Slices (15 page)

“Away
from all what?”

She
looked around, shaking her head. “You really don’t know.”

“No,
I suppose I don’t.” He closed the trunk, took out his
keys, and got in his car without another word and drove away, and
even though he couldn’t quite shake the image of her eyes
bright and helpless in his rear-view mirror, he had still nearly
forgotten their conversation — nearly forgotten her —
by the time he got home.

His
shopping had been interrupted, and so there were things he had
forgotten. Things that had been important to Kathy even though they
wouldn’t have helped; forgotten things written on the list of
commandments that was crumpled and useless abandoned in his pocket.

She
was angry; she was often angry, and it was the only time she ever
really looked alive. He was always a little terrified and in awe of
her when it happened, and he was this time; but even as he ducked and
covered his face to keep the shards from his eyes as the bud vase hit
the wall, it gave him a stunted kind of hope. When she was this awake
and alive and screaming, at least she cared about something.

Why
are you doing this to me? she screamed at him. Don’t you care?
Don’t you give a shit? I didn’t ask for much, did I?
Can’t you remember anything? And on and on it went, word after
word like machine gun fire.

And
on and on until she went to bed, exhausted and sobbing, and slammed
the door against him, shutting him out, exiling him to sleep on the
couch. He couldn’t bring himself to do it; he slept instead
curled up shivering on the floor outside her door.

The
next day he made the call, as always. I need some more time, I’m
sorry, I’ll be back in the office soon, my wife is still sick.
And he busied himself with the day’s tasks.

There
was the debris from last night’s argument (no, that’s not
right, some dim and distant part of him said; it’s not an
argument if you don’t fight back, it’s not an argument if
you just stand there and take it), all of that needed to be cleaned
up — the bud vase, three shattered dishes, blue and white,
their wedding pattern. There was the picture she’d knocked off
the wall, a print of a painting she’d always liked,
Le
déjeuner sur l’herbe;
that needed to be hung back up and straightened until it was just
perfect.

(if
only that noise would stop)

And
then there were dishes to wash, the laundry to do. He was never quite
sure how she managed to dirty so many dishes, or wear so many clothes
if she never went anywhere, but she did, and it all needed to be
done. And he couldn’t expect her to help. Oh, no. Not with her
sick all the time. Not in her
condition.

No.
No. Don’t get angry. It’s not going to do her any good.

(Then
what, the same small voice asked, will do her any good?)

The
glass he was holding broke in his hand. He hadn’t realized he
was gripping it so tight.

It
was only then that he noticed that the phone was ringing. And he
realized that it had been ringing for quite some time.

The
office — ? He grabbed the phone, other hand still bleeding.

“Look,
I’m sorry, I said I won’t be in today — ”

Two
small words, too small and quiet for him to hear until he really
listened.

“It’s
Hope.”

Who?
he nearly asked, but instead he said, “The girl from —
”

“Yes,
the girl from the store.” He could hear her smiling.

“How
did you get my number — ?”

“Is
it important?”

“No
…. ”

“Because
I can make something up if it is.”

And
he smiled. Trying to remember the last time anyone had made him
smile.

“Do
you have a minute?” she asked him.

“Ummm.”
He tried to keep his hand over the sink, watched the blood drip down
into the soapy, dirty water. Distantly, he knew he needed to bandage
his hand, but all he could think was, I really need to finish these
dishes. “Not really.”

“Please,
I’m going to ask again. Can we meet somewhere? And just talk?”

“I
really don’t think it’s a good idea …. ”

“Please.
I don’t have much time — ”

“Well,
I don’t either, I — ”

“
I
can only see you three times.”

And
he stopped. Everything in the apartment seemed hushed and still; even
the steady dripping of blood stemmed itself at those words. He was
caught by them, frozen in place, not just because she sounded so
urgent, but because something about the words had seemed so familiar
to him. Damned familiar.

“I
— Yes. All right.”

She
said something else, two more small words.

“What?
I can barely hear you.”

“I
said, thank you.”

