remember an internship she did during the summer break after our freshman year of college. She worked for Covenant House, rescuing runaway and homeless children from New York’s worst streets. I went with her once in the Covenant House van, cruising up and down Forty-second Street pre-Giuliani, sifting through putrid pools of quasi-humanity for children who needed shelter. Elizabeth spotted a fourteen-year-old hooker who was so strung out that she’d soiled herself. I winced in disgust. I’m not proud of that. These people may have been human, but—I’m being honest here—the filth repulsed me. I helped. But I winced.
Elizabeth never winced. That was her gift. She took the children by the hand. She carried them. She cleaned off that girl and nursed her and talked to her all night. She looked them straight in the eye. Elizabeth truly believed that everyone was good and worthy; she was naïve in a way I wish I could be.
I’d always wondered if she’d died that same way—with that naïveté intact—still clinging through the pain to her faith in humanity and all that wonderful nonsense. I hope so, but I suspect that KillRoy probably broke her.
Kim Parker sat primly with her hands in her lap. She’d always liked me well enough, though during our youth both sets of parents had been concerned with our closeness. They wanted us to play with others. They wanted us to make more friends. Natural, I suppose.
Hoyt Parker, Elizabeth’s father, wasn’t home yet, so Kim and I chatted about nothing—or, to say the same thing a different way, we chatted about everything except Elizabeth. I kept my eyes focused on Kim because I knew that the mantel was chock-full of photographs of Elizabeth and her heart-splitting smile.
She’s alive.
…
I couldn’t make myself believe it. The mind, I know from my psychiatric rotation in medical school (not to mention my family history), has incredible distortive powers. I didn’t believe I was nuts enough to conjure up her image, but then again, crazy people never do. I thought about my mother and wondered what she realized about her mental health, if she was even capable of engaging in serious introspection.
Probably not.
Kim and I talked about the weather. We talked about my patients. We talked about her new part-time job at Macy’s. And then Kim surprised the hell out of me.
“Are you seeing anyone?” she asked.
It was the first truly personal question she had ever asked me. It knocked me back a step. I wondered what she wanted to hear. “No,” I said.
She nodded and looked as though she wanted to say something else. Her hand fluttered up to her face.
“I date,” I said.
“Good,” she replied with too hearty a nod. “You should.”
I stared at my hands and surprised myself by saying, “I still miss her so much.” I didn’t plan on that. I planned on keeping quiet and following our usual safe track. I glanced up at her face. She looked pained and grateful.
“I know you do, Beck,” Kim said. “But you shouldn’t feel guilty about seeing other people.”
“I don’t,” I said. “I mean, it’s not that.”
She uncrossed her legs and leaned toward me. “Then what is it?”
I couldn’t speak. I wanted to. For her sake. She looked at me with those shattered eyes, her need to talk about her daughter so surface, so raw. But I couldn’t. I shook my head.
I heard a key in the door. We both turned suddenly, straightening up like caught lovers. Hoyt Parker shouldered open the door and called out his wife’s name. He stepped into the den and with a hearty sigh, he put down a gym bag. His tie was loosened, his shirt wrinkled, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Hoyt had forearms like Popeye. When he saw us sitting on the couch, he let loose another sigh, this one deeper and with more than a hint of disapproval.
“How are you, David?” he said to me.
We shook hands. His grip, as always, was callous-scratchy and too firm. Kim excused herself and hurried out
Elizabeth never winced. That was her gift. She took the children by the hand. She carried them. She cleaned off that girl and nursed her and talked to her all night. She looked them straight in the eye. Elizabeth truly believed that everyone was good and worthy; she was naïve in a way I wish I could be.
I’d always wondered if she’d died that same way—with that naïveté intact—still clinging through the pain to her faith in humanity and all that wonderful nonsense. I hope so, but I suspect that KillRoy probably broke her.
Kim Parker sat primly with her hands in her lap. She’d always liked me well enough, though during our youth both sets of parents had been concerned with our closeness. They wanted us to play with others. They wanted us to make more friends. Natural, I suppose.
Hoyt Parker, Elizabeth’s father, wasn’t home yet, so Kim and I chatted about nothing—or, to say the same thing a different way, we chatted about everything except Elizabeth. I kept my eyes focused on Kim because I knew that the mantel was chock-full of photographs of Elizabeth and her heart-splitting smile.
She’s alive.
…
I couldn’t make myself believe it. The mind, I know from my psychiatric rotation in medical school (not to mention my family history), has incredible distortive powers. I didn’t believe I was nuts enough to conjure up her image, but then again, crazy people never do. I thought about my mother and wondered what she realized about her mental health, if she was even capable of engaging in serious introspection.
Probably not.
Kim and I talked about the weather. We talked about my patients. We talked about her new part-time job at Macy’s. And then Kim surprised the hell out of me.
“Are you seeing anyone?” she asked.
It was the first truly personal question she had ever asked me. It knocked me back a step. I wondered what she wanted to hear. “No,” I said.
She nodded and looked as though she wanted to say something else. Her hand fluttered up to her face.
“I date,” I said.
“Good,” she replied with too hearty a nod. “You should.”
I stared at my hands and surprised myself by saying, “I still miss her so much.” I didn’t plan on that. I planned on keeping quiet and following our usual safe track. I glanced up at her face. She looked pained and grateful.
“I know you do, Beck,” Kim said. “But you shouldn’t feel guilty about seeing other people.”
“I don’t,” I said. “I mean, it’s not that.”
She uncrossed her legs and leaned toward me. “Then what is it?”
I couldn’t speak. I wanted to. For her sake. She looked at me with those shattered eyes, her need to talk about her daughter so surface, so raw. But I couldn’t. I shook my head.
I heard a key in the door. We both turned suddenly, straightening up like caught lovers. Hoyt Parker shouldered open the door and called out his wife’s name. He stepped into the den and with a hearty sigh, he put down a gym bag. His tie was loosened, his shirt wrinkled, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Hoyt had forearms like Popeye. When he saw us sitting on the couch, he let loose another sigh, this one deeper and with more than a hint of disapproval.
“How are you, David?” he said to me.
We shook hands. His grip, as always, was callous-scratchy and too firm. Kim excused herself and hurried out
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