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Authors: Jael McHenry
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back on. But there are just some things you can’t do, after a certain amount of time has passed. Your body doesn’t want you to bleed to death, so it seals things up, and that’s what happened to me. Dad couldn’t do anything about it. In surgery, time is the enemy. If time’s on your side, you can do amazing things. You can shear someone’s finger clear off and then reattach it. If they got to the hospital fast enough, and they brought the finger with them.”
He puts his right hand out and says, “Believe me, I know.”
At the top of David’s right palm, where it meets his fingers, there is a deep bone-white line, pink and slightly shiny on both sides like a raw pork tenderloin. It goes from the pinky to the middle finger, then hooks in the middle of the palm like the letter J.
“These were off,” he says, running his left index finger along the scar, indicating all three fingers.
“How did—”
“I was in a car accident,” he says. “So I don’t know exactly. I wasn’t conscious. There’s a lot of metal in a torn-up car, and it’s sharp.”
“Move your fingers,” I say.
He obeys, tipping each one down in rapid succession from pinky to thumb and back again. They move perfectly.
“So you got fixed.”
“Your dad fixed me,” he says. “I mean, I never even met him,because I was out, and they had some other doctor come and talk to me afterward.”
“Dr. Shaw,” I say. Dad talked about him.
“Yeah. But Dr. Selvaggio, he was the one who put me back together again.” David points toward the hospital, toward the sign. “Right next door.”
“That’s great! Good as new!”
“I was fine,” he says, looking down at the iron railing. “But there were two of us. And she, my wife, Elena, she wasn’t fine.”
“She was injured?”
“She died,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because that’s what you say when people die.
“It’s been about a year now.”
I say, “Someone told me not to let grief drown me.”
“That’s what my mom says too, but I don’t buy it.”
“You think I should let it drown me?”
He says, in his muddy, dark voice, “I think it doesn’t matter whether you let it or not, it will.”
“Are you still drowned?”
“Some days,” he says. “Some days, definitely.”
“She said it would change.”
“Who?”
“The woman who told me not to let grief drown me. Gert. She said it might not get better, but it would change.”
He nods and nods. “Well, all her grief is pretty far back. She’s dealt with it already. My dad’s been dead a long time.”
“What?” Suddenly he’s talking nonsense, and I feel like the ghosts in my life are making more sense than the people, which I think is not a good thing.
David says, “You look really confused.”
“I am really confused, that’s why.”
“It’s been, probably, fifteen years since Dad died? Sixteen? Not that she had an easy life before that, either, but that was the last time she lost someone. So what I’m saying is, it’s not like she doesn’t know what grief is like, because she absolutely does. More than most. I’m just saying, maybe she doesn’t remember just how hard it can be on a daily basis, when everything’s still fresh, not to jump in the river and just check out. Okay, you still don’t look any less confused.”
“You think Gert knew your dad?”
He says, “Yes, Gert knew my dad. Very well. Gert is my mom, you know.”
This sounds ridiculous but, now, obvious. “I didn’t know!”
“Well, no wonder you were confused.” His laugh is short and soft. It’s so different from his muddy voice that at first I don’t realize the noise is coming from him, and it takes me a moment to process. “That’s why I bring the groceries to your house. Because she asked me to. I’m not a real grocery store delivery service. I’m just a guy with a bike. It gets me out of the house, I think that’s why she does it.”
“You’re always the one who brings
He puts his right hand out and says, “Believe me, I know.”
At the top of David’s right palm, where it meets his fingers, there is a deep bone-white line, pink and slightly shiny on both sides like a raw pork tenderloin. It goes from the pinky to the middle finger, then hooks in the middle of the palm like the letter J.
“These were off,” he says, running his left index finger along the scar, indicating all three fingers.
“How did—”
“I was in a car accident,” he says. “So I don’t know exactly. I wasn’t conscious. There’s a lot of metal in a torn-up car, and it’s sharp.”
“Move your fingers,” I say.
He obeys, tipping each one down in rapid succession from pinky to thumb and back again. They move perfectly.
“So you got fixed.”
“Your dad fixed me,” he says. “I mean, I never even met him,because I was out, and they had some other doctor come and talk to me afterward.”
“Dr. Shaw,” I say. Dad talked about him.
“Yeah. But Dr. Selvaggio, he was the one who put me back together again.” David points toward the hospital, toward the sign. “Right next door.”
“That’s great! Good as new!”
“I was fine,” he says, looking down at the iron railing. “But there were two of us. And she, my wife, Elena, she wasn’t fine.”
“She was injured?”
“She died,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because that’s what you say when people die.
“It’s been about a year now.”
I say, “Someone told me not to let grief drown me.”
“That’s what my mom says too, but I don’t buy it.”
“You think I should let it drown me?”
He says, in his muddy, dark voice, “I think it doesn’t matter whether you let it or not, it will.”
“Are you still drowned?”
“Some days,” he says. “Some days, definitely.”
“She said it would change.”
“Who?”
“The woman who told me not to let grief drown me. Gert. She said it might not get better, but it would change.”
He nods and nods. “Well, all her grief is pretty far back. She’s dealt with it already. My dad’s been dead a long time.”
“What?” Suddenly he’s talking nonsense, and I feel like the ghosts in my life are making more sense than the people, which I think is not a good thing.
David says, “You look really confused.”
“I am really confused, that’s why.”
“It’s been, probably, fifteen years since Dad died? Sixteen? Not that she had an easy life before that, either, but that was the last time she lost someone. So what I’m saying is, it’s not like she doesn’t know what grief is like, because she absolutely does. More than most. I’m just saying, maybe she doesn’t remember just how hard it can be on a daily basis, when everything’s still fresh, not to jump in the river and just check out. Okay, you still don’t look any less confused.”
“You think Gert knew your dad?”
He says, “Yes, Gert knew my dad. Very well. Gert is my mom, you know.”
This sounds ridiculous but, now, obvious. “I didn’t know!”
“Well, no wonder you were confused.” His laugh is short and soft. It’s so different from his muddy voice that at first I don’t realize the noise is coming from him, and it takes me a moment to process. “That’s why I bring the groceries to your house. Because she asked me to. I’m not a real grocery store delivery service. I’m just a guy with a bike. It gets me out of the house, I think that’s why she does it.”
“You’re always the one who brings
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