Alix Ohlin - Inside

Grace watched them, her hands stuck deep in her pockets. “They’re already adolescent at ten,” she said. “God help me.”

The other mother, a young woman with long curly hair and dangly earrings, nodded vigorously. “It’s only going to get worse, too,” she said. “She’s asking me for makeup.”

“Oh, no,” Grace said.

The two of them went back and forth, trading dark forecasts about the future, while their girls gossiped together not fifty feet away. The wind picked up. Mitch stared longingly at a group of guys playing Frisbee at the other end of the park. There seemed no reason why all this static talking had to take place outside. Women, he thought.

Everyone else in the park was on the move: people throwing sticks for their dogs, toddlers careening around wildly while their parents chased after them, couples with their hands in each other’s pockets. A Peruvian band was unpacking their flutes and drums. Despite the clouds, the atmosphere was festive and happy.

An extremely pretty young woman walked by. She was under-dressed for the weather, wearing jeans and a sweater, no hat, and her long blond hair was flapping around her like a flag. High-heeled boots gave her walk a sexy, rolling sway. She passed them with a glance, but Mitch didn’t think much of it, other than to note her beauty. But then she turned around and came back toward them. Mitch ran his hand through his hair before he could stop himself. She obviously wasn’t looking at him — he was old enough to be her father — but her attention was blatant.

The young woman was staring at Grace. As she got closer, Mitch thought she looked familiar, though so faintly that he couldn’t have said where he knew her from. Grace barely noticed. Her eyes flickered over the girl, pausing uncertainly for a second, and then she turned back to her friend. They were discussing how to introduce new foods to kids who were picky eaters.

“I try to tell her it’s good for her,” Grace was saying, “but she doesn’t want to listen.”

The young woman walked by, making no secret of her staring, then crossed the street and was gone.

The three of them headed back to the apartment.

“God, it’s great to be able to walk,” Grace said, smiling. She stretched her hands out on either side, reveling in her health. Her pinched posture was uncurling, her shoulders squared, and the wind had reddened her cheeks. Mitch could still see the memory of pain in the shadows under her eyes, in the care she took when stepping off the sidewalk; it colored the happiness she was feeling, gave it form and weight. She and Sarah were holding hands.

His thoughts shifted to Martine and Mathieu, and then, reluctantly, to Thomasie. He had been doing his best not to think about any of these people, and spending time with Grace and Sarah had helped to distract him, but of course they were always there, alert soldiers standing forever at attention in the back of his mind. He looked at Sarah and thought that the life Grace was giving her was, despite its recent rockiness and the lack of a father, bright and secure, and it was impossible not to contrast this with the wan, difficult lives of others he had known whom he had abandoned or been abandoned by.

All these presences and absences. A child enters the world; a child exits the world. He felt heavy with responsibility and regret.

Sometimes he hated himself simply because he was alive when others were not, and he wanted to wipe out the memories of every patient he’d had, every problem he’d caused or heard about or failed to alleviate. Other times he thought he would never forget any of these things and that it was important not to, perhaps the most important task of his life. Witnessing the pain of others is the very least you can do in this world. It’s how you know that when your own turn comes, someone will be there with you.

Sarah was telling her mother a story about a magician who flew all around the world, making waterfalls stop, making trees grow. He couldn’t tell whether it was from a book she’d read or a movie she’d seen or if she’d made it up herself. She was a fanciful girl who didn’t seem to always distinguish between fiction and reality; perhaps Grace indulged her too much in this.

Back at the apartment, Grace ordered a pizza and asked Mitch if he wanted to stay. He shook his head. Sarah had gone off into her room.

The two of them were alone. Though they had spent a fair number of hours together over the past few months, today was somehow different, more awkward, probably because he hadn’t come over to help; he had just come over . The whole time, at the apartment and the park, he had felt distant from the two of them, a separate entity, a hanger-on. He guessed that their time together had reached its logical end; their lives would go on, on divergent tracks, as they had already done for so many years.

Grace was puttering around the kitchen, putting dishes away, wiping down the counters. She had accepted his help so silently, so willingly, then hid it from Azra. She’d taken what was expedient and left the rest. The only thing he’d wanted out of the situation was not to feel ashamed of what he was doing, but now he did, and that was Grace’s fault. He stood there silently fuming.

Sensing his mood, Grace turned around and leaned back against the counter, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Azra told me she ran into you the other day,” she said.

“Yes, outside. I didn’t realize my coming around was a secret, Grace.”

She was courteous enough to blush. “It’s not.” She crossed her arms. “She just didn’t understand.”

“She was the one who asked me to help in the first place.”

“To bring in the mail, water the plants. She thought it was weird that you’d be so involved.”

“It’s not that weird, Grace. I mean, yes, a little. But not impossibly weird, or I wouldn’t have done it.”

“I know,” she said. “Of course. But Azra worries about me, when it comes to men. She thinks I live too much in the past already.”

“This is about Sarah’s dad, I guess?”

That same faraway expression stole over her face.

“Don’t say it’s a long story,” he said.

She laughed. “It’s not that long. I really threw myself overboard when I met him. I wanted that feeling, whether or not it was real. The feeling of totally giving yourself over to something. Of not looking back.”

“And then what?”

Tears were glimmering in her eyes. “Now I can hardly remember his face,” she said. “I grieve for that.”

He reached out for her hand, his right clasping her left, like some secret reverse handshake. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She nodded and withdrew it, the heat of her palm lingering for a second in his. “Maybe you shouldn’t come around so much.”

“Okay,” he said, and then: “That’s it?”

She didn’t answer, and they stood there in the kitchen. It had been a strange collision, this time they’d had together. He wondered when or if they’d see each other again. Somehow the word good-bye seemed too final, so he didn’t say it, and neither did she.

In the nights to come Mitch lost the ability to sleep. He watched old movies in the middle of the night, spent hours with the Weather Channel. He went to work and got through the group-therapy sessions on autopilot; he listened intensely to the participants’ stories but forgot them immediately; when writing up his notes he couldn’t remember much of what they’d said, and his scrawled observations seemed like the thoughts of a stranger. He called no one. He ran five miles a day, his skin flooded with warmth against the increasingly cold air. In November, a freezing rainstorm encased the leafless trees in ice, the salt on sidewalks crunching beneath his feet. The Habs lost to the Maple Leafs. His fantasy picks were a shambles.