Read Online May We Be Forgiven by A. M. Homes - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: A. M. Homes
Ads: Link
are your comments based on? Hearsay?” I ask.
“The New York Post ,” she says.
“And that’s the new paper of record?”
“Fuck you,” she says. “Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you.” And she smashes her phone into the wall. “You hear that, that’s the sound of me smashing my BlackBerry into a wall. Fucking asshole.”
“I’ve got you on speakerphone,” I say, even though I don’t. “We’re all here at the hospital, the kids, Jane’s parents, the doctor. I’m sorry you’re so upset.” I’m lying. I’m alone in what used to be a phone booth that’s now been stripped of its equipment; it’s a denuded glass booth—powerless.
“FUCK YOU!”
T he day of limbo. There is the oddity of knowing tomorrow Jane will be dead. When the phone in the house rings, Jane’s voice answers: “Hi, we can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number we’ll call you back. If you’re trying to reach George at the office, the number is 212 …”
She is here, still in the house; I run into her coming around the corner, unloading the dishwasher, running the vacuum, folding laundry. She was just here—wait, she’ll be back in a minute.
The next day, at the hospital, Jane’s mother collapses at her bedside and everything is delayed until she is revived. “Can you imagine having to make a decision like this about your child?” she asks as they take her down the hall in a wheelchair.
“I can’t imagine, which is why I don’t have children. Correction, I can imagine, which is why I don’t have children.” I say this thinking I am talking to myself, silently in my head, not realizing that in fact I’m talking to everyone.
“We thought you couldn’t have children,” Jane’s sister says.
“We didn’t even try,” I say, even though that’s not exactly the truth.
The family takes turns saying goodbye to Jane privately. I am the last. On her forehead there is a mark from her mother’s lipstick, like the blood-and-earth dot of a Hindu. I kiss her; Jane’s skin is warm but uninhabited.
Ashley walks with the stretcher down the hall. As they wait for the elevator, she whispers something in her mother’s ear.
We stay, even though there is nothing to stay for. We sit in the ICU Family Waiting Room. Through the glass I see a housekeeper stripping the bed, washing the floor, preparing for the next patient.
“Let’s go to the cafeteria,” I say.
In the hallways, people hurry past. They carry Igloo coolers marked “Human Tissue” or “Organ for Transplant—Human Eye.” They come and they go. Through the large glass window of the cafeteria, I see a helicopter flying in, landing in the parking lot, and then taking off again.
Her heart has left the building.
On one end it’s like time has stopped, and on the other, time is of the essence, people are gearing up. Where do you go when it is over, when it is done? With every hour, with every part taken, she is a little further gone. There is no going back. It’s over. Really.
“It’s good she can help others, she’d like that,” her mother says.
“Her heart and lungs shouldn’t go to waste,” her father says. “Her eyes were good, so beautiful, maybe someone can use them; maybe someone can have a good life even if hers turned to shit.”
“Don’t talk like that in front of the children,” her mother says.
“I’m hardly talking at all. If anyone wanted to hear what I’d really like to say, I could give them an earful.”
“I’m listening,” I say.
“I’m not talking to you. You are a shmuck, as much responsible for this as your son-of-a-bitch brother. Slime balls.”
And he’s right—it’s unfathomable that this is how it ends.
T he sister’s husband is going to pick out a coffin. He wants me to ask Nate if Nate wants to come along, to help make the arrangements. I ask, but he doesn’t hear me, he’s got his headphones on. I tap his shoulder. “Do you want to be part of the arrangements?”
He
“The New York Post ,” she says.
“And that’s the new paper of record?”
“Fuck you,” she says. “Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you.” And she smashes her phone into the wall. “You hear that, that’s the sound of me smashing my BlackBerry into a wall. Fucking asshole.”
“I’ve got you on speakerphone,” I say, even though I don’t. “We’re all here at the hospital, the kids, Jane’s parents, the doctor. I’m sorry you’re so upset.” I’m lying. I’m alone in what used to be a phone booth that’s now been stripped of its equipment; it’s a denuded glass booth—powerless.
“FUCK YOU!”
T he day of limbo. There is the oddity of knowing tomorrow Jane will be dead. When the phone in the house rings, Jane’s voice answers: “Hi, we can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number we’ll call you back. If you’re trying to reach George at the office, the number is 212 …”
She is here, still in the house; I run into her coming around the corner, unloading the dishwasher, running the vacuum, folding laundry. She was just here—wait, she’ll be back in a minute.
The next day, at the hospital, Jane’s mother collapses at her bedside and everything is delayed until she is revived. “Can you imagine having to make a decision like this about your child?” she asks as they take her down the hall in a wheelchair.
“I can’t imagine, which is why I don’t have children. Correction, I can imagine, which is why I don’t have children.” I say this thinking I am talking to myself, silently in my head, not realizing that in fact I’m talking to everyone.
“We thought you couldn’t have children,” Jane’s sister says.
“We didn’t even try,” I say, even though that’s not exactly the truth.
The family takes turns saying goodbye to Jane privately. I am the last. On her forehead there is a mark from her mother’s lipstick, like the blood-and-earth dot of a Hindu. I kiss her; Jane’s skin is warm but uninhabited.
Ashley walks with the stretcher down the hall. As they wait for the elevator, she whispers something in her mother’s ear.
We stay, even though there is nothing to stay for. We sit in the ICU Family Waiting Room. Through the glass I see a housekeeper stripping the bed, washing the floor, preparing for the next patient.
“Let’s go to the cafeteria,” I say.
In the hallways, people hurry past. They carry Igloo coolers marked “Human Tissue” or “Organ for Transplant—Human Eye.” They come and they go. Through the large glass window of the cafeteria, I see a helicopter flying in, landing in the parking lot, and then taking off again.
Her heart has left the building.
On one end it’s like time has stopped, and on the other, time is of the essence, people are gearing up. Where do you go when it is over, when it is done? With every hour, with every part taken, she is a little further gone. There is no going back. It’s over. Really.
“It’s good she can help others, she’d like that,” her mother says.
“Her heart and lungs shouldn’t go to waste,” her father says. “Her eyes were good, so beautiful, maybe someone can use them; maybe someone can have a good life even if hers turned to shit.”
“Don’t talk like that in front of the children,” her mother says.
“I’m hardly talking at all. If anyone wanted to hear what I’d really like to say, I could give them an earful.”
“I’m listening,” I say.
“I’m not talking to you. You are a shmuck, as much responsible for this as your son-of-a-bitch brother. Slime balls.”
And he’s right—it’s unfathomable that this is how it ends.
T he sister’s husband is going to pick out a coffin. He wants me to ask Nate if Nate wants to come along, to help make the arrangements. I ask, but he doesn’t hear me, he’s got his headphones on. I tap his shoulder. “Do you want to be part of the arrangements?”
He
Similar Books
