Weight loss, considerable. Skin: pallor, clammy.

  You have been feeling faint, feverish. Light-headed. Prone to sudden headaches, eye aches. Flashes like heat lightning may indicate a lesion in a brain artery. Your inner ear throbs. Your inner ear is crazed with itching. You are tempted to thrust a sharp wire into your ear canal—anything to stop the itching. Are you burning up alive? Is grief a firestorm, burning you up alive?

  Dr. W___ listens to your lungs with a stethoscope. Chest, back. Dr. W___ instructs you to cough.

  Dr. W___ listens to your heart. (Heartbeat accelerated!)

  Circles your ankles with his (gloved) forefinger and thumb to determine if ankles are swollen.

  An EKG is administered by a cardiac technician. (Chilly) electrodes affixed to your chest, throat, abdomen.

  Then, an echocardiogram. (Chilly) electrodes affixed to your chest, throat, abdomen. To more precisely record the murmuration of the heart and to detect the (possible) presence of a blood clot.

  Lie down, lie very still. Breathe don’t breathe.

  Forty-seven exacting minutes and for part of this time you can listen to the eerie swishing of the heart and if you wish (you do not wish) you can stare at a screen to see the wraith-like swishing of the heart.

  A leaky valve, no doubt. A broken heart.

  Lying very still breathing and not-breathing, breathing and not-breathing, for there is a space between breathing and not-breathing, a caesura. Lie still, alert and alive. The first duty of the Good Widow is to keep herself alive.

  Begin to hear beneath and beyond the swishing of your heart a deeper, more labored, more painful swishing. Begin to hear hoarse labored breathing.

  A familiar breathing. Terrifying, that breathing.

  You hear, and you tell yourself—No. It is not.

  For you’d held him as he’d died. As he’d lapsed into not-breathing, and died. You’d held him, you’d died with him, yet you have continued to live, your life is a curse like a blinding light glaring without end, eyes without eyelids condemned to blindsight.

  Willing to concede by this time, weeks after your husband’s death, and weeks after the incineration of his remains at the Chapel of Chimes Crematory, that Gerard is no longer living. You do not—yet—say to yourself My husband has died. You do not say My husband is dead. But you are able to say My husband is no longer living.

  Still the breathing is getting louder. At first it seems to be coming from beneath the examination table but now it appears to be coming from another direction. From a vent in the wall? From the echocardiogram monitor? From a ligature in the air?

  A chuffing sound, thick, dense. A struggle of air, a strangle of air, terrible to hear. As if what is breathing is breathing against volition, wish. As if very breathing is itself a torment. As if breath is a torture like nails being pounded into flesh. As if what is breathed in is something other than mere air.

  Poor Gerard!—having to breathe a kind of viscous substance, a liquidy gas, putrescent-green, through his nostrils, lungs.

  Gerard is struggling, suffering. You cannot bear his suffering.

  It is not our own suffering but the suffering of others that destroys us. Not our own deaths we dread but the deaths of others whom we do not wish to outlive.

  “No. Stop.”

  You sit up, suddenly. In the midst of the test you can no longer bear being touched. You can no longer bear listening to your heartbeat and to the struggling breath that now pervades the room.

  Push away the instrument in the startled nurse’s hand. Tear at electrodes with your nails, flinging them from you.

  You are crying soundlessly. Your face has crumpled like a papier-mâché mask.

  Whatever words the nurse is speaking to soothe you, ignore.

  Dr. W___ has been summoned but by the time Dr. W___ enters the room you have thrown on your clothes haphazardly, you have kicked the paper gown aside, you are prepared to leave.

  Exit—you think. Exit, exist.

  Not quick enough to escape. In Dr. W___’s office panting, sweating though the air feels refrigerated.

  As in the hospital morgue where your husband was taken. Where his remains were kept until delivered to the Chapel of Chimes Funeral Home and Crematory.

  Dr. W___ is Asian, of that mysterious age between twenty-nine and forty-nine. His skin is unlined, his eyes are very dark. With his expression of compassionate incomprehension he smiles at you as you struggle to explain to him why you are desperate to leave before the echocardiogram is concluded.

  “I—I don’t think—that I should be here,” you stammer foolishly. “I think—I should be somewhere else . . .”

  “Yes? This is—where?”

  “With my husband Gerard.”

  “And your husband is—?”

  “My husband is not in Santa Tierra.”

  “Then he is—where?”

  “He might be in Santa Tierra but I don’t know where.”

  Dr. W___ regards you with searching eyes. Like one trying to decipher a foreign language.

  “He wants me with him. I—I am going to him soon.”

  “But can that not wait, Mrs. McManus, until after the test?”

  This is so reasonable a query, in a voice so softened with concern for you, you can only repeat, in a whisper: “But I want to be with him, too. I—I should be there, now.”

  Sick with guilt. Shame.

  The first duty of the widow is to join her husband.

  We are on earth to assuage each other’s loneliness.

  Nowhere so lonely as Death.

  Feel your head lighten like a balloon filled with helium. You are feeling giddy suddenly. Soon, this ordeal will be over!

  “Mrs. McManus, do you have family? Of your own? A parent or parents you might contact?”

