
The Weight of Memory Page 24