Ralph ran down the stairs, back up to hurry us, back down. When we opened the front door, she pulled me out. Down the stoop, quick to the curb to pee, then around the corner, faster now, trying to outrun the storm. She kept pulling me. We ran past people trying to right umbrellas blown inside out, or covering their heads with newspaper. We were as soaked as if we’d showered in our clothes.
I let Ralph lead, though I don’t believe she had a plan. A crack of thunder set off car alarms and she froze. We were four blocks from home, rain falling as heavily as rain falls. Cars stopped at green lights, then pulled over with their hazards on. Ralph blinked, a statue but for this slight movement.
“Come on,” I said, and yanked on her leash.
She didn’t budge.
I pulled again, as hard as I’d allow myself for fear of hurting her, but she was too scared and too strong.
“Now what?”
“You look silly,” Cary said, catching up.
“I can see your nipples.”
“So what. I can see yours.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “This was a bad idea.”
“I’m having fun.”
“Do I say ‘I’m sorry’ too much?”
“I’ve already forgiven you for anything you’ll ever do to me.”
Ralph was so wet she looked like a different dog—smaller, sadder, ears pinned back, tail between her legs. I pulled her leash again, but she spread her legs for leverage and stayed.
A flash of lightning followed by a single boom; the storm was directly overhead.
I’d met a man in Toronto—he had me sign a copy of my first book—who’d been struck by lightning twelve times and claimed he could see the future. He told me, even though I didn’t ask for such information, that weather would play an important role in my life. I suppose you could say that to anyone and it might as likely be true as not. “Watch out for strong weather,” he kept saying, as if warning his former self, before the first strike.
“You take her front, I’ll take her back,” I said.
Ralph weighed seventy pounds; we had to keep stopping. Then three people, strangers, also soaked, helped us carry her. We must have looked either foolish or heroic, but my vote is for the latter, five wet humans carrying a petrified German shepherd through the streets of Brooklyn during a thunderstorm.
It was still raining when we got home, but the storm was moving away: three Mississippis between lightning and thunder, then four, then five.
We gave Ralph some dog Valium, and she lay on the first floor, at the bottom of the stairs. We sat by the window upstairs and watched the sky light up in the distance. By the time the storm ended, it really was night.
Tomorrow, I kept thinking, we’ll have to talk about it. The next four months couldn’t be like the past four. No more chemo, even though the oncologist had recommended just that. No more killing yourself to save yourself.
Before we turned out the lights, Cary called Ralph up to her dog bed, but she didn’t come.
“Hey, buttercup,” she called.
We didn’t hear her move.
Cary went to the top of the stairs. “Hey, don’t you want to sleep up here with the humans?”
“She must be exhausted,” I said. I went to the stairs and looked down. There was something about her legs; they were limp, and bent at awkward angles.
“Ralph,” Cary said. “Come up.”
She waited. Then: “Ralph, come here.”
“Ralph!” she yelled, and it made me jump. “Come here!” she said.
I watched Ralph’s chest, but didn’t see it move.
“Eric,” Cary said, and sat on the stairs. “Eric,” she said again.
I walked down, saying Ralph, louder with each step, and I didn’t know what I’d do, didn’t know how I’d turn and look up at Cary and—
A few steps before I reached the dog, she opened her eyes and blinked at me, confused as if still in a dream.
“God,” Cary said. “She wasn’t moving.”
“I know,” I said.
“It’s crazy, but I thought—”
“I know,” I said.
