JUST BEFORE SEVEN A.M. on Sunday, an octopus walks into the station. Well, it is actually a woman dressedlike an octopus, but when you see something like that, distinctions hardly matter. She has tears running downher face and holds a Pekingese dog in her multiple arms. “You have to help me,” she says, and that’s when Iremember: this is Mrs. Zegna, whose house was gutted by a kitchen fire a few days ago.
She plucks at her tentacles. “This is the only clothing I have left. A Halloween costume. Ursula. It’s beenrotting in a U-Store-It locker in Taunton with my Peter Paul and Mary album collection.”
I gently sit her down in the chair across from my desk. “Mrs. Zegna, I know your house is uninhabitable—”
“Uninhabitable? It’s wrecked!”
“I can put you in touch with a shelter. And if you like, I can speak to your insurance company to expeditethings.”
She lifts one arm to wipe her eyes, and eight others, drawn by strings, rise in unison. “I don’t have homeinsurance. I don’t believe in living my life expecting the worst.”
I stare at her for a moment. I try to remember what it is like to be taken aback by the very possibility ofdisaster.
When I get to the hospital, Kate is lying on her back, holding tight to a stuffed bear she’s had since she wasseven. She’s hooked up to one of those patient-managed morphine drips, and her thumb pushes down on thebutton every now and then, although she is fast asleep.
One of the chairs in the room folds out into a cot with a mattress thin as a wafer; this is where Sara is curled.
“Hey,” she says, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Where’s Anna?”
“Still sleeping like only a kid can. How was Kate’s night?”
“Not bad. She was in a little pain between two and four.”
I sit down on the edge of her cot. “It meant a lot to Anna, you calling last night.”
When I look into Sara’s eyes, I see Jesse—they have the same coloring, the same features. I wonder if Saralooks at me and thinks of Kate. I wonder if that hurts.
It is hard to believe that once, this woman and I sat in a car and drove the entire length of Route 66, andnever ran out of things to say. Our conversations now are an economy of facts, full of blue chip details andinsider information.
“Do you remember that fortune-teller?” I ask. When she looks at me blankly, I keep talking. “We were out inthe middle of Nevada, and the Chevy ran out of gas…and you wouldn’t let me leave you in the car while Ilooked for a service station?”
Ten days from now, when you’re still walking in circles, they’re going to find me with vultures eating out myinsides, Sara had said, and she’d fallen into step beside me. We hiked back four miles to the shanty we’dpassed, a gas station. It was run by an old guy and his sister, who advertised herself as a psychic. Let’s do it,Sara begged, but a reading cost five bucks and I only had ten. Then we’ll get half the gas, and ask the psychicwhen we can expect to run out the next time, Sara said, and like always, she convinced me.
Madame Agnes was the kind of blind that scares children, with cataract eyes that looked like an empty bluesky. She put her knobby hands on Sara’s face to read her bones, and said that she saw three babies and a longlife, but that it wouldn’t be good enough. What’s that supposed to mean? Sara asked, incensed, and MadameAgnes explained that fortunes were like clay, and could be reshaped at any time. But you could only remakeyour own future, not anyone else’s, and for some people that just wasn’t good enough.
She put her hands on my face and said only one thing: Save yourself.
She told us we would run out of gas again just over the Colorado border, and we did.
Now, in the hospital room, Sara looks at me blankly. “When did we go to Nevada?” she asks. Then sheshakes her head. “We need to talk. If Anna is really going through with this hearing on Monday, then I needto review your testimony.”
“Actually.” I look down at my hands. “I’m going to speak on Anna’s behalf.”
“What?”
With a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure Kate is still sleeping, I do my best to explain. “Sara,believe me, I’ve thought long and hard about this one. And if Anna’s through being a donor for Kate, we’vegot to respect that.”
“If you testify for Anna, the judge is going to say that at least one of her parents is capable of supporting thispetition, and he’s going to rule in her favor.”
“I know that,” I say. “Why else would I do it?”
We stare at each other, speechless, unwilling to admit what lies at the end of each of these roads.
“Sara,” I ask finally, “what do you want from me?”
“I want to look at you and remember what it used to be like,” she says thickly. “I want to go back, Brian. Iwant you to take me back.”
