The Book of Why (22 page)

ON YOUR BIRTHDAY
this past September—what would have been your fortieth—I was listening to you sing. A recording, I should say. Which is you.
Was
you, I should say. Evidence that you
had been singing
,
that you
had sung
. We may use most verb tenses here except the present continuous
are singing when _____
, and the present perfect continuous
have been singing for _____  years when _____
, and the future
will sing
,
and the future continuous
will be singing when _____
, and the future perfect continuous
will have been singing for _____  years when
_____
.

Let me begin again. It was your birthday, a year and a half after the trip to Lancaster. I was listening to you sing, to a recording of you, when the bell rang. Boxes filled with letters from my readers. I'd told my editor years ago that I didn't want them, but he was leaving my publisher for another one, so he decided to send them to me. I didn't open them for a few weeks, and then one day I said just one, no harm in one, and it began,
I was so sorry to hear
. I decided one a day would be fine. All this time I expected
Told you so,
but so far they've been kind.
I was sorry to read about your. My sincere condolences at the loss of your. After all you've done for me, I wanted to. Keeping you in my. I know how you must be feeling, I lost my. Some might say how could something like this happen to him, but it's not your. I'm so sorry, I was so saddened, I was shocked to hear, I'm keeping you in my thoughts, I'm sending you warm thoughts peaceful thoughts positive thoughts during this difficult what must certainly be a difficult time. I've enclosed a book you might. I hope you don't mind, but I've enclosed my copy of. The enclosed book was very useful to me when I lost my. Please read the enclosed book, I'm sure it will speak to you the way it spoke to me when.

Healing after Loss. How to Go On Living When Someone You Love Dies. Finding Your Way after Your Spouse Dies. Living with Grief. Traveling Through Grief. Journey Through Grief. Understanding Your Grief. Awakening from Grief. Surviving Grief and Learning to Live Again. Chicken Soup for the Grieving Soul. The Grieving Garden. A Grief Observed. The Courage to Grieve. Getting to the Other Side of Grief. Grieving Mindfully. Grieving God's Way. God Knows You're Grieving. Good Grief. Don't Take My Grief Away. Grieving: A Love Story. Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep. Sad Isn't Bad. The Mourning Handbook. The Widower's Handbook. For Widowers Only.
Widower
to Widower. Waking Up Alone. When There Are No Words: Finding Your Way to Cope with Loss and Grief. The Light at the End of the Tunnel: Coming Back to Life after a Spouse Dies. Life after Loss. Life after Death. Death Is Nothing at All. We Don't Die. Love Never Dies. Talking to Heaven. Hello from Heaven. I Wasn't Ready to Say Goodbye. Help Me Say Goodbye.

Some books say imagine that the worst has happened. Some books say carry on regardless. Some books say write your own obituary. Some books say make tomorrow today. Some books say try yoga. Some books say run a marathon. Some books say don't run before you can walk. Some books say no one sees themselves as others do. Some books say grow a beard. Some books say shaving your beard will take years off your face. Some books say visit your parents, sleep in your childhood bed. Some books say don't wait for a party to blow up balloons. Some books say don't look in the mirror. Some books say look in the mirror, check your pee, take your pulse, smell your own breath. Some books say never skip breakfast. Some books say eat more kale, more blueberries, more prunes. Some books say drink more green tea. Some books say no alcohol. Some books say alcohol in moderation. Some books say celebrate wrinkles. Some books say be modest. Some books say don't be too modest. Some books say volunteer. Some books say take charge, stand straight, smile. Some books say take the stairs, not the
elevator
. Some books say aim high. Some books say be realistic. Some books say avoid risk. Some books say don't be afraid to take risks. Some books say think big. Some books say be practical. Some books say think before you act. Some books say don't think too much. Some books say agree to disagree. Some books say don't try to make a round peg fit into a square hole. Some books say keep your cool. Some books say don't be afraid to get angry. Some books say turn your enemies into teachers. Some books say don't blame, don't judge. Some books say when you have one finger pointed at someone else, you have three pointing back at yourself. Some books say have a firm handshake. Some books say rigid branches break in the first wind. Some books say don't put rocks in your knapsack. Some books say put the cap back on the toothpaste. Some books say enjoy a traffic jam by listening to music. Some books say take a long bath, take a vacation, go on a cruise. Some books say look up at the stars. Some books say clean your sheets. Some books say focus on the small details. Some books say focus on the big picture. Some books say set your watch five minutes fast. Some books say live in the moment. Some books say plan ahead. Some books say one day at a time. Some books say be here now.

