LAST WEEK OF
April, first warm days of spring. One night we huddled under blankets, the next we opened windows and slept shirtless under the white noise of a ceiling fan. Overnight, the cherry trees on our street bloomed. A good sign, Cary said. We set two chairs by the bedroom window and read. Every few pages we stopped to look at the trees, then every few paragraphs. Then we put our books down, moved our chairs closer, and dozed in the morning breeze.
We ate lunchâbananas and cheese sandwiches and fig bars, things Cary could stomachâwhile we walked up and down our block, the pink blossoms already falling like snow, covering the ground, the hoods of cars. We found them on our back and shoulders and in our hair; we found them that night on our pillows. One blossom was pressed against Cary's back the next day when she undressed for the doctor.
When we came home from the hospital, our neighbors were shoveling. The sound made me afraid it was winter again; we didn't want to relive the past four months, didn't want to have to get through what we'd already gotten through.
But then I looked; the snow was pink.
“So pretty,” Cary said. “Even on the ground.”
“They get slippery,” I said.
“Such short lives,” she said. We sat on the stoop and watched our neighborsâpeople we knew by face and by dog but not by nameâbag cherry blossoms as more fell.
“Mayflies,” Cary said, excited to have remembered this word. “Mayflies live only a few minutes, just long enough to lay their⦔
I waited while her brain searched for the word. “Long enough to lay their⦔
“Eggs,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “That might be nice.”
“I'd rather live to be a hundred fifty.”
“Much too long,” she said. “There's something⦔ She paused, her mouth open, waiting for the word. “Beauty,” she said. “There's something beauty about a short life.”
“Beautiful,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Tell that to a giant tortoise.”
“Next time I see one.”
We sat watching our neighbors stuff bags into trash cans set curbside for morning pickup. Then we went inside, where the rest of the dayâthe part we still had to liveâstretched in front of us.
When faced with sadness, play a game; that was her way. The word gameâthe one she'd made up. No names for things, and try to guess them. Easy for herâshe'd lost so many words. It made her laugh to see me have to try so hard. She seemed so happy, you'd never know the news had been bad that morning.
“Hey,” she said. “At least it didn't spread.”
Before my face could betray me, I pulled her against me. I stroked her hair and imagined it gray. I was hugging an old lady; we'd been married fifty years. No kids, but so what. Young couples would stare at us as we walked by, holding hands, and say, “Let's be like them.”
After a few minutes, I felt her begin to pull away; it was the only time it had ever been her. It was something she took silly pride in: she was never first to break a hug, not even when college kids were giving free hugs in Prospect Park and there was a long line. Such a good hugger, they asked her to join them for a while, and she did.
She pulled away again, and this time I let her.
She hadn't lost
tree
,
so even she had to work at that one. She called them the earth's whiskers. Pass to me. The earth was the universe's cloudy eyeball. Pass to her. Cloud: what breaks your fall. Fall: the time of rakes. Rake: a cartoon blow to the face. Face: what a blind lover feels. Blind: to see better, to smell better. Smell: to breathe colors. Breathe: to be still, to do nothing. Nothing: anything other than everything.
Enough, I said, but she wanted to keep going.
“I don't like this game,” I said. “I can't tell when you're playing.”
“I know
clogs
. And
dog
and
hair
.”
“What makes the sky wet?”
She shrugged.
“Rain,” I said, and she repeated the word,
rain, rain
,
a child learning a new language.
“What about the thing you're reading?”
“You're right,” she said. “We shouldn't play.”
“Book,” I said.
“Are you mad at me?”
“No,” I said. A reflex, the right answer, even if not true.
“It's no one's fault,” she said.
I kneeled in front of her chair. I kissed her handsâeach finger, front and back. My mouth never said,
Of course it's no one's fault
.
Behind her, the sky had turned dark. Cherry trees swayed in the wind and lost more blossoms. The sky flashed bright, and already Ralph was shaking at the door. I looked at Cary and waited.
“Lightning,” she said.
Then a long, low rumble across the sky. Ralph stood on her back legs and scratched the door.
“Something and lightning,” she said.
“Begins with a
t
.”
She closed her eyes, opened them, shook her head no.
“It's all right,” I said.
“Timber,” she said. “Timber and lightning.”
“That's right,” I said.
Ralph scratched at our closet; we opened the door to show her it wasn't a way out. She put her paws on the sill; we opened the window to let her smell the rain and see the flashing sky, but still she wanted out. She stood in the corner and started to peeâwhether from fear or a full bladder, we weren't sureâand I said, “Let's give her what she wants.”
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 âI'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 dogâsmaller, 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 Torontoâhe had me sign a copy of my first bookâwho'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 andâ
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 thoughtâ”
“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,
Â
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 nowâthere'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,
Â
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.
Â
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, Helloâ¦
Â
I have 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?
Â
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.
Â
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.