But she is not the woman I used to know, the woman who traveled a countryside counting prairie dog holes,who read aloud the classifieds of lonely cowboys seeking women and told me, in the darkest crease of thenight, that she would love me until the moon lost its footing in the sky.
To be fair, I am not the same man. The one who listened. The one who believed her.
She plucks at her tentacles. “This is the only clothing I have left. A Halloween costume. Ursula. It’s beenrotting in a U-Store-It locker in Taunton with my Peter Paul and Mary album collection.”
I gently sit her down in the chair across from my desk. “Mrs. Zegna, I know your house is uninhabitable—”
“Uninhabitable? It’s wrecked!”
“I can put you in touch with a shelter. And if you like, I can speak to your insurance company to expeditethings.”
She lifts one arm to wipe her eyes, and eight others, drawn by strings, rise in unison. “I don’t have homeinsurance. I don’t believe in living my life expecting the worst.”
I stare at her for a moment. I try to remember what it is like to be taken aback by the very possibility ofdisaster.
When I get to the hospital, Kate is lying on her back, holding tight to a stuffed bear she’s had since she wasseven. She’s hooked up to one of those patient-managed morphine drips, and her thumb pushes down on thebutton every now and then, although she is fast asleep.
One of the chairs in the room folds out into a cot with a mattress thin as a wafer; this is where Sara is curled.
“Hey,” she says, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Where’s Anna?”
“Still sleeping like only a kid can. How was Kate’s night?”
“Not bad. She was in a little pain between two and four.”
I sit down on the edge of her cot. “It meant a lot to Anna, you calling last night.”
When I look into Sara’s eyes, I see Jesse—they have the same coloring, the same features. I wonder if Saralooks at me and thinks of Kate. I wonder if that hurts.
It is hard to believe that once, this woman and I sat in a car and drove the entire length of Route 66, andnever ran out of things to say. Our conversations now are an economy of facts, full of blue chip details andinsider information.
“Do you remember that fortune-teller?” I ask. When she looks at me blankly, I keep talking. “We were out inthe middle of Nevada, and the Chevy ran out of gas…and you wouldn’t let me leave you in the car while Ilooked for a service station?”
Ten days from now, when you’re still walking in circles, they’re going to find me with vultures eating out myinsides, Sara had said, and she’d fallen into step beside me. We hiked back four miles to the shanty we’dpassed, a gas station. It was run by an old guy and his sister, who advertised herself as a psychic. Let’s do it,Sara begged, but a reading cost five bucks and I only had ten. Then we’ll get half the gas, and ask the psychicwhen we can expect to run out the next time, Sara said, and like always, she convinced me.
Madame Agnes was the kind of blind that scares children, with cataract eyes that looked like an empty bluesky. She put her knobby hands on Sara’s face to read her bones, and said that she saw three babies and a longlife, but that it wouldn’t be good enough. What’s that supposed to mean? Sara asked, incensed, and MadameAgnes explained that fortunes were like clay, and could be reshaped at any time. But you could only remakeyour own future, not anyone else’s, and for some people that just wasn’t good enough.
She put her hands on my face and said only one thing: Save yourself.
She told us we would run out of gas again just over the Colorado border, and we did.
Now, in the hospital room, Sara looks at me blankly. “When did we go to Nevada?” she asks. Then sheshakes her head. “We need to talk. If Anna is really going through with this hearing on Monday, then I needto review your testimony.”
“Actually.” I look down at my hands. “I’m going to speak on Anna’s behalf.”
“What?”
With a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure Kate is still sleeping, I do my best to explain. “Sara,believe me, I’ve thought long and hard about this one. And if Anna’s through being a donor for Kate, we’vegot to respect that.”
“If you testify for Anna, the judge is going to say that at least one of her parents is capable of supporting thispetition, and he’s going to rule in her favor.”
“I know that,” I say. “Why else would I do it?”
We stare at each other, speechless, unwilling to admit what lies at the end of each of these roads.
“Sara,” I ask finally, “what do you want from me?”
“I want to look at you and remember what it used to be like,” she says thickly. “I want to go back, Brian. Iwant you to take me back.”
But she is not the woman I used to know, the woman who traveled a countryside counting prairie dog holes,who read aloud the classifieds of lonely cowboys seeking women and told me, in the darkest crease of thenight, that she would love me until the moon lost its footing in the sky.
To be fair, I am not the same man. The one who listened. The one who believed her.