  Family. Parents. Your brain is struck blank.

  On the farther side of the abyss, your loving parents, not yet elderly, though on the brink of elderly, whom you cannot contact as one bearing contagion cannot contact the living.

  “N-No. I don’t think so. I mean—I’m not close to them. I don’t want to worry them. I can’t put the burden of—what has happened—my grief—onto them . . .”

  “Friends, then? Back home?”

  You shake your head. Friends. Back home.

  The farther side of the abyss, of no more meaning to you than strangers would be.

  “I belong here. There’s nothing for me there. I am only just waiting to see where—exactly—I am expected to go.”

  Whatever the significance of these words, that seem to you a calm statement of fact, frowning Dr. W___ feels compelled to make a decision for you: arranging for you to be admitted to the ER in the hospital adjoining this building.

  “You will be transported there by wheelchair, Mrs. McManus. You’re in an excitable state, your safety is at risk.”

  Coldly you regard Dr. W___. Gerard would be impressed by your calm, your hauteur, as you decline to be admitted to the ER.

  Very firmly you decline, you do not give your consent, never will you consent to be admitted to this or any other hospital, you will sign no papers and if anyone tries to restrain you, you will sue.

  You will walk out of this hateful place now. They can’t keep you.

  It is against the law to restrain an individual against her rights! You know your rights as a citizen.

  Dr. W___ tries to “reason” with you. But you have lost interest in Dr. W___.

  Indeed you are able to stand. Though you are shaky on your feet you are able to walk, your legs move with the ease of a puppet’s legs swinging free of gravity. You are fully in control of the coordination of your limbs! Hold yourself straight and tall recalling how in Gerard’s New Mexico guidebook the hiker is advised to make himself as straight, tall, large, impressive as possible if confronted by a mountain lion, and to make aggressive noises, to frighten the animal away.

  Under no circumstances run from a mountain lion—it is advised.

  You and Gerard thought this was funny. Very funny. You laughed together, delighted.

  Under no circumstances. Run.

  Make your way out of Dr. W___’s office without running.

  You cannot recall having seen this labyrinth of (windowless, fluorescent-lit) corridors before. Yet, you seem to know that there will be an elevator ahead . . . If you keep in motion, if you ignore the calls in your wake—Mrs. McManus?—Michaela?—you will step outside into the sunlight within a minute or two.

  Walk, run in the sunlight. Run, run! Never look back.

  In the parking lot no idea where you have parked the car or even if you have a car or, having a (rental) car, which car it is but hoping that, wishing to believe that if you see the car, if your hungry eyes move onto the car, you will remember.

  Michaela, this is too hard on you! Come to me now.

  There is a place for you, darling. With me.

  51

  “Take Me Home”

  Here is the key, Michaela. Bring the car around, I will meet you at the front of the hospital.

  Gerard has been fumbling at a pocket, seeking the ignition key. Fumbling to find a pocket in the hospital gown but there is no pocket, there is no key, except indeed Gerard has found a key which he presses into your hand, and you take it from him sobbing with relief that your lives have been so profoundly altered, in just this instant.

  Not a key which you recognize but you clutch it in your fingers as if clutching life itself and next thing you know you are outside in thin, cooling air, it is dusk, headlights are coming on, you find yourself climbing the concrete steps of the parking garage adjacent to the Cancer Center panting with excitement and with hope, Gerard’s words ringing in your ears—Bring the car around!

  Many times in recent months you have found yourself in parking lots searching for a car but this is the first time, you believe, that you have the ignition key in your fingers, thus proof (you think) that indeed there is a car; though you are uncertain which car is yours and Gerard’s among rows of vehicles that seem to stretch out of sight . . .

  If you see the vehicle, you will recognize it. If you press the remote control, lights will be activated.

  Shrewdly you think: a Massachusetts license plate will be easy to identify amid New Mexico plates.

  But then you realize: the car Gerard has rented has New Mexico plates. Not Massachusetts.

  Search for the car, short of breath, anxious. It is crucial to keep in motion so that the vise around your chest can’t tighten and begin to suffocate you.

  But it makes you very anxious, that Gerard is waiting for you. By now he is waiting impatiently for you, you must not let him down.

  All love is betrayal under extreme conditions. For love is not strong enough to endure extreme conditions.

  But then, to your astonishment and relief, you have found the car—the lights have come on, the car has leapt into life.

  Drive the car out of the garage. Careful, for the lane is narrow. There are posts oddly positioned. To your chagrin despite your caution you have scraped the passenger’s side of the car against a post for you can’t see through the side mirror very clearly.

  Tell yourself—The mirror is the past. The past is lost.

  Tell yourself—You can’t go there! You have no way there.

  Somehow you manage to descend the many levels of the parking garage, you manage to exit the parking garage, you are forced to turn right, to be routed around the block, and these are lengthy blocks; several frustrating minutes are required for you to approach the front of the hospital where Gerard has been waiting for you, and then you see that Gerard isn’t there, you see a succession of strangers pushing through the slow-turning automated doors, blurred faces of strangers, but not Gerard; you are filled with anxiety, you have no idea what to do, your husband is not here . . .

