Robert Wilson - The Divide

Daddy, she thought, what do I do now?

She meant: about John.

For seven weeks after the warehouse fire John had been comatose in a Toronto hospital. Susan had visited him daily; she had helped to nurse him. It hurt to see him silent and still in his hospital bed, contained in a sleep so absolute that it was a fucker away from death. Sleep like another country, Susan thought; some place where he had retreated, miles and miles and miles away.

But it was not his sleep that had sent her fleeing to California. It was his waking up. “John is awake,” Dr. Kyriakides had said, and the announcement touched off in her a fierce, visceral panic. It was impossible to face the prospect of pushing through the door of his hospital room and finding him changed beyond recognition.

So she bought a ticket for the next available flight and stayed with her mother. She kept some secrets, told some lies, moped around in the fenced backyard while the ultraviolet burned her body brown. But there was no avoiding this ritual journey to the cemetery.

Daddy, what now?

Silent earth.

She looked up. A silver dot was traversing the blue sky, probably an airliner out of L.A. International. But Susan didn’t want to think about airliners, which suggested travel, which suggested that this sunny interlude was not any kind of solution … that pretty soon she ought to buy a return ticket, get herself on one of those planes—

— cross that border —

Startled, she looked back at the grave.

It was her father’s voice. Her own thought, of course; but it was unmistakably his resonant, deep, and familiar voice. Drawn up, she thought, not from the grave but from the well of memory. Maybe this is why we invent people, Susan thought: because we cannot bear the loss of them.

She touched the mica-flecked granite headstone.

Daddy? Should I go back there? Is that what I should do?

But the answer was obvious.

That would be the wise thing, Susan.

Funny way to hold a conversation. But then, she thought, it’s always hard, when the silence has been so long and so awkward.

Amelie decided to visit Roch in the hospital: just once, because she had to.

It was safe; she was safe from him there. Anyway, she thought, the whole world is pretty much safe from Roch, now and forever.

He looked up sullenly from the bed. Roch had lost a lot of weight; his singed hair had been cropped short. He looked like a convict, Amelie thought … which she guessed he was, or at least potentially. She hadn’t pressed charges, but the holding company that owned the warehouse was pretty pissed off. (Even though their insurance must have paid them off in full—the fire must have been like hitting a Vegas jackpot, considering the condition of the property.)

But Roch didn’t care. He just looked up at her with his hollow eyes. And Amelie felt perversely guilty for coming here at all … she was still that vulnerable to his anger.

“I’m going away,” she said.

He didn’t answer. Silence was one of the few weapons he had left.

She went on, “I know this is a shitty time and all, considering what happened, but I don’t think I owe you anything anymore. I guess that’s pretty obvious. I mean, it’s too bad what happened, but it isn’t my fault.”

“I almost killed you,” he said. The words were slurred with medication, but totally sincere. She felt his anger simmering inside him. He had been insulted in a way he could barely comprehend. The last insult, Amelie thought, if only he would let it be. “I should have,” he added.

Well, maybe she had made a mistake, coming here. But it was important, not just for Roch’s sake but for Amelie’s: important to talk to his doctors … important to see him; important to prove to herself that she need never be afraid of him again. The doctors called it “a spinal cord injury sustained during his fall,” but Amelie knew it was really more than that. It was her protection. It was a guarantee that Roch would never be able to hurt her again.

Still—she felt sorry for him, lying broken in this hospital bed.

It should not have been possible, this surge of pity.

Mysterious.

She had talked to John about Roch, not long before all this happened. John had encountered Roch only that one time, in her apartment, but John had guessed a few things about him. He asked, “Was your mother an alcoholic?” and Amelie said, “Well—you could say that. She drank pretty heavy sometimes.”

“Before Roch was born? When she was pregnant?”

“Probably. I think so. Why?”

He told her, “There’s a condition called ‘fetal alcohol syndrome.’ Sometimes it causes retardation. Sometimes it has other effects, more subtle.”

“You think Roch has that?”

“It’s possible. All that unfocused anger. The alcohol interferes with fetal development, particularly the development of the brain. It has a sort of scattering effect on the neurons. The glial cells—”

Amelie waved her hand. “Maybe Roch has that. I don’t know. Does it matter? Lots of people have lots of problems. When it comes down to it, what matters is what you do —right? Not what you are.”

And John had smiled a strange, distant smile and nodded his head slowly. “Yes, Amelie. That’s what matters.”

She told Roch goodbye now, and left the room.

Amelie had stayed on at the big house north of the city. Kyriakides had said it was okay. But enough, she thought, was enough. John was back from the hospital now. And Benjamin—

Benjamin was dead.

Well, maybe that wasn’t exactly true. John wasn’t Benjamin anymore; but he wasn’t exactly John, either. Privately, Amelie figured he was something that John and Benjamin had both needed to become. Maybe something they had been all along. Something more basic, more raw, more true.

Maybe what she had loved about Benjamin was this becoming. Benjamin had been half finished and wholly innocent. Benjamin was a coming-to-life, an event And that was finished. And so her part of it was finished.

Almost finished.

She packed two Tourister suitcases. She could come back for her other stuff later, when she found a place. Her little Sanyo stereo … Kyriakides could keep it, or Susan, or John. She didn’t care.

On her way out, she stopped off at the big study where Dr. Kyriakides was scribbling away in some kind of notebook, his glasses practically toppling off the end of his nose. She stood in the doorway until he noticed her.

He spotted the suitcases. “You’re leaving?”

She nodded.

“Do you have a place to go?”

“I can rent a room until I find an apartment. Maybe I can get my old job back.”

“I want you to know—you’re free to room here as long as you like.”

“I think it would be better to get away.”

Kyriakides frowned … Something he wants to say, Amelie thought … then he cleared his throat.

She waited.

He said, “Amelie … I know about the pregnancy.”

“Christ!” She was appalled. “Who told you that? It was Collingwood, right? The clinic doctor told Collingwood and Collingwood told you. Jesus!

So much for fucking privacy!”

“This is an unusual situation,” Kyriakides said. “I assume it’s John’s child?”

Amelie considered walking out. She didn’t owe Kyriakides anything. He hadn’t earned this conversation.

Some impulse restrained her. “Benjamin’s child,” she said. An important distinction. “You bet it is.”

“Calm down. I didn’t engineer this invasion of your privacy for the sake of voyeurism. The point is, I want to help.”