TODAY IS OCTOBER
1, 2009, the only October 1, 2009, there will ever be, and you are here.

My high-school history teacher used to begin every class this way. Even though he was simply stating the date and the obvious, I think that he was on to something.

Today is October 1, 2009, and you are not here.

Ralph walks stiffly along the water's edge twenty or thirty yards ahead of me; she keeps looking back to make sure I'm still there. She greets each person walking past; even with hip dysplasia and arthritis, she manages to be happy.

The vet tried to make a joke. “Her caput is kaput,” he said. He explained that
caput
is another word for the head of her femur. “It's supposed to be round,” he said, “but hers isn't, so it's causing wear and tear on the joint. Very painful,” he said, and it was way too late to laugh.

“Her stifle joint is showing signs of damage, too,” he said. “Her stifle is overcompensating because of the caput.”

Tired, we sit on rocks and look out at the harbor. We doze together to the creaking of boats, my hand resting on her back rising with each breath in rhythm with water lapping against the dock.

You used to say, “I think she'll get old overnight.”

One day a squirrel came too close, but she didn't chase it.

A few days later she dropped her favorite treat on the floor; it stayed there a week. I tried to give her another one, and her eyes and tail were excited to receive it, but she couldn't chew it, or didn't want to, and dropped it beside the other one. Now I give her only wet food and soft treats, which upset her stomach. But I don't mind taking her out a few times during the night; I'm often awake anyway.

When she's not facing me and I call her name, she doesn't turn. Only if I yell, and I don't like to, otherwise she might think she's done something wrong. Her sight's fine, so I sign to her. Days pass without the sound of my voice, without much sound at all except what you hear only when silent—water dripping from a drainpipe, a fly inside a lampshade, the watch I never wear but leave on the bedside table.

Martha's Vineyard is quiet now, the way we like it; the cold is here. In Edgartown and Vineyard Haven window signs say
CLOSED FOR THE SEASON SEE YOU NEXT MAY
. At the dock in
Menemsha
boats fill with rainwater; lobster traps lie empty on the sand.
NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY
. Sitting on a bed of small rocks is a push-button phone. I pick up the receiver; there's a dial tone. I dial my number and wait for someone to answer. I don't recognize the voice at first:
I'm sorry we're not here right now
. I figured it was all right, given Ralph, to keep the plural
we
.

Later, at Lucy Vincent, a seal surfaces for a few seconds before going back under. Wind, strong waves, the tide is coming in. A man who looks like me walks beside his dog, her breath visible in short puffs. The man pees on a rock; the dog looks away as if to give him privacy. They walk a quarter mile slowly, then turn back; the tide has come all the way in, the sand is gone. Not gone, it just seems gone. But the man's footprints, and the dog's, gone. They should hurry, but don't. The dog tries to catch a few waves as they break; the man removes his sneakers and socks, rolls up his pants, walks ankle deep in cold water that stings.

Eventually the body adjusts: the cold feels warm. By the time we reach where we began, the water is at my knees, waves crashing against the rock wall behind me.

SOME BOOKS SAY
a sign is runny eyes. Some books say a sign is twitching or shaking. Some books say a sign is incontinence. Some books say a sign is falling down. Some books say a sign is loss of appetite. Some books say a sign is tail between the legs. Some books say keep her close. Some books say if she cries, the sound of your voice nearby will comfort her. Some books say let her sleep in bed with you. Some books say keep a pad beneath her. Some books say give water through a dropper. Some books say feed her by hand. Some books say gently rub her fur and tell her what a good friend she has been. Some books say every part of a journey is meaningful. Some books say even the saddest times contain beauty and even hidden joy.

