The chill from the ground was reaching up into me, making my body feel as if it were gradually turning to stone.
“So, no, I’m not much for forgiveness, really. I think things should be fair. But hurting people isn’t fairness. And I know that.” I raised my shoulders, then dropped them. “Maybe that’s what forgiveness means—maybe it’s just that you’re able not to want to hurt someone anymore. But I’m no priest. What do I know?”
I took a long swallow of whiskey.
“I think you know a lot,” he said.
A twig fell into the water, creating ripples. Together, we watched them.
“Tomorrow,” I said then, “we’re going. You can decide where. But we’re going. You can’t stay here. In fact, I don’t think you should even stay in your room tonight.” The surroundings were beginning to spin, and my thoughts seemed to be running together, but I pushed on. “I’ll take you as far as I can and then I’ll—I’ll see what I can do.”
He opened the bottle and drained the last of it, wiping his mouth with his hand.
Looking out, it was still possible to see the ripples spreading.
“All right,” he said.
We sat together, looking into the darkness side by side.
“Thank God,” I replied after a moment. “I was getting sick of arguing with you.”
His lips twitched, almost a smile. He planted the empty bottle back in the sand.
An owl called softly in the woods, its sound reaching us once, then twice.
“I would say ‘thank you,’” he said. “But that wouldn’t really be enough.”
“You can thank me by picking a place to go. That’s one thing I can’t do for you. Believe me, I tried.”
He looked down at his fingertips. “Whatever you think is best,” he said eventually. “Just not a city. I don’t want—it wouldn’t be good for anyone to recognize me.”
“Recognize you?” I looked at him, unsure whether to laugh or yell. “I don’t understand how to get through to you. If you don’t want to be recognized, then a city is exactly where you want to be. Not a place like this. You have no idea how much you stand out by hanging around in places that have a population of basically zero.”
He laughed, although it was somehow a sad sound. “I do have some idea. And yes, I’m aware that you disagree with my current choice of residence. Maybe you’re right.” His gaze swept over the silent tableau around us. “Still,” he went on, “there are many things about this that I don’t regret. I have felt, in these past weeks—I don’t know. There’s something about being in such a place that reminds a person he’s alive, in a way I probably couldn’t explain.” He rose to his knees, pushing against the sand. “And of course, I could never have imagined I would be shown such kindness.”
I shook my head.
He stood and dusted the sand from his palms, bending over to brush off his jeans and extending a hand to me. I felt the ground tilt beneath me, and he caught my elbow as I stumbled forward.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“I think maybe you shouldn’t drive anywhere.”
“Probably not. It’s okay—I’ll sleep in the car. I can check on things at home in the morning.”
We left the beach and followed the path to the parking lot, the trees hovering over us and blotting out the sky. I concentrated on following the faint trail, lifting my feet over roots that suddenly seemed to be moving and shifting deceptively. It was several minutes before I realized that he seemed to be slowing behind me.
Finally, just as we reached the end of the trail, he stopped.
I sensed that he was gathering himself to say something, but for a long moment, he kept still. We both stood at the edge of the parking lot, the small clearing hemmed in by the pines that towered so steeply on all sides.
He looked at me. Putting his hands in his pockets, he seemed to pause, as if he were unsure of something. It wasn’t until I heard the breath rushing in and out of his lungs that I realized he was shaking.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s wrong?”
Even as I said it, I knew. His fear filled the air around us, surrounding us in something metallic and cold.
“Come on,” I said softly. “Come on. You’re all right.”
He nodded with a jerking motion, biting his lip, but the short, jagged breaths continued. He raised a hand to his face. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s just the whiskey. We’re going to get you out of here—you’re going to be fine.”
He was looking at the ground, rubbing his wrist briskly across his eyes.
I reached out and touched his sleeve.
“It’s all right,” I said again.
He didn’t answer. Slowly, he let out the breath he’d been holding, wiping his face with his fingers.
“Here, come on.” I gestured for him to follow me, leading us toward the path that ran back to the store and the hostel. “Can you find your way back? If not, I’ll walk with you.”
“I can find it,” he said. “I’m sorry. Thank you.”
“There’s no need to be sorry. But listen. We’re going to get you out. Tomorrow, I promise. I’ll open the store so nobody notices anything, but the minute I’ve done that, we’ll go.”
He swallowed. “Yes. Okay.”
We looked at each other. The terror seemed to be draining from his face, leaving exhaustion in its wake. The gravel crackled under his feet as he shifted his weight.
“You know,” he said, “if anything ever happens to me, I…”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you. Go on, you just need to sleep it off.”
We stood together, looking down the path, its entrance barely visible in the dark. Then he said goodnight and set off. I watched him walk into the woods, my eyes following his stumbling figure until it was gone.
In the morning, I walked into the house to find my grandmother sprawled next to the sink, her lips parted, unconscious. A shattered glass sparkled at her fingertips.
“No,” I whispered.
I called the ambulance and sat next to her, holding her hand and brushing the hair out of her eyes, talking to her even though I knew she couldn’t hear me, rocking back and forth as I held her. She opened her eyes briefly, looking at me without recognition, then closed them again.
I leaned against the cabinet, pressing my head against the wood, praying for the scene not to be real until the ambulance came and bore us away.
3
The hours passed with a torturous slowness. At the hospital, the nurses and doctors moved efficiently around my grandmother’s motionless body, like insects that swarm over an object only to lose interest and be replaced by other insects. She’d had a stroke, they told me—something I’d already known without putting it into words. To all my other questions, including the most important one, they would only answer “maybe.”
By the time I tore myself away from the gray cube of the building, the sun was high overhead. I stopped at the lights and made the turns automatically, moving like a machine, doing everything I could not to think or feel. Crocuses had begun to raise their heads through the snow, a scattering of violet along the roadside, but I barely noticed them. I barely noticed anything, even the through-hikers who had suddenly shown up at the hostel, the first of the season. They lounged on the porch and took it over, drinking the warm beer they’d lugged with them, but I didn’t actually see them, not really. They were just a strange sort of human furniture.