Dear Mr. Newborn,
I have read your books with great interest, and have found them useful in many ways. But, with all due respect, what about babies? They get sick, they die. They’re born with disabilities, deformities. A fetus doesn’t know what disease is. How would you explain birth defects and stillbirths in the context of your books? I ask because my sister recently lost her son at two weeks; he was born two pounds twelve ounces. She noticed me reading a book called There Are No Accidents, so you can understand why she asked to look at it. Just reading the table of contents made her angry. She asked me some of the questions I’ve just asked you, and I had no answers for her. I hope you can find the time to respond to this letter and tell me what I should tell my sister. Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Dear Eric Newborn,
I’m writing with thanks to tell you nothing you don’t already know. The law of attraction works, it really does, I don’t care what anyone says. I know that now—there’s no doubt. I have suffered from epileptic seizures since I was a girl, my first one when I was five years old. It was a difficult way to grow up, as you can imagine, the shame, it was hard to make friends, let alone a boyfriend. My mother was always afraid I would have a bad seizure and stop breathing or fall down the stairs or have one while crossing the street. I took this affliction through high school and college, never had a boyfriend except my wonderful husband (who passed away over six years ago now from a heart condition he was born with, we always knew it was possible he could die), so I thought it would always be with me, I accepted it as “just who I was.” Medications and side effects and sometimes getting depressed, especially after I lost my husband, who was one of very few people who truly understood (we never had children, so it was always the two of us). What changed everything was when my mother (she’s still alive at eighty-nine!) ordered me a book of photography for my birthday. I have always had an “artistic” side and like to take photographs especially in addition to some painting. But the wrong book came. The book was supposed to be Miracle: A Celebration of New Life by a woman named Anne Geddes. It has beautiful photographs of newborns (even though my husband and I never had children, I have always liked taking photographs of babies, I do have three nieces and two nephews) and a CD of music from Celine Dion, who is also on the cover. But that book never arrived, it was yours, Everyday Miracles, so you can see how the mistake was made, which I now think is not an accident, because your name is Newborn and the book is photos of newborns. I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time, I know I’m just one of many letter writers. The thing is, I read your book, something made me open it, and it spoke to me, especially the part about some things never happen because you don’t believe they can, and it was like a voice in my head said this has to do with your seizures, you can make them go away if you believe it’s possible. I stopped taking my medication (of course I didn’t tell anyone, they would have called me crazy), but got afraid and started again. I tried a few times. And then one day I reread the part of your book about not being afraid of the “worst” thing that can happen, not giving it power over you, and that night I took a walk to the lake (I’m a ten-minute walk from Lake Sunapee in New Hampshire) and threw my pills into the water and cried (I was glad no one saw me), and I haven’t had a seizure since, eight months and counting. I’ve been meaning to write you for a while now. There is no need to write back, I just wanted to thank you, though of course you can, if you have time. Thank you again and again!
Sincerely yours,
There are always two stories competing for space on the page, in our minds, in our hearts. Two stories, only one of which can be true. Or: two stories, both of which may be true.
Dear Eric Newborn, Dear Mr. Newborn, Dear Eric (if I may), Dear Author, Dear Sir, To Whom It May Concern, Greetings, Good morning, Good day, Hello there, Hi, Hello…
I ha
ve a question about your chapter “The Creation Box.” May I please ask you a question about your new book, the chapter called “The Power of Feeling Good Now.” I have a quick question about the chapter “There Is Nothing You Cannot Do,” about the chapter “You Get What You Think About,” about Chapter 4, “The Art of Allowing,” about the chapter “Getting Unstuck,” about the chapter “It’s Not Selfish to Want Happiness,” about the last chapter, the summary, the end, the final sentence, “God lives inside you.” I have a question about you, I have a personal question, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a slightly personal question. Excuse my question, which is rather personal, but what are you afraid of? Do you ever worry? Do you ever get depressed? Have you ever had a cold? Have you ever been mugged? Has anyone ever punched you?
I want to thank you, I’m writing to thank you, I’ve been wanting to thank you for changing my, for helping me start over, making me see the truth about, making me understand how the world really, how to have the life I’ve always, the house I’ve always wanted, the job, the peace, the health I’ve wanted, how to make my dreams come true.
I’m happy to report, happy to tell you, I’m so happy to share my good news that my heart is, my migraines are, my wife is, I can walk, I can sleep, I can breathe. Feel free to use my story, feel free to include me, feel free to use this, I give you permission to use me, you may want to put my story in your next book.