A few years back, the water was rough and cold, but she wanted me to throw. She sat at the water's edge, and waves broke and foamed around her, and her eyes and tail said throw. “Not so far,” you said, but my arm had already started forward, and it felt good to throw as far as I could, and as soon as the tennis ball left my hand, it was too late to say
stay
or
no
or
come here,
she was gone—into the ocean and after what she couldn't possibly see, what even I couldn't see, even though I'd followed its arc, a tiny circle of yellow that rose, fell, then disappeared. That's just a word we sometimes use to mean we can't see something. It was there, somewhere in the ocean, but it had disappeared to us.

Too quickly she was out too far—past where I'd seen the ball drop—and we could hardly hear ourselves call her through the wind and breaking waves. She was biting the water, shadows or slants of light she must have thought were what she was looking for. She was the only small thing out there in all that ocean—the only thing we could see, that is. Not even a boat. Not even, thank God, a fin. She was frantic to find what was lost; we knew she'd never give up.

I had an idea: convince her that she'd found what she had no chance of ever finding. I ran to our car in the parking lot, searched for another ball beneath a seat.

By the time I returned, Ralph had drifted farther out and you were in the ocean up to your neck, trying to coax Ralph to swim to you.

I knew I needed a perfect throw—between her and you, where she could see it. Ralph saw the ball and swam for it. She moved closer, only to be pulled out again. But she was young, and her desire to fetch the ball—the new one, the
imposter
—was stronger than the tide, and she grabbed the ball with her mouth and swam to you, and together you made it to shore.

Ralph shook off the ocean, dropped the ball for me to throw again. “No more,” I said. “Enough,” and she looked dejected, the way only dogs can. It was late May, the day before our third anniversary.

It was only later, at home, that we noticed Ralph's tail. It wasn't moving, not even at the sound of words that always made it wag. The vet said the waves had probably damaged it. He said the tail might never move, we'd have to wait and see, and it was as if we'd been told our dog would never be happy again when it was just that she might never
look
happy again, like a person who couldn't smile. She'd be fine whether she ever wagged her tail or not; we were worried more for ourselves, that we'd lost some of our own happiness.

For days we watched her tail oddly bent and not moving.

Two weeks later her tail knocked over a wineglass. This otherwise would have upset us. But we were so happy, we left the stain. Some days it was a comforting reminder, other days a frightening one, of how lucky we'd been. We pretended it was all about her tail, not about how quickly the tide could have taken her away.

Some books say it's very quick and peaceful. Some books say within six to twelve seconds after injection she will take a slightly deeper breath. Some books say she will fall into what looks like a deep sleep. Some books say she will take a few more breaths. Some books say look into her eyes. Some books say washing the body can be a last act of loving kindness. Some books say most living creatures are made of mostly water. Some books say you may want someone to drive you home. Some books say you are not alone in your sadness. Some books say there will be an empty feeling each time you come home. Some books say the loss may bring up memories of other losses. Some books say hold a memorial service if you wish. Some books say buy a stone for your garden in the shape of a paw print. Some books say pet figurines are a popular way to remember. Some books say it's very common to think you've seen her in the home or in the yard long
after
she's gone. Some books say grief makes people do strange things. Some books say don't make any important decisions in the weeks that follow such a loss.

STUCK, TURNED AROUND,
I can't see where I'm going. Cars keep coming, keep bumping me back. I try to turn, to right myself, but can't move. Hit again—hard—and now I'm facing the right way. A jolt from behind knocks off my sunglasses. I put my glasses back on—I don't want to be recognized—and move forward. Around, around again, and I see you—red shirt, hair longer and in a ponytail. I want to bump you and your father, but can't reach you; someone's always in the way. Hit from behind, I spin around again. A frustration dream that's not a dream.

Sunglasses, hair shorter, clean-shaven; a disguise. An adult alone where no other adults are alone. And if you see me, if your father does, I'll pretend not to know you at first—it's been two years, after all—then act happy when I remember, ask how you've been. I'll tell your father that I'm here with a friend and his kids.

The red shirt passes me, a flash of your face, your hands gripping the wheel, then gone where I can't see.

I'm after you again—red shirt, red car. Closer, closer, but the cars stop—mine beside yours. Ride's over. I drop my keys on purpose, hide my face bending to pick them up.

