me just now.
Anyway. I put off my visit until I can honestly know I’m not leaking oil on to the road, and making it the problem of some innocent soul driving behind me, or driving that same road at a later point in time. Possibly someone’s irreplaceable loved one. I guess, on some level, everyone is irreplaceable to someone.
Don’t you think it’s strange how we’re all driving everywhere, dropping little bits of ourselves along the road? Oil, transmission fluid, antifreeze. Old tire rubber. Leaving trails of discarded us wherever we go. Well, OK, I guess you’ll say our cars are not us. But I’m not so sure. It’s like they say about dogs, how they grow to resemble their owners after a while. Only, the dogs and the cars, both, I think it’s more that we’ve created them in our image.
Why am I talking so much? I never used to be a man who did that.
I don’t know why you put up with me, Myra. Assuming of course that you do. Maybe because you loved Lorrie as much as I did. Maybe because we are the only two people in the world who lost so much that night. People bond over all sorts of things. Why not that?
Maybe I’ll write again when I’ve been to see Vida. We can compare notes. Undoubtedly see how right you were.
My best to you,
Richard
From:
Richard Bailey
To:
Myra Buckner
Dear Myra,
I haven’t been to see Vida yet. I’m cheating. Writing early.
I have something to confess.
I’m mildly lactose intolerant. And of course you know Lorrie wasn’t. So we always kept both kinds of milk in the house. Only that night we were out of my kind. It’s silly when you think about it, because I’m a grown man. I’m thirty-six years old. I’m not ten. Why do I need to drink milk with my dinner? It’s just one of those habit things.
All I had to do was to break the pattern. To say, Never mind. I’ll drink water.
That was all I had to do, Myra.
All I had to do.
Can you imagine what that leaves behind for me to live with?
I’ve said it about three hundred times since. I wake up in the night saying it. Before I wake up, I’m pretty sure I was saying it in my dreams.
I’ll just drink water.
I could have just drunk water.
Or, at very least, why didn’t I go out and get milk myself? It was me who wanted it. I’d brought some work home. I was sitting in the living room working on my laptop, and Lorrie just took it upon herself to slip out and get my kind of milk.
I never knew it had rained. It wasn’t even enough rain to hear on the roof. I guess it just sprinkled for a few minutes. Late-spring rain. First rain in a long time. There’s some physics thing to that. Later, after it’s rained hard for ten or fifteen minutes, the oil washes off the road. But at first … No, how could that be? You can’t just hose oil off the driveway. I’ve tried. But it’s something about the first minutes of that first rain. The water sits on top of the oil. Or something. I had it explained once. But I haven’t asked since, because I couldn’t bear to hear it again.
A bit of a disjointed confession. But now that I’ve told one other human being, maybe I can finally get to sleep.
Then again, maybe not.
My best to you, Your son-in-law (am I still?),
Richard
The Worry Stone
W hen I arrived at the hospital, Vida’s mother, Abigail, was nowhere to be found.
I’m not sure why, but somehow it felt important to find her.
Maybe because I felt as if I knew Abigail, having received a letter from her, thanking me profusely and discussing the prospect of our all meeting in person just as soon as Vida got out of ICU. Tossing it about as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Something that could never destroy an already tenuous life. Keep anyone from moving on. As if it were something that couldn’t even cause pain.
Notice I talk about it as if I’m in no way responsible for it. But I have to report the truth, which is this: If I’d wanted to remain anonymous, so that Abigail had never known how to
Anyway. I put off my visit until I can honestly know I’m not leaking oil on to the road, and making it the problem of some innocent soul driving behind me, or driving that same road at a later point in time. Possibly someone’s irreplaceable loved one. I guess, on some level, everyone is irreplaceable to someone.
Don’t you think it’s strange how we’re all driving everywhere, dropping little bits of ourselves along the road? Oil, transmission fluid, antifreeze. Old tire rubber. Leaving trails of discarded us wherever we go. Well, OK, I guess you’ll say our cars are not us. But I’m not so sure. It’s like they say about dogs, how they grow to resemble their owners after a while. Only, the dogs and the cars, both, I think it’s more that we’ve created them in our image.
Why am I talking so much? I never used to be a man who did that.
I don’t know why you put up with me, Myra. Assuming of course that you do. Maybe because you loved Lorrie as much as I did. Maybe because we are the only two people in the world who lost so much that night. People bond over all sorts of things. Why not that?
Maybe I’ll write again when I’ve been to see Vida. We can compare notes. Undoubtedly see how right you were.
My best to you,
Richard
From:
Richard Bailey
To:
Myra Buckner
Dear Myra,
I haven’t been to see Vida yet. I’m cheating. Writing early.
I have something to confess.
I’m mildly lactose intolerant. And of course you know Lorrie wasn’t. So we always kept both kinds of milk in the house. Only that night we were out of my kind. It’s silly when you think about it, because I’m a grown man. I’m thirty-six years old. I’m not ten. Why do I need to drink milk with my dinner? It’s just one of those habit things.
All I had to do was to break the pattern. To say, Never mind. I’ll drink water.
That was all I had to do, Myra.
All I had to do.
Can you imagine what that leaves behind for me to live with?
I’ve said it about three hundred times since. I wake up in the night saying it. Before I wake up, I’m pretty sure I was saying it in my dreams.
I’ll just drink water.
I could have just drunk water.
Or, at very least, why didn’t I go out and get milk myself? It was me who wanted it. I’d brought some work home. I was sitting in the living room working on my laptop, and Lorrie just took it upon herself to slip out and get my kind of milk.
I never knew it had rained. It wasn’t even enough rain to hear on the roof. I guess it just sprinkled for a few minutes. Late-spring rain. First rain in a long time. There’s some physics thing to that. Later, after it’s rained hard for ten or fifteen minutes, the oil washes off the road. But at first … No, how could that be? You can’t just hose oil off the driveway. I’ve tried. But it’s something about the first minutes of that first rain. The water sits on top of the oil. Or something. I had it explained once. But I haven’t asked since, because I couldn’t bear to hear it again.
A bit of a disjointed confession. But now that I’ve told one other human being, maybe I can finally get to sleep.
Then again, maybe not.
My best to you, Your son-in-law (am I still?),
Richard
The Worry Stone
W hen I arrived at the hospital, Vida’s mother, Abigail, was nowhere to be found.
I’m not sure why, but somehow it felt important to find her.
Maybe because I felt as if I knew Abigail, having received a letter from her, thanking me profusely and discussing the prospect of our all meeting in person just as soon as Vida got out of ICU. Tossing it about as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Something that could never destroy an already tenuous life. Keep anyone from moving on. As if it were something that couldn’t even cause pain.
Notice I talk about it as if I’m in no way responsible for it. But I have to report the truth, which is this: If I’d wanted to remain anonymous, so that Abigail had never known how to
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