Dear Mr. Newborn, how would you explain, but what about, I don’t understand how, why would you write that, it doesn’t make sense when you say, I wonder what I’m doing wrong.
Dear Eric Newborn, it’s a miracle, it’s nothing short of a miracle, I’d call it a miracle, there’s no other word for it but miracle, it’s truly miraculous, I have no choice but to call it a miracle.
* * *
Take care, Be well, Regards, Kind regards, Warm regards, Best regards, Best wishes, Best, All best, Wishing you all the best, Best of luck, Cheers, Namaste, Thanks, Many thanks, With gratitude, Peace, Love, Yours, Yours truly, Respectfully yours, Sincerely yours.
WE LEFT THE morning after the storm, before we could change our minds. I should say, before she could change her mind.
It must have been the dog—how scared Cary had been when Ralph wasn’t moving, wasn’t responding at all. I’d been trying to convince her for months, we’d fought about it, I’d been an ass, well-meaning, but at times an ass, and what it took, in the end, I can draw no other conclusion, was the dog. Cary woke me in the night, told me she wanted to cancel her next treatment. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” she said. “Let’s just go away.”
As if it had been her decision. As if I didn’t have anything to do with it. As if upon hearing her words, Let’s just go away, I didn’t pull her to me and hold her and tell her she was making the best decision, we’d do this together, I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.
Dawn was gray and sluggish, the street strewn with trash from overturned cans and leaves blown from trees. A large branch lay across the roof of our car like something recently shot.
May in Chilmark is October in New York; we packed sweaters and hoodies and boots and raincoats. Shorts and skirts and summer dresses, too—who knew when we’d be back. Not for a long time; at least that was the plan, now that Cary had agreed.
I went through our dressers, our closets, the medicine cabinet, the pantry for perishables; didn’t bother to fold or organize. Two suitcases, as much as I could shove inside, while Cary sipped tea by the window.
Ralph sat on the stoop and watched me load the wagon. When I finished, I told her to get in. She ran in the house, back out, back inside. Everyone had to be accounted for, and Cary hadn’t come out yet, as if she wasn’t quite sure.
It was to be the year of solitude, the year of just the three of us, the year of tuning out the rest of the world, no TV, no radio, no newspapers, as few other people as possible, the year in our bubble; it was to be the year of mindfulness, of simplicity, of hikes in the woods and walks along the beach; it was to be the year of quiet, the year of wellness. We’d live that way forever. Farewell to the rest of the world. Farewell to disease and planes crashing into buildings and the fear such murders birth.
DEW ON LEAVES and spiderwebs. Crunch of grass frosted by overnight lows near freezing. A five-mile run that began in dark and ended in light: the push of the final mile, Ralph panting beside me, my breath a few inches in front of my mouth. The sensation, at times, that something was chasing me; at other times, that I was chasing something I could never catch. Then the first steps after, the hard work done, a stretch against a tree, beard wet, chest and back chilled from sweat absorbed into my shirt.
A warm shower, then back in bed, only a few minutes, my wet head on Cary’s shoulder, the sound of Ralph drinking water in the kitchen, birds outside the window, a dog barking in the distance, Ralph’s answer, then up for breakfast: granola, grapefruit juice, toast, herbal tea.
That was when I heard a fly buzz. I followed the sound: into the kitchen, above the sink, between curtain and window. Not just one. Too many to count. Blind to the glass, or perhaps expecting a different result each time, they kept crashing into the window. Flies on our anniversary; not what we’d planned. We opened the window, lifted the screen; we tried without success to shoo them out. They seemed unfazed by Ralph’s attempts to eat them. Perhaps they’d heard that Ralph had never caught anything living—neither cat nor squirrel nor deer—in her life. We found dozens more in the bathroom, in our bedroom. We opened our closets and they flew out at us; they landed on our jellied toast, on our hands. They were loudly fond of our ears.
