did that too, he rolled onto his back and cursed, sure he’d be awake all night now.
The grief counselor he’d seen after the accident had told him it was normal to feel like you were betraying your spouse. “When you start a new relationship,” she said, “any kind of new relationship, even if it isn’t romantic, you can feel you are leaving behind the old one, and this can seem like a betrayal.”
He’d been so positive this wouldn’t apply in his case because he’d never have another relationship. How could he, when his own lifehad ended the same day he’d lost his wife and daughter? He was a walking ghost now, and ghosts don’t get involved with human beings. They might drive cabs, and drive them safely, but they don’t practice medicine because that too involves relationships. It was something Stephen had always believed: that being a doctor, unless you’re an asshole like Phillips, requires a heart.
The irony of this day, Stephen thought, the irony of meeting Dorothea, was that she had single-handedly reminded him of both his life as a doctor and his life as a human. And by bringing her back here, to his apartment, he’d only made the situation a thousand times worse.
He’d been awake for more than an hour, but now that he’d decided that, he felt himself getting sleepy. As he drifted off, he wondered if she liked pancakes.
five
H E WOKE TO the sound of her singing. She had a sweet, clear voice and his first reaction was to close his eyes and let himself doze off for a few more minutes. But then he remembered. He jumped up and rushed down the hall.
“Are you all right?” he said, knocking on the door.
“Yes, I’m fine.” She opened the door, and he saw it was true. She wasn’t flushed and gasping for breath. “Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry if I woke you.”
When he asked how long she’d been up, she said since the sun rose. It was after ten-thirty now; incredibly, he’d slept almost eight hours. She was already fully dressed in one of her outfits from Wal-Mart: a khaki skirt and button-down blue blouse. Her hair was already knotted on top of her head—trapped, he thought, and then wondered why that word occurred to him to describe a hairstyle.
He asked her if she was hungry and she said a little. Then he thought of something. “Do you like pancakes?”
She smiled. “Yes. Actually, they’re my favorite.”
A half hour later, she was seated on a bar stool in his kitchen, watching his pathetic attempt to make blueberry pancakes. Maybe he was nervous, or maybe he was just out of practice, but everything seemed to go wrong. First the butter burned in the pan, then he didn’t drain the blueberries enough and the batter turned blue, then he knocked a plate off the counter with his elbow and it cracked in half and, finally, he had such a hell of a time getting the syrup open that he broke the cap. He didn’t realize how much he was cussing until later, after they’d eaten and after he’d showered, when he walked into his bedroom to get another shirt and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at herself in the mirror, repeatedly saying the word “shit.”
Every time she said it, though, she cringed. When he asked what she was up to, she told him she’d counted the number of times he’d used the word while making breakfast. Seven. “When you say it, it seems very natural,” she said. “I don’t understand why I can’t do the same.”
“It’s not exactly a necessary skill.” He opened the closet to replace the shirt he’d taken into the bathroom. He’d been in a hurry, and the first one turned out to be missing several buttons.
“True,” she said, “but I hoped it would help me express myself to Dr. Phillips.”
He let out a laugh, but then he told her it was unlikely Phillips would be there today.
She waited for a moment before admitting that she was nervous about going back to the hospital. “I have my poem in my shoe,” she said. Her saddle
The grief counselor he’d seen after the accident had told him it was normal to feel like you were betraying your spouse. “When you start a new relationship,” she said, “any kind of new relationship, even if it isn’t romantic, you can feel you are leaving behind the old one, and this can seem like a betrayal.”
He’d been so positive this wouldn’t apply in his case because he’d never have another relationship. How could he, when his own lifehad ended the same day he’d lost his wife and daughter? He was a walking ghost now, and ghosts don’t get involved with human beings. They might drive cabs, and drive them safely, but they don’t practice medicine because that too involves relationships. It was something Stephen had always believed: that being a doctor, unless you’re an asshole like Phillips, requires a heart.
The irony of this day, Stephen thought, the irony of meeting Dorothea, was that she had single-handedly reminded him of both his life as a doctor and his life as a human. And by bringing her back here, to his apartment, he’d only made the situation a thousand times worse.
He’d been awake for more than an hour, but now that he’d decided that, he felt himself getting sleepy. As he drifted off, he wondered if she liked pancakes.
five
H E WOKE TO the sound of her singing. She had a sweet, clear voice and his first reaction was to close his eyes and let himself doze off for a few more minutes. But then he remembered. He jumped up and rushed down the hall.
“Are you all right?” he said, knocking on the door.
“Yes, I’m fine.” She opened the door, and he saw it was true. She wasn’t flushed and gasping for breath. “Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry if I woke you.”
When he asked how long she’d been up, she said since the sun rose. It was after ten-thirty now; incredibly, he’d slept almost eight hours. She was already fully dressed in one of her outfits from Wal-Mart: a khaki skirt and button-down blue blouse. Her hair was already knotted on top of her head—trapped, he thought, and then wondered why that word occurred to him to describe a hairstyle.
He asked her if she was hungry and she said a little. Then he thought of something. “Do you like pancakes?”
She smiled. “Yes. Actually, they’re my favorite.”
A half hour later, she was seated on a bar stool in his kitchen, watching his pathetic attempt to make blueberry pancakes. Maybe he was nervous, or maybe he was just out of practice, but everything seemed to go wrong. First the butter burned in the pan, then he didn’t drain the blueberries enough and the batter turned blue, then he knocked a plate off the counter with his elbow and it cracked in half and, finally, he had such a hell of a time getting the syrup open that he broke the cap. He didn’t realize how much he was cussing until later, after they’d eaten and after he’d showered, when he walked into his bedroom to get another shirt and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at herself in the mirror, repeatedly saying the word “shit.”
Every time she said it, though, she cringed. When he asked what she was up to, she told him she’d counted the number of times he’d used the word while making breakfast. Seven. “When you say it, it seems very natural,” she said. “I don’t understand why I can’t do the same.”
“It’s not exactly a necessary skill.” He opened the closet to replace the shirt he’d taken into the bathroom. He’d been in a hurry, and the first one turned out to be missing several buttons.
“True,” she said, “but I hoped it would help me express myself to Dr. Phillips.”
He let out a laugh, but then he told her it was unlikely Phillips would be there today.
She waited for a moment before admitting that she was nervous about going back to the hospital. “I have my poem in my shoe,” she said. Her saddle
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