Love Love (45 page)

How could his sister be so cruel? Alice was dying up there. If he didn't see her now, he'd never see her.

“I don't see how I can do that. It's not human.”

“Then let me do it,” Judy said, and she cranked the car's engine. The car started crawling forward. “All you have to do is just sit there.”

“Judy . . .”

“Start counting, whatever you see. It'll help.”

One tree, two trees. One house, two houses. One block, two blocks. He was letting go of her, of his old life—but no.

“Stop the car,” he said.

Judy sighed and pulled over.

“Well,” she said. “It's a start.”

She offered to take him back to the front of the brownstone, but Kevin told her to stay. He could use the walk. The day was cold and gusty, a clammy thickness in the air portending autumn rain. He zipped up his windbreaker as far as it could go and tied the hood tight around his head. On the street and on the sidewalks in front of each house were piles of leaves, brown mounds wet from the previous night's storm, looking like miniature Korean graves. He'd never seen one himself, because in the two times he'd been to Korea, he'd spent them in the concrete city of Seoul, but he'd seen pictures, giant grassy hummocks that contained the body of some long-dead royal. Would Alice opt to be buried or cremated? They'd never talked about it, but that wasn't a surprise. People often called communication the cornerstone of a good marriage, but Kevin thought that was wrong. It was the keystone, and once it broke down, the whole structure fell apart. It was remarkable, really, how long they'd stayed together without saying much to each other. It used to be enough that she was there next to him, and he was certain she'd felt the same way. But her body had failed her. Was that really the reason why she'd wanted to leave him? Alice had always had a rigid sense of fairness in everything they did, whether it was paying for a vacation getaway or buying a new bed, always insisting that they go dutch from their separate bank accounts. Here was the ultimate going dutch, going her separate way when she could no longer hold up the healthy half of her bargain.

But it wasn't fair to place the blame entirely on her dependence on independence. He was guilty, too. He would've wanted to dissect the treatment plan, create charts for her pills and shots, take on more than what he was capable of handling—in short, he would've driven her mad. Still, she should've given him a chance. In San Francisco, he'd done all right letting loose the leash of his life. If she could've seen him, if she had been there with him, if she were still his wife—all of them wishes, none of them true.

He approached the brownstone, loving her and loathing her. He wanted to tell her how much she'd hurt him and how he would never be right without her. The last words he'd spoken to her were whatever stupid things he'd blurted out as the elevator doors were closing at her office.

Fifteen steps to the door, five white buttons to the left of the handle: Judy was right, counting did help. His right index finger shook as he pressed the button for the fourth floor:
COOPER
. There was a speaker
next to the list of names, but it remained silent. Instead, there was a mechanical buzz and the electronic unlocking of the latch. Kevin grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open, the rush of warm air failing to thaw him.

A
lice was not well. After the initial awkward handshakes and half hugs at the foyer, that's what her mother had told Kevin. All he knew of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease was what he'd briefly read on a website, that it was similar to mad cow disease, the brain disintegrating, loss of memory and mobility, death occurring sometimes as fast as a few weeks.

“The doctors can't tell us exactly how it'll progress,” Mrs. Cooper said. “But it's happening. Sometimes she forgets who we are. Sometimes she doesn't know how to use a fork. But then for an hour she's perfectly normal . . .”

She turned away. Kevin had always imagined Alice would grow to look like her mother, but now that thought was meaningless. Mr. Cooper placed his hand on his wife's shoulder, and she leaned into him. He motioned Kevin to follow them. Kevin looked around as he walked down the hallway and paused when he noticed a book on a side table. The man on the cover was the same man Alice had posed with on the computer desktop wallpaper.
The Present Path
, by Pali.

“He's a spiritual teacher,” Mrs. Cooper said. “She went to see him, after she got the diagnosis. I think he gave her some comfort.”

Kevin picked up the book and stared at the author, who sat Indian-style atop a mountain peak. All this time, he'd thought this guy was some sort of a boyfriend, a rival. Pali had kind eyes, a friendly round face. He looked like someone who could help people in need.

Mr. Cooper stopped in front of a half-open door. Alice was in bed, but she wasn't asleep. She stared straight up at the ceiling, as if she could see through the off-white paint.

“Honey?” Mr. Cooper said.

They waited. She didn't move.

“Well,” Mr. Cooper said. “Here you are, Kevin. You made it this far, so you might as well spend some time with her.”

Kevin nodded and sat in the chair next to the bed. When the Coopers turned to leave, he felt foolish for wanting to tell them to stay. It was just a gut fear reaction, nothing more.

“I see you,” Alice said.

“Okay,” he said. “Do you know who I am?”

“Kevin,” she said, and he let out a sigh of relief that soon segued into a sigh of disappointment. “That's what Dad just said.”

“Right.”

The strangest thing was that she didn't look different. Thinner than the last time he saw her, but she'd been at this weight before, years ago, when they'd just started dating. It was almost as if time were going backward, but only for her, not for him. For him there would be no easy way to forget this woman he loved. He'd have to wrestle with his memories of her for the rest of his life, and for a moment, Kevin felt such a spike of bitterness that he almost got up to leave—until he realized that he would live while she would die. The cruelty of life was on glorious display here. He took in a breath, and then another, then let it out slowly. He waited for his throat to open up, for his voice to be functional.

“How are you today?” he asked her.

