shrugged, and shook her head with a smile, remembering that Zack had never called her back. She had left him a message that morning about her surgery, and he hadn’t called her. She wasn’t even sure she cared if he did or not. There was no point counting on Zack. He would never deliver. He was too busy getting even for imagined slights and looking out for himself. There was no real malice to him, but no substance either. He was there for a good time, and had never pretended otherwise. “No one important,” she said in answer to Jean-Charles’s question. “People come and go in my life. I’ve made compromises I can live with, for short periods of time. I haven’t had a serious relationship since I was married. I don’t want one anymore. The price is too high, and I’m too old for that now,” she said with a shy smile, and the French doctor laughed.
“At forty-eight? You certainly are not. Women much older than you fall in love again and get married. Love has no age. My own mother was widowed at seventy-nine and married again at eighty-five. She has been married for two years now and adores her husband. She’s just as happy as she was with my father.” Timmie smiled at the idea of an eighty-five-year-old bride. There was something deliciously sweet about it.
“Maybe when I’m eighty-five,” she said with a wry laugh, still holding his hand. “I think I’ll wait till then. I’m probably still too young to try again. I think I might wait till I have Alzheimer’s, and then I won’t remember what to be scared about. Right now, my memory is still too good. It would scare me to death.” And in her case, with good reason. She had lost too much in her life, and been injured by too many people too many times.
“You’re missing something,” Jean-Charles said gently. “A great deal, in fact. You’re missing love in your life, Timmie, because you’re frightened. I don’t blame you. But existing without love, if I’m guessing correctly, is a hard, lonely life.” And led to the kind of panic he had witnessed the night before, where she was totally dependent on a stranger.
“It is hard,” she acknowledged, “but it’s safe. I have nothing to lose now.” To him, it seemed a sad statement, particularly for a woman as wonderful as she.
They both remembered the name she had given on her next-of-kin form. Her assistant’s name, and not a man or a husband, or even a boyfriend. She had no relatives or siblings. Having to list her next of kin always underlined to her where her life was, but it was a reality she had long since accepted. She knew it wasn’t going to change. And providence put the people she needed on her path, just as Jean-Charles had been there for her when her appendix ruptured. Now they were becoming friends. She was aware that he admired her a lot, and she also saw something sad in his eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was sadness for her life or his own, and she didn’t want to ask. Confidences like the ones she had shared had to be given as a gift. You couldn’t pry them out of anyone. They had to be freely given, and she could see that he wasn’t ready to do that about his own life, and maybe never would. She had chosen to share her history with him, but she could sense that, like her, there was a part of him that was closed off.
“How did you manage not to become bitter?” he asked quietly. “You have so much reason to be.” Yet he could sense that there was no rancor in her at all, against anyone. She had let it all go years before. He somehow suspected that she had never been bitter, perhaps devastated or sad. But she held none of it against anyone, not her parents for dying, or her ex-husband for leaving, or the doctors who had been unable to save her child. She was unlike anyone he had ever known, and he wished he could be more like her. In his case, he carried resentment for a long time, and regrets about the past. They saddened him deeply from time to time. She was an
“At forty-eight? You certainly are not. Women much older than you fall in love again and get married. Love has no age. My own mother was widowed at seventy-nine and married again at eighty-five. She has been married for two years now and adores her husband. She’s just as happy as she was with my father.” Timmie smiled at the idea of an eighty-five-year-old bride. There was something deliciously sweet about it.
“Maybe when I’m eighty-five,” she said with a wry laugh, still holding his hand. “I think I’ll wait till then. I’m probably still too young to try again. I think I might wait till I have Alzheimer’s, and then I won’t remember what to be scared about. Right now, my memory is still too good. It would scare me to death.” And in her case, with good reason. She had lost too much in her life, and been injured by too many people too many times.
“You’re missing something,” Jean-Charles said gently. “A great deal, in fact. You’re missing love in your life, Timmie, because you’re frightened. I don’t blame you. But existing without love, if I’m guessing correctly, is a hard, lonely life.” And led to the kind of panic he had witnessed the night before, where she was totally dependent on a stranger.
“It is hard,” she acknowledged, “but it’s safe. I have nothing to lose now.” To him, it seemed a sad statement, particularly for a woman as wonderful as she.
They both remembered the name she had given on her next-of-kin form. Her assistant’s name, and not a man or a husband, or even a boyfriend. She had no relatives or siblings. Having to list her next of kin always underlined to her where her life was, but it was a reality she had long since accepted. She knew it wasn’t going to change. And providence put the people she needed on her path, just as Jean-Charles had been there for her when her appendix ruptured. Now they were becoming friends. She was aware that he admired her a lot, and she also saw something sad in his eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was sadness for her life or his own, and she didn’t want to ask. Confidences like the ones she had shared had to be given as a gift. You couldn’t pry them out of anyone. They had to be freely given, and she could see that he wasn’t ready to do that about his own life, and maybe never would. She had chosen to share her history with him, but she could sense that, like her, there was a part of him that was closed off.
“How did you manage not to become bitter?” he asked quietly. “You have so much reason to be.” Yet he could sense that there was no rancor in her at all, against anyone. She had let it all go years before. He somehow suspected that she had never been bitter, perhaps devastated or sad. But she held none of it against anyone, not her parents for dying, or her ex-husband for leaving, or the doctors who had been unable to save her child. She was unlike anyone he had ever known, and he wished he could be more like her. In his case, he carried resentment for a long time, and regrets about the past. They saddened him deeply from time to time. She was an
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