I don't go on every ride with you and your father; too suspicious without a child. A frog-themed ride that free-falls fifty feet, then “hops” back up; smiling pandas circling a beehive; a space shuttle that swings like a pendulum; a small Ferris wheel. Close, but not too close. I pretend to study the park's map, look at my watch as if waiting for someone, tighten my shoelaces for the nth time.

I keep following.

Cotton candy turns your lips blue. You walk beside your father, waving the paper cone like a maestro.

I sit behind you on a roller coaster with two drops, not too steep. You raise your arms, but don't make a sound. If I reach out I could touch your hair blown back by the wind.

Later, I sip lemonade on a beach chair and watch you slide down a water tube, your father waiting to catch you. All around me children lick grease from their fingers, then run back to scream under waterfalls. I'm the only person not wearing a bathing suit or shorts. Sunny and seventy, the weekend before Memorial Day. I reach to pull on my beard, a nervous habit, but it's gone. My hands don't recognize me.

The waterfalls go dry; it startles the children. Spouting water is sucked back into holes in the ground. No one is allowed down the slides; no one is allowed to leave. I'm convinced this has something to do with me: they know what I'm doing here; they know I've followed you from your house to Dutch Wonderland.

A girl is missing: seven years old, brown hair, green bathing suit. The name comes garbled through the speakers. I wait to hear it again, rather to hear it for the first time. I want to shush the girl behind me who keeps asking her mother if they'll play the rest of the song that had been playing.

I've done nothing wrong.

Not ever, I mean, but now, in this moment, as far as I know. But it's possible to do something wrong without knowing you are, while intending, in fact, to do what's right, or what you believe is right. It's possible, I know, to intend to do one thing but to do something else entirely, to do the exact opposite; or to do exactly what you intended to do, but to see that action or decision result in exactly what you didn't want, or what someone else didn't want, or what no one wanted.

The girl is found in a bathroom stall; everyone applauds at this announcement. The music resumes—a different song, yet always the same. Waterfall water falls; the slides come back to life; water shoots up from the ground, sends children running. They run back to run away again.

I run and watch, fear being watched: a lap around the cemetery, rest, another lap, rest. I lean against a tree and stretch my legs, then sit in the tree's shade and wait.

An old man walks through the cemetery with his dog. He waits patiently while the mutt—barrel-chested, black and tan—sniffs roses left in front of a nameless stone. I wonder how someone dead that long can still be remembered by someone living. Maybe a great-great-great-great-great-grandchild left the flowers. Maybe the person's life story has been passed down through generations; it must be fiction by now, a game of Chinese whispers.

After three days, I know your routine. Swimming at the Y in the morning. I've seen you return home, hair wet, jean shorts over a bathing suit. A walk to the library with your grandmother after school. Your mother works half days; she leaves in the morning with a cigarette between her lips and returns home after three, smoking a different cigarette. Late afternoon, usually around four, she sits on the porch—there's an old couch and three white plastic chairs—and drinks a beer while waiting for your father to get home. She drops her cigarette butts in an empty bottle.

You sit on the lawn, a small square of grass and flowers, and draw. You show your mother. She sips her beer, tells you how pretty you've drawn her, gives the pad back to you.

I have my routine, too. Run, rest, watch. A drive downtown for lunch. Later, while you and your family eat dinner—your father grills, and you eat on the porch—I sit across the street on a bench outside the hospital and pretend to read the paper.

At dusk the air grows chilly and TV light flickers in your darkening house. I walk past the house a few times; I hear gunfire from a cop show or an old movie. Your mother comes out for a smoke. You follow her out in your pajamas to catch fireflies. Then you go back inside, and I hear the lock turn.

I drive back to the hotel, where I order room service. I don't have a plan. I'm not sure how long I'll stay. I've considered ringing your bell and telling your parents the truth—the names of your dolls, the song you were humming, the crying-laughing game, the fact that you don't speak, that you want to be a singer, that you believe you used to live near a beach. But when I practice what I might say, when I imagine what this might sound like from their perspective, what I'm saying—I practice aloud—
begins
to sound crazy. I can't imagine what your parents would say. I can only imagine what I might say if I were them. I'd be open-minded, to a point. I might even believe. But after that, I'd probably say, “I'm very sorry for your loss. Best of luck with the rest of your life.” And so I can't bring myself to ring the bell, can't summon the nerve, or the stupidity, to say something to your parents. What I really want, I suppose, is to speak with you. I want to tell you this entire story from beginning to end. But you're seven years old, and I'm not sure what you could possibly say, or sign, in response. So I'm left with this book, which I hope you'll find when you're older, in a used bookstore, and then—but, you see, there's only one ending to this story, to every story.