“I have a little headache,” she said. “But it's a good day, I think.”

She was still Alice. So many mornings, he woke up and saw her face, and it'd made him so happy.

“I love you.”

She met his eyes for the first time. They were so clear, so blue. How could eyes like that ever dim?

“I just wanted to say that, more for me than for you,” he added.

Her slight frown lifted. “That's good.”

“Is it okay if I hold your hand?” he asked.

She paused, weighing his request.

“I'll do you one better,” she said, and she took his hand in her hand.

O
utside, rain started falling, quarter-size drops plopping against the windshield. Kevin was back in Judy's car, having told her of his encounter.

“You're angry,” his sister said.

“What?”

She pointed at his hand, the hand that Alice had been holding, now a fist.

“I had things to tell her,” he said.

“I know.”

“No you don't.”

“You're right,” Judy said. “So tell me. Say what you were going to say to her to me.”

“This isn't some therapy session, Judy. This is real.”

“I know, but maybe it'll help. Would it hurt to try?”

Kevin thought it might, but Judy insisted. The drive back to Jersey was five hours, and halfway through the trip, as they were crossing the state of Connecticut, the rain tapered down to cloudy skies and he hadn't stopped talking. He apologized, he accused, he took responsibility, he blamed. He started from the beginning, when they met at the chiropractor's office. Alice was waiting to get her back worked on, while he waited for treatment to his left knee, the one that took the brunt of his serves. Neither had believed in love at first sight, but they did believe in its lewder incarnation, sex at fifth date. He couldn't remember the last time they'd made love, and this shamed him. It was awful to think that he would continue to bed other women while she would be—

“Gone,” Judy said. “I'm so sorry, Kevin. I don't know why we humans have this unquenchable desire to live when we're all going to die. It's just a rotten deal.”

“Maybe you should talk now.” He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

So she did. Judy told him about her and Roger's disastrous first date, the dragon tattoo that traversed his back, and about the anhedonia, too, his inability to enjoy life. As Kevin listened to his sister, he thought of that phrase she often quoted about being kind to others, because everyone is fighting his or her own battle. Inside every passing vehicle, there was at least one person who was suffering a private war of his or her own making. Why did it have to be this way? Why was it that when the world was created, when gravity and time and our planet and its primordial soup came into existence, there also had to be pain and sorrow? It was no wonder so many people found comfort in religion. Kevin wished he did, too, but it never seemed right to him, that some great being was in charge.

“Do you believe in God?” he asked.

“Yes,” Judy said. “You don't?”

“No.”

“I have to tell you, I'm surprised. I mean I know you go to church as often as I do, which is less than never, but I always took you to be a believer.”

“Why is that?”

“I don't know. I just never thought you paid much mind to stuff like this, that you believe what most people believe.”

“Because I'm a dumb jock.”

“Because you're not that complicated, which is a compliment, by the way. What
do
you believe in, then?”

“Nothing.”

“Dude,” Judy said. “Really?”

Was that true? No, not entirely.

“I believe in us, you and me. That we're brother and sister, if not by blood, then by habit.”

Judy laughed. “I am pretty used to you being my brother. We're a routine.”

“And that we'll see each other through, to whatever's out there.”

“Always.” She licked her pinky and offered it.

“Pinky swear.” Kevin licked and linked his with hers. “Now it's official.”

A
fter being away for the better part of two months, the sound of his gravel driveway crunching underneath the car's tires was like the voice of a dependable friend. When he opened the front door, even though he knew full well that Snaps would never greet him again, he heard the silence of her soundless bark, felt the barrenness of her missing furry body. Absence was as substantive as its opposite, perhaps even more so. He leaned against the door jamb as a morbid thought crossed his mind: I'm the last one left. This was no longer his home, it was just a house of sad memories, one he couldn't continue to pay for anyway, not without a job.

Judy followed him in with an armful of mail, envelopes falling to the floor as she brought it in. “Two pieces from California.”

One was what looked like a card envelope, addressed from Claudia. The other was a puffy mailer, about the size of a DVD case.

“Oh no,” Kevin said, seeing the name on the return address, Norman Kwon. “Not again.”

“Relax,” Judy said. “Maybe it's a copy of
Brian's Song
.”

“I'll bet you a million dollars it's not
Brian's Song
.”

He opened Claudia's first. Inside the beige envelope was indeed a card, and on the front was a painting of hers he recognized, the one
of her as a shipwrecked alien. Inside, she'd hand-written a note in cursive so perfect that it looked like a font.

Dear Kevin,

I know you think, like most people, that the way I live seems immature, childish. But I assure you that it is exactly the opposite. To go with your true intentions no matter what—that is, in my opinion, the most grown-up thing that anyone can do. Even though I've been living this way for a number of years now, it still isn't easy. Denying your sister's works at the opening was not only difficult, it took a great amount of courage, because I knew it meant I'd lose you. But I cannot compromise my way of life, not at this point, when it is the only reason I exist. Every decision counts, however small, because it is the accrual of those very decisions that determines our fate, our tiny place in this vast, indifferent universe.

I enjoyed our time together, and it would bring me great pleasure to see you again. I do miss you, more than I thought I would. I doubt you miss me as much, but that's all right. What matters to me is the way I feel about you, since that's all that I can control. You're welcome in my house, so consider this an open invitation. If I were to come home and see you there at the entrance, well, that would be a very good day.