The Flame Alphabet - Ben Marcus [43]
The logistics of getting Esther strapped in a bus seat evaded me, led me into thoughts and plans I did not wish to have.
Was I not meant to think the unthinkable? Hadn’t our hut training led exactly to this, courting unbearable circumstances as a matter of principle?
Claire sighed, but in such a kind, noncombative way that it disarmed me. It made me sad to think that she’d been rehearsing this conversation for days, probably, hoping to sound kind and wise and open-minded. She wanted off the medicine. I think she wanted off more than that.
“Esther’s not going anywhere, Sam. You don’t get to make that decision, and I’ll never agree to it.”
It was always awkward to hear my own name in her voice. We never did that. Never. We openly discussed that we never did that. It was somehow unbearably intimate and deeply hostile at the same time.
I nuzzled up against her. “I know. I’m just saying.”
Which wasn’t true. I wasn’t saying anything. What I particularly wasn’t saying was that I could never send Esther on a bus, either, but by taking that position I could keep Claire sympathetic to the medical trials. She’d see it as an either-or situation. I saw no other way for us to stay at home.
“I don’t think medicine is the answer anymore,” she said. “I think there is no answer. I just want to be with Esther when it happens.”
When it happens? I didn’t want to ask.
“Will you let me?” she said. “Could you arrange it?”
I squeezed her hand and she squeezed back, which once meant that things were fine between us, a language of anxious grips that we exchanged to rescue ourselves from disagreement. Now, it was code for nothing. You translated it and it yielded speech vacuumed of meaning.
“I promise you it’s not going to happen.”
“You can’t, though. You can’t promise me anything.”
Claire’s breathing changed and I felt her sobs in my body before I heard them.
I tried to stop what was coming by saying her name, but this only triggered it harder.
“This is my fault,” said Claire, shaking. She gestured at the street, as if she were taking responsibility for the whole world outside our house: the people, the trees, the weather. She’d done this.
I reached for her but she pulled away, repeated her claim. It was her fault. All of it. The entire thing. It was all her fault.
“Please, Claire.”
“I am to blame.” She raised her voice, shouted into the street. “I did this!”
I ducked, as if I needed to show my embarrassment to any invisible person watching us from the dark exteriors of the neighborhood.
I told her it wasn’t true. I reasoned with her, asked for evidence. There was no evidence.
“Yes, but he told me it was my fault. He told me! What kind of person does that? He must have a reason. If the rabbi is not right, then I will never forgive him.”
I said, “We shouldn’t even be talking about this. We can’t be talking about this. You know that.”
“Why?” she shouted. “Why the fuck not? How can we not talk about it? How do they expect us to do that? It’s impossible.”
“The rules,” I whispered. Instantly I hated how this sounded.
“The rules? From Bauman? How do we even know who that old man was? He was no one. A fucking weirdo. He’s gone. We’ve never seen him again. We haven’t seen anyone! There’s no one to see.”
“But there doesn’t need to be,” I said. “What would that even do? It’s a distraction.”
“Speak for yourself, you bastard.”
Claire cried hard into her hands. Hoarding, monstrously, this unknowable thing all to herself.
I said, “I won’t discuss this with you, Claire. I can’t. This is a conversation you have to have with yourself. We keep our own counsel.”
“Talking to myself is not a conversation! I have no counsel to keep. I’m alone. You are, too. How can you stand it?”
“You’re upset. Let’s get you inside and maybe try a different dose. I think I know what I did wrong.”
“Oh, you have no idea what you’ve done wrong. No idea. You’ve done enough. Just keep that fucking medicine away from me.”
I stood, tried to walk it off,