know—
know
—will amount to no good. But children are, if nothing else, helpless. They are weak and defenseless. Believe me, I’ve seen examples that would alter your definition of human beings.
So I concentrate on the children.
I was supposed to work only until noon, but to make up for my FBI detour, I saw patients until three. Naturally, I’d been thinking about the interrogation all day. Those pictures of Elizabeth, battered and defeated, kept popping through my brain like the most grotesque sort of strobe light.
Who would know about those pictures?
The answer, when I took the time to think about it, was somewhat obvious. I leaned forward and picked up the phone. I hadn’t dialed this number in years, but I still remembered it.
“Schayes Photography,” a woman answered.
“Hi, Rebecca.”
“Son of a gun. How are you, Beck?”
“Good. How about yourself?”
“Not bad. Busy as all hell.”
“You work too hard.”
“Not anymore. I got married last year.”
“I know. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“Bull.”
“Yeah. But congrats anyway.”
“So what’s up?”
“I need to ask you a question,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“About the car accident.”
I hear a tinny echo. Then silence.
“Do you remember the car accident? The one before Elizabeth was killed?”
Rebecca Schayes, my wife’s closest friend, did not reply.
I cleared my throat. “Who was driving?”
“What?” She did not say that into the phone. “Okay, hold on.” Then back at me: “Look, Beck, something just came up here. Can I call you back in a little while?”
“Rebecca—”
But the line was dead.
Here is the truth about tragedy: It’s good for the soul.
The fact is, I’m a better person because of the deaths. If every cloud has a silver lining, this one is admittedly pretty flimsy. But there it is. That doesn’t mean it’s worth it or an even trade or anything like that, but I know I’m a better man than I used to be. I have a finer sense of what’s important. I have a keener understanding of people’s pain.
There was a time—it’s laughable now—when I used to worry about what clubs I belonged to, what car I drove, what college degree I stuck on my wall—allthat status crap. I wanted to be a surgeon because that wowed people. I wanted to impress so-called friends. I wanted to be a big man.
Like I said, laughable.
Some might argue that my self-improvement is simply a question of maturity. In part, true. And much of the change is due to the fact I am now on my own. Elizabeth and I were a couple, a single entity. She was so good that I could afford to be not so good, as though her goodness raised us both, was a cosmic equalizer.
Still, death is a great teacher. It’s just too harsh.
I wish I could tell you that through the tragedy I mined some undiscovered, life-altering absolute that I could pass on to you. I didn’t. The clichés apply—people are what count, life is precious, materialism is overrated, the little things matter, live in the moment—and I can repeat them to you ad nauseam. You might listen, but you won’t internalize. Tragedy hammers it home. Tragedy etches it onto your soul. You might not be happier. But you will be better.
What makes this all the more ironic is that I’ve often wished that Elizabeth could see me now. Much as I’d like to, I don’t believe the dead watch over us or any similar comfort-fantasy we sell ourselves. I believe the dead are gone for good. But I can’t help but think: Perhaps now I am worthy of her.
A more religious man might wonder if that is why she’s returned.
Rebecca Schayes was a leading freelance photographer. Her work appeared in all the usual glossies, though strangely enough, she specialized in men. Professional athletes who agreed to appear on the cover of, for example,
GQ
often requested her to do theshoot. Rebecca liked to joke that she had a knack for male bodies due to “a lifetime of intense study.”
I found her studio
know
—will amount to no good. But children are, if nothing else, helpless. They are weak and defenseless. Believe me, I’ve seen examples that would alter your definition of human beings.
So I concentrate on the children.
I was supposed to work only until noon, but to make up for my FBI detour, I saw patients until three. Naturally, I’d been thinking about the interrogation all day. Those pictures of Elizabeth, battered and defeated, kept popping through my brain like the most grotesque sort of strobe light.
Who would know about those pictures?
The answer, when I took the time to think about it, was somewhat obvious. I leaned forward and picked up the phone. I hadn’t dialed this number in years, but I still remembered it.
“Schayes Photography,” a woman answered.
“Hi, Rebecca.”
“Son of a gun. How are you, Beck?”
“Good. How about yourself?”
“Not bad. Busy as all hell.”
“You work too hard.”
“Not anymore. I got married last year.”
“I know. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“Bull.”
“Yeah. But congrats anyway.”
“So what’s up?”
“I need to ask you a question,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“About the car accident.”
I hear a tinny echo. Then silence.
“Do you remember the car accident? The one before Elizabeth was killed?”
Rebecca Schayes, my wife’s closest friend, did not reply.
I cleared my throat. “Who was driving?”
“What?” She did not say that into the phone. “Okay, hold on.” Then back at me: “Look, Beck, something just came up here. Can I call you back in a little while?”
“Rebecca—”
But the line was dead.
Here is the truth about tragedy: It’s good for the soul.
The fact is, I’m a better person because of the deaths. If every cloud has a silver lining, this one is admittedly pretty flimsy. But there it is. That doesn’t mean it’s worth it or an even trade or anything like that, but I know I’m a better man than I used to be. I have a finer sense of what’s important. I have a keener understanding of people’s pain.
There was a time—it’s laughable now—when I used to worry about what clubs I belonged to, what car I drove, what college degree I stuck on my wall—allthat status crap. I wanted to be a surgeon because that wowed people. I wanted to impress so-called friends. I wanted to be a big man.
Like I said, laughable.
Some might argue that my self-improvement is simply a question of maturity. In part, true. And much of the change is due to the fact I am now on my own. Elizabeth and I were a couple, a single entity. She was so good that I could afford to be not so good, as though her goodness raised us both, was a cosmic equalizer.
Still, death is a great teacher. It’s just too harsh.
I wish I could tell you that through the tragedy I mined some undiscovered, life-altering absolute that I could pass on to you. I didn’t. The clichés apply—people are what count, life is precious, materialism is overrated, the little things matter, live in the moment—and I can repeat them to you ad nauseam. You might listen, but you won’t internalize. Tragedy hammers it home. Tragedy etches it onto your soul. You might not be happier. But you will be better.
What makes this all the more ironic is that I’ve often wished that Elizabeth could see me now. Much as I’d like to, I don’t believe the dead watch over us or any similar comfort-fantasy we sell ourselves. I believe the dead are gone for good. But I can’t help but think: Perhaps now I am worthy of her.
A more religious man might wonder if that is why she’s returned.
Rebecca Schayes was a leading freelance photographer. Her work appeared in all the usual glossies, though strangely enough, she specialized in men. Professional athletes who agreed to appear on the cover of, for example,
GQ
often requested her to do theshoot. Rebecca liked to joke that she had a knack for male bodies due to “a lifetime of intense study.”
I found her studio
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