“This
is a terrible connection. Are you calling long distance?”

She
laughed. “You have no idea.”

“So.
Where?”

“Can
we go get lunch somewhere?”

“I
don’t — I shouldn’t be gone that long.”

“ …
All right. How about the —
the park, near the store? Can you meet me there?”

“Yes.
Okay.”

“Promise
me.”

It
seemed an odd thing to ask, but he said, “It’s a promise.
I’ll come talk to you. I promise.”

“When?”

He
wanted to put her off, tell her, not tonight, maybe this weekend? —
but was caught again by the familiar edge to her voice, the urgency
in her tone. “Now?”

“Thank
you.” This time he heard her say it. “Oh, God, thank
you.”

He
didn’t know what to say next, not even how to say goodbye, so
after a moment’s awkward silence, he hung up.

Turned,
to see the open doorway, his wife standing, leaning against the
doorframe, arms folded, eyes burning into him. Who was that? she
asked him, Just now, on the phone?

No
one, he said, thinking,
Hope.

Don’t
give me that. I heard you. Going to go off and meet her somewhere. So
that’s how it is.

Please,
I’m sorry — it isn’t what you think —

Yeah,
she said. I bet.

He
reached for her, but she slammed the door shut again. He stood there
a moment longer, arm still outstretched, trying to think of the right
words to say, the right thing to reassure her. A single moment of
clarity told him that nothing would.

He
balanced the promise he had just made against wanting to try all the
same, and the promise somehow won. He grabbed his coat and was out
the door before he could change his mind.

She
was waiting when he reached the park. It wasn’t much of a park,
he knew, and he hated to think that he had kept her there long,
waiting and cold on a cement bench alongside a cement path wrapped
around a cement pond. He sat down and looked at her, and said, “Hi.”

“This
is Hell,” she told him, without preamble.

He
knew what she meant; he actually did, he had known this himself once,
but his mind rejected the idea, let him be puzzled —

“What
is?”

“No,
I mean — all of this. Literally. You’re in Hell.”

He
paused, looking out over the water, watching the miniature waves the
wind made as it skimmed the surface. “You’re a very
strange girl,” he said finally.

She
laughed, genuinely delighted. “I’ve been told that,”
she said. “But I’m serious.”

“Yes.
Yes, I can see you are.” He still didn’t look at her,
almost afraid that if he saw her shining again, saw how gray the
world around her was, he would believe what she was saying. “But
this — this can’t be Hell.”

“No?
What were you expecting?”

“I
don’t — ”

“Fire
and brimstone? Little demons poking you with pitchforks? Like in the
cartoons?”

He
smiled again. “I suppose not.”

“Hell
isn’t like that. It doesn’t have to be. Your own life can
be hell enough, if you don’t see any way out of it. Any next
step to take.”

He
nodded slowly, starting to see, but not wanting to. “Still. I’m
not dead. You’re not dead. This can’t be — ”

“Remember
the people in the store? Each one of them looking as lost and sad as
you. Not a single smile, no one talking, no laughter.”

“Yes,
but — ”
That’s
normal,
he
thought,
isn’t
it?

“When
was the last time,” she asked him, “that you heard a bird
singing? Or saw children playing? Or saw a sunset?”

“Well,
I can’t — ”

“Or
heard music? Do you even remember music? When was the last time you
saw a tree? Or even a single blade of grass?”

(I
don’t know)

“What?
I can’t hear you — ”

“I
said, I don’t know!”

She
stood, held a hand out to him. “Come on. Walk with me. Find me
one single flower. And I will believe that this isn’t Hell, and
I will wear the flower in my hair.” She smiled and smiled.
“I’ll wear it all the way back to Heaven.”

“What
… who are you?”

“You
know already.”

“Are
you — ” He felt stupid saying it: “Are you an
angel?”

She
laughed. “No. No, of course not. No more than you are. There
are no angels.”

“Then
who — ”

“You
know already. Hope.”

There
was nothing he could say to that, so he didn’t say anything.

He
finally asked, “If I am in Hell … why tell me?”

