Abraham Verghese - Cutting for Stone

I had hoped that my heart would be hardened to such displays.

“Sorry. I work in a kitchen,” she whispered.

“After all you have done to me, you're sorry about the state of your hands?”

She blinked, said nothing.

“How did you find me?”

“Tsige sent me.”

“Why?”

“I called her when I got out of jail. I needed … help.”

“Didn't she tell you that I didn't want to see you?”

“Yes. But she insisted I see you before she would help me.” She glanced directly at me for the very first time. “And I wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

“To tell you I'm sorry.” She averted her gaze after a few seconds.

“Is that something you learn in prison? Avoiding eye contact?”

She laughed, and in that moment I wondered if, with all she had seen and done, she was beyond being touched by anger. She said, “I was stabbed once for looking.” She pointed down with her chin to her left side. “They took out my spleen.”

“Where were you in prison?”

“Albany.”

“And now?”

“I'm paroled. I have to see my probation officer every week.”

She put her cup down.

“What else did Tsige say?”

“That you're a surgeon.” She looked around the library, the shelves full of books. “That you're doing well.”

“I'm only here because I was forced to run. Forced to leave in the night like a thief. You know who did that to me? To Hema? It was someone who was to our family … like a daughter.”

She rocked back and forth. “Go on,” she said, straightening her back. “I deserve it.”

“Still playing the martyr? I heard you hid a gun in your hair when you got on that plane. An Afro! You were the Angela Davis of the Eritrean cause, right?”

She shook her head. After a long while she said, “I don't know what I was. I don't know who I was. The person I was felt she had to do something great.” She spat out the last word. “Something spectacular. For Zemui. For me. They promised me that you and our family would not be harmed. As soon as the hijack was over, I realized how stupid it was. Nothing about it was great. I was a great fool, that's all.”

She drank her tea. She stood up. “Forgive me, if you can. You deserved better.”

“Shut up and sit down,” I said. She obeyed. “You think that does it? You say sorry and then leave?”

She shook her head.

“You had a baby?” I said. “A field baby.”

“The contraceptives they gave us didn't work.”

“Why did you go to jail?”

“Must I tell you everything?”

She began coughing again. When the spasm was over, she shivered, although the room was warm and I was sweating.

“What happened to your baby?”

Her face crumpled. Her lips stretched out. Her shoulders shook. “They took my baby away from me. Gave him away for adoption. I curse the man who put me in that position. Curse that man.” She looked up. “I was a good mother, Marion—”

“A good mother!” I laughed. “If you were a good mother you might be carrying my child.”

She smiled through her tears as if I were being funny—as if shed just remembered my fantasy of our getting married and populating Missing with our children. Then she began to shake, and at first I thought she was crying or laughing, but I heard her teeth chatter. I had rehearsed my lines in my head as I walked out of Asmara, walked all the way to the Sudan; Id rehearsed them so many times since. I imagined every excuse she might offer if I ever met her. I had my barbs ready. But this quaking, silent adversary was not what Id envisioned. I reached over and felt her pulse. One hundred forty beats per minute. Her skin, cool just a while ago, was burning to the touch.

“I … must … go,” she said, rising but swaying.

“No, you will stay.”

She was clearly unwell. I gave her three aspirin. I led her into the master bath and ran the shower. When it was steaming, I helped her undress. If earlier I had seen her as an animal in the predator's lair, now I felt like a father disrobing his child. Once she was in the shower, I tossed her underwear and shirt into the washer and ran the load. I helped her out of the shower. She was on glass legs. I dried her off and sat her on the edge of the bed. I put a pair of my winter flannels on her and tucked her in. I made her eat a few spoons of casserole and drink more tea. I put Vicks on her throat and on her chest and the soles of her feet, just as Hema would do with us. She was asleep before I slid the woolen socks over her toes.

What was I feeling? This was a Pyrrhic victory. A pyrexic victory— the thermometer I slid under her armpit read one hundred three degrees. While she slept, I moved her wet clothes to the dryer and stuck her jeans in the washer. I put away the casserole. Then I sat in the library by myself, trying to read. Perhaps I dozed. Hours later, I heard the sound of a toilet being flushed. She was on the bed, covers thrown to the side, pajamas and socks off, wrapped in a towel and wiping her brow with a washcloth. Her fever had broken. She moved over to make room for me.

“Do you want me to leave now?” she said.

In that question, I felt that she was taking control because there was only one possible answer: “You're sleeping here.”

“I'm burning up,” she said.

I changed into my boxers and T-shirt in the bathroom, took a blanket from the wardrobe, and headed for the library.

“Stay with me?” she said. “Please?”

I had no reply planned for that.

I climbed into my bed. When I reached for the light, she said, “Please leave it on.”

No sooner had I lain down than she pressed against me, smelling of my deodorant, my shampoo, and Vicks. She raised my arm and huddled in the crook of my shoulder, her damp body against me. Her fingers touched my face, very gingerly, as if she worried that I might bite. I remembered that night so many years ago when I had found her naked in the pantry.

“What's that sound?” she said, startled.

“It's the dryer alarm. I washed your clothes.”

I heard her sniffle. Then sob. “You deserved better,” she said, looking up.

“Yes, I did.”

I stared at her eyes, remembering the little fleck in the right iris, and the puff of gray around it, where a spark had penetrated. Yes, it was still there, darker now, looking like a blemish she was born with. I traced her lips. Her nose. She shut her lids at my touch. Tears were sliding underneath them. She smiled a smile from our days of innocence. I took my hand away. She opened her lids, her eyes glistening. Hesitantly she kissed my lips.

No, I hadn't forgotten. At that moment, my anger wasn't so much with her as it was with the passage of time. Time had robbed me of such wonderful illusions, taken them away far too soon. But right then I wanted the illusion that she was mine.

She kissed me again, and I tasted the salt of her tears. Was she feeling sorry for me? I couldn't take that, ever. Suddenly I was on top of her, tearing away the sheet, tearing away her towel, clumsy but determined. She was startled, the muscles of her neck taut like cables. I grabbed her head and kissed her.

“Wait,” she whispered, “shouldn't you … ?”

But I was already inside her.

She winced.

“Shouldn't I what, Genet?” I said as I bucked, my pelvis possessing some intrinsic knowledge of the movements needed. “This is my first time …,” I managed to say. “I wouldn't know what I should or shouldn't do.”

Her pupils dilated. Was she pleased to learn this about me?

Now she knew.

Now she knew that there were people in this world who kept their promises. Ghosh, whose deathbed she never had the time to visit, was one such person. I wanted the knowledge to shame her, to terrify her. When it was over, I stayed on top of her.