I slept a lot. Sunday morning came. I found myself staring blankly at the toaster. I didn’t know how I’d gotten to the kitchen.
There was no way I was going to get through this without Sheila.
I made the phone call. For the first time, I paid attention to the triage of numbers. I called the red alert one. A service answered. The voice was flat. Uninterested in my problems. We’ll pass the message to the doctor, it said.
I got lucky. Sheila called me back within the hour. I told her I had an emergency. Had to see her. No, I didn’t want to tell her over the phone.
I guess she heard it in my voice. She asked me to give her half an hour. Meet her at her office.
She was in her recliner.
One thing in life, at least, I could count on.
I told her that Melissa had died. I filled in some details. I didn’t tell her everything. I didn’t tell her about Harwood. I didn’t tell her about the night before.
Oh dear, she said more than once. That’s terrible.
I didn’t feel better.
Of course I wasn’t going to feel better, right away. It was a process. I had to go through it. Blah, blah, blah.
A long silence.
There’s something I’ve always wanted to talk to you about, Sheila said.
Okay, I said.
I’d like to talk about why you married her.
I stared at the air conditioner behind Sheila’s desk. I looked at the clock above it. It sat next to a book. The Challenge of Pain. Ronald Melzack. I almost laughed. It was about physical pain, though. I’d read it once. In college. I didn’t remember much about it. One idea was that pain was not some absolute, measurable thing. Everyone felt it differently. I looked back at the clock. Still twenty minutes left. Shit. I didn’t want to be there.
Which was strange. Normally I wanted to stay as long as possible.
Things were different, now.
I looked at Sheila.
Why you married Melissa? she reminded me.
I’ve often asked myself that question, I said.
You have?
Yes. Mostly because…because when I think about it, I don’t really know her. I didn’t really know her. I’ve never really known her. At all.
You knew enough to marry her.
I knew I loved her.
Yes. And maybe that’s enough. But as I recall, you hadn’t even met her parents.
That’s true. I still haven’t. She wasn’t speaking to them.
Or any other members of her family.
If any. She never mentioned any others.
You don’t even know where she was from, do you?
Illinois, I think. Or Indiana. Something with an I.
Ithaca?
Could be.
That’s sort of my point.
I get your point. But what’s the point? Of your point.
Don’t you think it’s a little unusual?
What’s unusual?
To marry someone you know almost nothing about?
Unusual? Probably. But I’m an unusual guy. I kind of like that about myself.
You are. And there’s nothing wrong with that. In itself. I’d just like to explore this particular aspect of your…difference.
Explore away.
Did the thought ever occur to you, any time before the marriage? That maybe you should know a bit more about her?
No. I mean, I don’t think so. I was never so terribly close to my own family, you know. Of course you know.
Yes, I know that.
She just made me feel so good.
In what way?
I remember the nights in her apartment. It was tiny. Just enough room for a bed and the TV. And a small bedside table. And the kitchen, at the end of the room. The window looked out onto a brick wall. Two feet away. And it was always overheated. The apartment. So we took our clothes off. As soon as we got there. And lay on the bed. And drank wine. Cheap wine. But good wine. Stuff I hunted up. An unknown Rhone or two. Some esoteric stuff from Spain. And smoked cigarettes. Listened to Tom Waits. And I would read her poetry. Mine. T.S. Eliot. Dylan Thomas. Stuff that moved me. And it would move her. And her skin was so soft. And I’d think, This is what heaven must be like. Really. That’s what I’d think. That’s how it felt. I know it sounds stupid.
No, it doesn’t sound stupid. It sounds sad.
Sad? How does it sound sad? Is going to heaven sad?
Not if it really was heaven. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t sustainable.
Well, you’ve got that right.
The pursuit of bliss.
Yes.
That’s what it is.
Yes.
But bliss is not for us.
Us mortals.
No. Bliss is for the Gods.
Yes. I know. I know.
I hung my head. What a fool I was.
We had it for a while, I said.
Yes. And then?
Yeah. Then. If it wasn’t hell, it was a reasonable facsimile.
That’s what it is, you see? Pleasure and pain are relative concepts. If you weren’t capable of that bliss, you’d never know it. And you’d never feel the pain of its absence.
Sure, but what’s the point? We should all live within a tiny emotional range? B to C? No high Fs? Now that’s a life worth living.
No. No. I’m not saying that. I’m saying that you have to recognize those highs for what they are. Moments. Glimpses of heaven. Luck. Not what you can expect from day to day. Or even ever again. It’s part of the art of living.
Now that’s sad.
Yes, she said. In a way. In a way it’s sad. That heaven’s not here on earth. But that’s part of growing up, isn’t it? Coming to terms with that fact?
Sure, I said. Sure. I’ve just never been sure that I want to grow up.
I know, she said. I know.