Part 19 (2/2)
A normal career. A normal life. No fame. No glory. No secrets. No power.
That was fine.
I could be a person again.
20.
The next morning, I felt lighter than I had in months, confident and full of purpose. I called Chance to make sure he was okay, but he wasn't in. I called the hospital and learned that Sarah had been discharged. I walked to her brownstone and rang the bell. Sarah's roommate answered the door, still glum, with thick gla.s.ses and a pink barrette in her hair.
”Can I help you?”
”I'm here to see Sarah.”
A slight pause.
”She's not here.”
”I know she's here. She got discharged yesterday.”
She leaned toward me and puffed out her chest, ready for battle.
”I know who you are.”
”Look, um . . . what's your name?”
She eyed me suspiciously, as if revealing her name would grant me some secret power over her. Finally, she said, ”Carrie. But she doesn't want to see you.”
”I understand. I wouldn't want to see me either. And you're a good friend for trying to keep me out. But I'm here for a reason. I want to make things right.”
”Oh. I didn't realize you were Jesus,” she said.
A voice called down from the stairs beyond their living room. ”Carrie, who is it?”
”It's the guy,” she replied. ”The lawyer.”
”Law student,” I said.
”He won't go away,” Carrie explained.
There was a long pause, and then Sarah said, ”It's okay. Let him in.”
Carrie narrowed her eyes at me.
”Whatever,” she said, stepping aside.
I walked into a neatly appointed living room, the complete opposite of Miles's philosopher's cave. They had self-a.s.sembled modern furniture, the kind that comes in a box and lives in a world halfway between student and adult. There was one bedroom off the living room; the staircase led up to a second. Sarah waited at the top of the stairs, her door cracked. I could see half her face, one bright hazel eye, one rosy cheek.
I took a breath and started up the stairs.
When I got to the top, I saw her in a blast of sunlight from the window. She glowed, without makeup or jewelry, her cheeks flushed, eyes iridescent. She was somehow ordinary and enchanted at the same time: the tomboy you know your whole life before you see her at the prom and realize she'd been beautiful the whole time.
”Sarah,” I started to say, but she walked away from the door, leaving it open.
She sat down on her bed and hugged her legs. She nodded at a chair by her desk.
”Thanks,” I said.
All the speeches I'd practiced on the way over seemed inadequate now, flimsy and childish. Instead, I just looked at her. She was watching me, quietly. Her room was cheerful, with light yellow walls and framed Delacroix prints of Parisian life: Ferris wheels, hilltop churches, kids with scarves in the snow, warm orange windows. But then I saw the cardboard box filled with books on the floor, next to other boxes, with sweaters, socks, folders: she was packing? On top of the books was a model brain, with every hill and valley labeled, though they all looked the same to me.
When our eyes met, there was a tense energy between us, but also, I noted, curiosity. Whatever else, she wanted me to say something. I noticed my hands were shaking.
I pointed at the model brain.
”May I?”
She sighed into her folded hands. ”Why not?”
I turned it over in my hands. It was made of rubber and felt pleasantly spongy.
”Is part of my brain really called the Sylvian fissure?”
She nodded.
”Sounds like a place where you'd meet a witch. Or a talking wolf.”
Stop talking, I willed myself. She looked at me for a long time. Then she nodded at the brain.
”There's also an anterior commissure.”
”Where soldiers buy toothpaste.”
”And a cingulate gyrus.”
”A dance craze. The Cingulate Gyrus.”
”Everybody's doin' it,” she said. For a split second, the corners of her lips flickered into a smile. Then, as if she suddenly remembered why we were here, a wave pa.s.sed over her face, her eyes hardened, and we were back to square one. She didn't say anything for a moment, and when she did, her voice was strangely bland.
”I quit my program.”
There was no rebuke in her voice, but it felt like a hard slap anyway.
”I'm sorry, Sarah.”
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