I’m always eager to spot the rest of them, too, the ones who made it back from Trinity. Grim-faced Avery, who’s too wise for what she’s going through, aloof Shelby, and gloomy, grieving Clay. Although, from what I gather, Clay’s grief has far more to do with his little sister not getting her transplant in time than anything that I did.
Today, unfortunately, I didn’t get to see any of them. Football was on and most of the guys were sprawled on the floor watching the game. They cheered with gusto; the Raiders were pummeling the Broncos, and that being a good thing was one of the few agreements I’ve seen within these walls. It still made me a little sad, though, to hear their shouts and see their pumped fists. To know those moments of vicarious victory might be the sole sparks of joy in all their week.
It was around the end of the fourth quarter that someone came and told me I had a visitor. That was weird because it wasn’t visiting hours, but they said it was a doctor who’d come to see me, and that confused me even more. Was it about my shoulder? I left the common area and walked back to the deserted cellblock, which is where I sleep, only to find the door to my room wide open.
I stepped inside and saw that the doctor waiting for me was a woman, one with long dark hair that fell all the way down her back. It took a moment to register that I was looking at Lucy. Mr. Howe’s Lucy. And then I froze, right in my tracks, because she was the last person I expected to see. In fact, I stayed like that for a while because not only was Lucy sitting on my bed, awaiting my return, but she was reading this notebook. She had it open on her lap, seemingly engrossed, as she slowly turned the pages.
I watched but said nothing. She kept reading, and eventually I sat in my desk chair and picked up a book I’d borrowed from the library so that I could pretend I was reading, too. But I grew restless the more time passed, the more pages she turned. Finally, I just held the book in my hands and spun the chair I was in, propelling myself around and around, as the mottled mix of shadow and light fell through the window to stripe my arms, my legs.
Lucy read for a long time. I waited, as the day stretched toward evening, transforming the light and shadows in the way all endings do—moving up the wall and beyond my reach. Moving on without me. Rose once said I heard the world in a minor key, and it’s in these moments before the darkness, when my despair is at its greatest, that I can see that she was right; I am sentimental. Maybe a little bitter, too, because in finding my conviction, I’ve also found myself alone.
I flipped on the overhead light, so Lucy could continue to see. She nodded her thanks, but she was crying by that point. She was reading about the death of her husband, after all. And while she must’ve known the details of how he’d died and the hero he’d been, she was reading for the first time about those pieces of him I’d found on the mountain—those small ways he’d loved her and yearned to keep her close. I guess what I didn’t expect was how much she’d cry when she’d finished reading what I’d written. And Lucy’s tears, it seemed, weren’t only for Rose or her husband or even for herself, because she threw her arms around me and held me to her.
“Oh, Ben, Ben,” she wept. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Sorry for what? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. Her tears were soaking through my jumpsuit, and it felt good to be held, to be what she needed. I didn’t want to do anything to change that.
After a few minutes, Lucy sat back, wiped her tears, and pulled herself together. She told me she was there in an official capacity; it turns out she’s a consultant for the county and after the medical doctor reported I was depressed, she got permission to come and see me. I felt bad about that, her worrying about my well-being, but Lucy wanted to know if I was getting the care I needed. I told her I was, and then she asked if she might come back another time, to talk to me more and to read what I’d written again. She also said it might be a good idea for other people to read my notebook, although I don’t know who would want to do that or to what end.
Still, I nodded yes to everything she said—not because I want people to read my words but because I want Lucy to have a reason to come back. I know I’m not enough of a reason on my own, so I’ll do whatever she asks. I’ll do anything. And maybe that sounds weak or whatever, in light of all that’s happened, but the way I’m trapped now is different from before. I’m no longer ice drawn to flame; I’m captured beneath glass, far more sculptured than alive, and there’s nothing about my current situation that’s going to change—no matter how much I believe in myself. No matter what choices I make.
But necessity is the mother of invention, as they say, and maybe I’ll find that hope is, too. So I guess what I really want is for Lucy to feel good about me. That means a lot somehow.
In a way, it sort of means everything.