can’t help them now.
So I have gone down somewhere, to a place without a name. Maybe some day an explorer will find it and will map it out. Is it an island I’m on? How did I get here? Was the crossing rough? And this hidden place on the island: how did I find it? Were there twists and turns? Did I stumble? Or was I thrown down here? Maybe I’ll be the one to map it, to write the directions and then, with all my late-come cruelty, I’ll put up a sign that says “keep out.” Stay out Tom! Stay out! Stay with those who live, Tom.
We separated from each other even before I came into this hospital. The first separation of our souls. That’s a deep separation. We two who lived so peacefully in one another’s souls and whose bodies slept so peacefully together night after night. No separation except to have my children, and then home after days to the shape of the night, which was his shape. Shaping the hours and shaping me into the morning when I would disentangle and wait for nightfall again. But that’s over now. I would not respond. And that is separation. It lies in the turning away, in the blank look that says, I do not recognise you any more. Are you, you? Are you? Were you my lovely husband? And who are you now? Tell me. Who are you now? Ah. That is separation. Leaving a man with all the history of the words that worked, and the stroking that worked, the union that worked, leaving him with all the things he learned in all that life of love amounting to nothing, nothing. Nothing working any more.
It was sad to listen to him. He was whispering because we always whispered in bed, even before the children came. Why? I don’t remember. The children took longer to come to me than I’d imagined, but they came. I always told Mrs. Garvey, “they are waiting for you May. When they’re ready they will come.” And one of them is clearly ready. Someone told me May Garvey is pregnant again. She kept it secret until she was past the danger time. Didn’t tell me. Kind, that was kind. And this time she is certain they say that he or she will make it to the gate of life and push it open and tumble into life, screaming. And his or her mother will be laughing. Wildly.
I remember the wild laughter after Olivia. Laughter that was even wilder after … after. They say it doesn’t matter whether it’s a boy or a girl. It does, though. You’re looking for yourself in a girl and with a boy it’s all a-wonder. It’s all a-wonder. Fathers and daughters, is that all a-wonder? Not with Tom. They’re great friends, Tom and Olivia. I was never “friends” with my boys. No. And Daragh? Mysterious child. I can’t think at all about my other daughter. Silent I remain. As did she. But all a-wonder? No. Tom is all a-wonder with me. Only with me. He lay whispering last night. Last night? No, sure wasn’t I in here last night and the night before and before? What day is it now? What night was it then? Anyway, whatever night it was, he tried again. After we’d been lying there, me frozen even underneath all those blankets and eiderdowns, he said, “Sissy, listen to me. Come over to me Sissy, like you used to.” I lay there and I whispered, less than a whisper—the sound was like a leaf falling, because I thought it would hurt him less if he could barely hear me. “I can’t, Tom. I can’t.” And then his slow-sighing, “All right darling,” and me, trying to save him with a little bit of energy still left for him, whispered again, “Give up on me, Tom. Let me drift away.” And his “No Sissy. We started out on a road and we’re going on together. Remember that little advertisement, the two children in their Start-rite shoes walking hand in hand that I framed for you years ago? Is it in the attic now?” I was so tired but I made a bit of an effort, for old times’ sake. “I don’t know where it is Tom.” I did. I’d hidden it. I didn’t want to remember what had been waiting down the road for us. I never knew how he
So I have gone down somewhere, to a place without a name. Maybe some day an explorer will find it and will map it out. Is it an island I’m on? How did I get here? Was the crossing rough? And this hidden place on the island: how did I find it? Were there twists and turns? Did I stumble? Or was I thrown down here? Maybe I’ll be the one to map it, to write the directions and then, with all my late-come cruelty, I’ll put up a sign that says “keep out.” Stay out Tom! Stay out! Stay with those who live, Tom.
We separated from each other even before I came into this hospital. The first separation of our souls. That’s a deep separation. We two who lived so peacefully in one another’s souls and whose bodies slept so peacefully together night after night. No separation except to have my children, and then home after days to the shape of the night, which was his shape. Shaping the hours and shaping me into the morning when I would disentangle and wait for nightfall again. But that’s over now. I would not respond. And that is separation. It lies in the turning away, in the blank look that says, I do not recognise you any more. Are you, you? Are you? Were you my lovely husband? And who are you now? Tell me. Who are you now? Ah. That is separation. Leaving a man with all the history of the words that worked, and the stroking that worked, the union that worked, leaving him with all the things he learned in all that life of love amounting to nothing, nothing. Nothing working any more.
It was sad to listen to him. He was whispering because we always whispered in bed, even before the children came. Why? I don’t remember. The children took longer to come to me than I’d imagined, but they came. I always told Mrs. Garvey, “they are waiting for you May. When they’re ready they will come.” And one of them is clearly ready. Someone told me May Garvey is pregnant again. She kept it secret until she was past the danger time. Didn’t tell me. Kind, that was kind. And this time she is certain they say that he or she will make it to the gate of life and push it open and tumble into life, screaming. And his or her mother will be laughing. Wildly.
I remember the wild laughter after Olivia. Laughter that was even wilder after … after. They say it doesn’t matter whether it’s a boy or a girl. It does, though. You’re looking for yourself in a girl and with a boy it’s all a-wonder. It’s all a-wonder. Fathers and daughters, is that all a-wonder? Not with Tom. They’re great friends, Tom and Olivia. I was never “friends” with my boys. No. And Daragh? Mysterious child. I can’t think at all about my other daughter. Silent I remain. As did she. But all a-wonder? No. Tom is all a-wonder with me. Only with me. He lay whispering last night. Last night? No, sure wasn’t I in here last night and the night before and before? What day is it now? What night was it then? Anyway, whatever night it was, he tried again. After we’d been lying there, me frozen even underneath all those blankets and eiderdowns, he said, “Sissy, listen to me. Come over to me Sissy, like you used to.” I lay there and I whispered, less than a whisper—the sound was like a leaf falling, because I thought it would hurt him less if he could barely hear me. “I can’t, Tom. I can’t.” And then his slow-sighing, “All right darling,” and me, trying to save him with a little bit of energy still left for him, whispered again, “Give up on me, Tom. Let me drift away.” And his “No Sissy. We started out on a road and we’re going on together. Remember that little advertisement, the two children in their Start-rite shoes walking hand in hand that I framed for you years ago? Is it in the attic now?” I was so tired but I made a bit of an effort, for old times’ sake. “I don’t know where it is Tom.” I did. I’d hidden it. I didn’t want to remember what had been waiting down the road for us. I never knew how he
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