The next morning, a Saturday, one last look at you.

I'm sitting across the street in the cemetery, leaning against a gravestone, when you come out of the house, a puppy in your arms. You sit on the lawn and bait the puppy, a German shepherd, with a stick.

And then I hear your voice. “Hello,” you say, and now you're standing, looking at me. “Hello,” you say again, and wave.

I wave back and walk across the street to your lawn. My legs are shaking, my mouth has gone dry. The words I've practiced saying—to your parents, to you—are lost. “Cute dog,” I say. “May I pet him?”

“Yes, but he might pee on you.”

I crouch beside you in the grass and pet the puppy. He tries to bite my fingers with his needle teeth. He wants anything in his mouth. I let him chew on my shirt sleeve, and then we play tug-of-war with it.

“How old?”

“Ten weeks,” you say.

“What's his name?”

“Harry.”

“How'd you come up with that name?”

“I don't know,” you say. “He just looks like a Harry.”

I'm afraid to look at you—to really look at you. But I'm leaving soon, and, unless something unexpected happens in the next few minutes, I may never see you again. Seven years old now, one of the most expressive faces I've seen. Big brown eyes, big lips, dimples.

I'm about to ask if you remember me, but your mother comes outside to smoke a cigarette. She sees me and says, “Can I help you with something?”

I stand, brush off my cords. “I saw the puppy and couldn't resist.”

She comes closer. “You,” she says. “I know you from—”

“Two years ago,” I say. “The tornado.”

She snaps her fingers. “That's it,” she says. “I
knew
I knew you.”

“Eric,” I say.

“Do you live here now?”

“Just visiting.”

“You know, your friend came back—what's her name.”

“Sam.”

“She was here about a year ago, asking questions.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“Something about her brother,” she says. “She kept asking if his name meant anything to us.”

“Did it?”

“No, but I'm not sure she believed us.” She takes out a new pack of cigarettes and slaps it against her palm. “She asked about you, too.”

“What did she ask?”

“I don't remember. Whatever it was didn't make much sense to me.” She takes a cigarette from her pack, puts it in her mouth, but doesn't light it. “She was a strange bird. No offense.”

“I didn't know her well, but I know she's been through a lot.”

“Everyone's been through a lot,” she says.

I pick up the puppy and let him lick my face. “Sorry, I'm going through dog withdrawal.”

“You didn't bring Ralph?”

“You remember her name.”

“You don't forget a girl Ralph.”

“I lost her,” I say. “About six months ago.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she says, but I'm watching
you
. You give no reaction, as if you didn't hear. I give the puppy my finger to nip.

“She's speaking,” I say.

“Funny, it was the day you left,” she says. “She came down for breakfast and said
Mom,
and I nearly fell over.”

“It's nice to hear her voice.”

“I always knew,” she says. “If she could speak in her sleep, then she could speak when she's awake.”

I lay the puppy in the grass beside you. “Do you remember Ralph?”

“No.”

“Do you remember me?”

You look at your mother. “Do I know him?”

“You've met before,” your mother says.

“I don't remember,” you say.

“I remember you,” I say. “You want to be a singer.”

“Not anymore,” your mother says. “Now she wants to be a vet.”

“What's that song she used to hum?”

“She's forgotten all that—whatever it was.”

Despite my terrible voice, I want to start singing the song, want to see if you sing along or react in any way, but your attention is focused entirely on your puppy, and I don't blame you. I might as well not be here.

“I'm sure she'll be a great vet,” I say.

The puppy runs across the lawn, and you chase him behind the house, where I can no longer see you.

There are so many things I'd like to say, but none of them is willing, despite all my practice, to come out of my mouth.

“Well, I should be going.”

“Nice to see you again,” your mother says.

“Take care,” I say.

“You, too,” she says. “Be well.”

“Goodbye,” I tell her, and then I call out to you, wherever you've gone, “Goodbye, Gloria. Goodbye.”