We didn’t want to kill them. We didn’t like killing anything; we caught spiders and wasps and mosquitoes in jars and set them free outside.
Cary propped open the door. “Leave open,” she said.
“Door,” I said.
“I’m saying it in my mind, but…”
“Forget it,” I said. “It’s just a word.”
“Play catch,” she said.
We bought baseball mitts and a hardball—an anniversary gift to ourselves. I taught Cary to throw using her legs, to stretch as if playing first base on a bang-bang play. Ralph ran back and forth between us, waiting for the ball to drop. When it did, she picked it up, chewed it, played keep-away. By lunch she’d broken through the cowhide; when we threw, yarn trailed the ball like a comet’s tail. Tired, we gave it to her; she chewed her way to the pill, what had been there all along unseen, a new, smaller ball for her to play with.
We ate in season: green skinnies, little rollies, sweet reds, and leaf fans. Cary’s words. I said as-par-a-gus, overenunciating each syllable while she studied my mouth, but the word was gone. I said spring peas, spring, peas, and she opened her mouth. Cherries, cher-ries. Rhubarb, rhu-barb. The words were gone; she knew them only by taste.
“More purples, please.”
“Blueberries,” I said. “Blue-berries.”
“They’re purple.”
“Purpleberries, then.”
For a month we had stayed away from Vineyard Haven and Edgartown. We missed our favorite bookstore and ice cream shop, but we preferred quiet. Twice a week at dawn we went to the market for milk and honey and bread and rice, and to a roadside stand for fresh strawberries and blueberries.
We never said the word; we tried not to think it by thinking about other things, whatever was in front of us: butter dripping off corn on the cob, dust visible in a slant of sunlight, mouse bones by the shed.
Silence suited us best. I lost words, too, on purpose. I played Cary’s games; after all, she was playing mine by leaving New York and coming here.
Scratch that—not a game. Everything else had been a game. If you believe you’ll find the perfect parking spot, if you see it in your mind’s eye, it will come to you. If you believe the clouds will part on your wedding day, if you believe so completely that you don’t bother renting a tent, then the sun will shine. But now I wanted to say so what to all that, as in: So wha
t if it doesn’t work. So what if you don’t get that spot; you can try again the next day. So what if a thousand times there’s no spot. So what if it rains on your wedding: the best man will hold an umbrella over you as you fit rings onto each other’s fingers. So what if your arthritic grandmother has to traverse a muddy field to reach her cocktail: someone will carry her; life will go on, as they say. No, what I’d believed had been faith, hadn’t been. This, what we were doing, what I’d convinced Cary to do, was faith. No such thing as better luck next time. This wasn’t a parking spot; this wasn’t a sunny day. This was till death do us part. You can use a rope to lower a piano from a third-floor window, you can believe the knot is secure, but only when that same rope is tied around your waist as you’re being lowered will you discover how much faith you have in the knot.
The flies—by late afternoon on our anniversary they seemed to have doubled—didn’t seem like a game. We found their point of entry: a sink in our laundry room. We poured bleach into the drain, then plugged it. We went for a hike in the woods, no speaking allowed, only the chirping of birds, the sound of leaves kicked in stride, Ralph navigating through brush in pursuit of a woodchuck. We drove to Lucy Vincent and napped at the base of a rock into which we’d carved the twins’ names. The beach was cold and windy; we liked that there were no other people. We saw a fat man sleeping on the sand in the distance, but then we realized it was a seal. We didn’t need to move much closer to know it was dead.
When we came home, there were no fewer flies, but no more. This progress, if it could be called that, came with a setback: the toilet was backed up, from what we weren’t sure, as we hadn’t used it since morning. We flushed, and the water rose; we flushed again, same result, and now the floor was wet.
That night we could hear Ralph’s jaw snapping at the flies; we told her to go back to sleep, and for a while she did, but later we heard her biting air.
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