“Because
you don’t have to be here.”

“I
don’t.”

“No.”
She paused, took a deep breath, sat back down. “This isn’t
your hell.”

“Then
whose — ” But he knew. “Kathy’s.”

“Yes.
You can walk out of here any time you want.”

He
stood up. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Please,
don’t go!”

“Look,”
he said, “I agreed to come out here, I agreed to talk to you. I
came, we talked. I’m going home now.”

“That’s
just it, it’s not your home! Please just listen,” she
said, rising, a hand on his arm again. “I don’t want to
have wasted this chance, I can only see you one more time — ”

“I
know,” he said, not knowing how he knew she was right about
that, how he knew that was solid fact, “but look, don’t
bother, all right?”

This
time she was left speechless, and he walked away. Went home to his
wife, who wasn’t saying a word to him, but who soaked up all
his apologies and attentions all the same, took all his love and
swallowed it whole.

And
so it went, for days and days, and he didn’t forget Hope this
time, and her words and her truth burned in his ears the whole time.
Watching his wife, watching how she took and never gave, and started
to believe that this really was Hell after all.

This
time, he went and found her.

He
didn’t know where she’d be, didn’t know how to find
her, but figured that if he just drove and drove he would find her,
that she would stand out like a flower pushed up through the crack in
a sidewalk. He still remembered things like that.

She
was sitting on a sidewalk, legs curled up and her arms wrapped around
them for warmth, just staring out at nothing. Not defeated, not
hopeless, not dead tired like he was all the time now; but tired
alive, just needing a rest, a moment to recover.

Then
she saw him, and her calm broke. “Oh, God,” she said.
“No. Please. I’m not ready.”

“It’s
okay — ”

“No,
it’s not okay — I don’t know what to say to you, I
wasn’t ready to see you again, I wanted to think of something
to convince you — ”

“It’s
okay, Hope. Really, it is.”

And
he sat down beside her, and reached out his arms to her to comfort
her, and she sank into him and cried, just a little, and this was the
part that seemed so miraculous to him: comforting her actually seemed
to work. She seemed to draw strength from his kindness. He’d
forgotten what that was like.

“I
haven’t wanted to waste this,” she said. “Not my
last chance.”

He
could barely hear her words, spoken against his chest, but he could
feel them. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere, this
time. I’ll listen.”

“Will
you come with me?”

“Please,
let’s just talk first, okay?”

“I
— okay.”

“What
are you doing here, Hope? You don’t belong here.”

“No
more than you do,” she said, and he could feel the smile. She
pulled back, gently freeing herself from his embrace. “You
could say I’m harrowing Hell.”

“Harrowing
— ?”

“Like
Christ did. Coming to free souls that don’t belong here.”
She shrugged. “Just one, in my case. More like Orpheus, than
Christ, I guess.”

“Why
me?”

She
shrugged again. “I can’t tell you. Not here. It’s
not allowed. Maybe — Maybe I saw you, just once, maybe we ran
into each other in a supermarket. And I was having a bad day and you
smiled at me and I always remembered it. Or maybe I was a lover you
had once who you’ve forgotten.”

“I
can’t believe that.”

“Maybe.
Or maybe — maybe I’m the lover you never had, the one you
were meant to be with, but never met. You met Kathy instead. Maybe we
finally met in Heaven and fell in love there.”

He
looked at her, for a long moment. “Maybe,” he agreed.

They
were silent a moment.

“Was
I …. ”

“Go
on,” she said, “ask.”

“Was
I — really in Heaven?”

“Yes.
You were. That I can tell you.”

He
nodded, looking out at the gray walls and gray streets and gray sky.
“What was it like?”

“That
I can’t tell you.” She reached for his hand. “But I
could show you. If you’d just come with me.”

He
didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “How did I get here?”

“Same
as me,” she said awkwardly. “Harrowing Hell. Here to
rescue Kathy.”

“Why
is she here?”

“Because
she thinks she ought to be.” She sighed. “You know she
was depressed when she was alive, you know she got sick from it —
”