  Then, there is a sharp rap on the windshield.

  You turn, and now you see Gerard standing close beside the car, on the driver’s side. But this is not the Gerard you expect to see.

  Your husband’s hair that is usually so carefully brushed is disheveled, patches of scalp are exposed. He is in a stained hospital gown that falls scarcely to his knees, and he is barefoot. His cheeks are gaunt, he has lost weight. His eyes are bloodshot glaring at you. It is terrible to see how angry your husband is with you, how disappointed. For you have taken a very long time to bring the car around to the front of the hospital, it seems.

  To your dismay you see that Gerard is pulling a gurney bearing IV lines, Dilaudid dripping into one bruised arm, a saline solution into the other bruised arm. But he begins pounding the car windshield with a fist, furious.

  Let me in! Let me in! Take me home!

  52

  The Lonely

  So lonely. Lonely to be touched.

  Lonely to be held, protected. Named.

  So lonely have made an appointment with Death.

  MY GUESS IS, IT CRAWLED into your ear when you were sleeping.

  Fever, inflammation, itching—has to be a bacterial infection.

  This advanced, close to the brain, danger is encephalitis.

  Why’d you wait so long to get medical help?

  Where’ve you been all these weeks?

  53

  Revelation in the Form of a Dove

  On the eve of your final class meeting in Albuquerque.

  Out of nowhere the news comes before you can protect yourself.

  In the form of a white-feathered bird plummeting from the sky, striking your face before you can protect yourself—Letitia Tanik has died.

  You are stricken with remorse. You are stricken with guilt.

  Wanting to know more but there is no one to ask.

  Letitia Tanik has died.

  But how, why? You have no idea.

  The news has come to you terse and enigmatic as a riddle. You understand that you are expected to guess this riddle but you are unable to comprehend it, you are sickened with guilt, the nausea of guilt, now it is not just Gerard whom you have failed but the young woman as well, whom by now you have nearly forgotten.

  Waking from sleep coughing, choking. Face wet with tears.

  Recalling how Letitia hugged you in your car, pressed her warm face against your neck. Thank you, Professor! No one has touched you so intimately and with such feeling in a long time.

  Lying in bed dazed with remorse. For certainly—it is possible that Letitia has died. Very possible, that Letitia has committed suicide.

  You hadn’t known how to talk to her, you’d lacked the skill. Hadn’t known how to persuade the distraught young woman to save herself.

  Since the day you’d taken her to the Urgent Care facility you’d never heard from her again. She’d never returned to class. She’d never replied to your emails. You’d decided not to report the incident for you’d promised Letitia that you would not.

  And so now in bed trying to summon the strength to get up which is always the greatest effort of the day as if Sisyphus were hauling up the hill not a boulder but his very self.

  Forgive me, Letitia! I have failed you, too.

  54

  “Thank You for Changing My Life”

  Driving to Albuquerque for your final class meeting.

  At last!—the end of the term. After which you will be free to leave New Mexico forever.

  After which you will be released from New Mexico forever.

  And so you take care to drive in the right lane of I-25. Exactly at the speed limit.

  For the (ghostly) tugging on the steering wheel continues. A gravitational pull to the left.

  Michaela, this is too hard on you! Come to me now.

  There is a place for you, darling. With me.

  Torment yourself on the drive from Santa Tierra to Albuquerque thinking of the ways in which you might have plausibly helped Letitia Tanik. Except you’d failed out of ignorance, cowardice. For shyness is a form of cowardice. Not wishing to intrude.

  Not wishing to incur the young woman’s anger.

  Not wishing to acknowledge that there are some things we cannot do as there are some people we cannot help.

  Your head ringing with the accusation—Letitia Tanik has died.

  The ontological mystery of Death: that the dead vanish and never reappear except in dreams. They are gone from us, and we cannot see them, speak with them, touch them, breathe for them. No matter how we yearn for them.

  Maneuver your vehicle along I-25, staring straight ahead. Though your eyes well with tears, and the steering wheel continues to tug to the left, stare straight ahead.

  “PROFESSOR!”—A FAMILIAR VOICE, as you are about to enter the stucco classroom building for the final time.

  A girl is approaching you on the walkway, smiling hesitantly. You can’t see her eyes—oversized sunglasses with very dark lenses, and white plastic frames, obscure half her face. She is wearing a long-sleeved shirt of some thin, gauzy apricot-colored material, a shadowy bra beneath, white cord shorts that fit her sizable thighs snugly, open-toed sandals. Glittering loop earrings swing from her earlobes, her mouth is bright red and glossy as a face on a poster. Her nails, like her toenails, are polished bright red. Her hair is dark brown, shiny-dark-brown, cut very short, punk-style, shaved at the nape of the neck.

  YOU STARE UNCOMPREHENDING. Then you see—Letitia Tanik!

  Not dead as you’d dreamt her only the night before but vivid in life, standing before you like a chastened child.

  You are suffused with surprise, relief.

  “Letitia! It’s—you . . . .”

  Letitia laughs, embarrassed. Clearly she is pleased, perhaps flattered, that you remember her name, and (judging by the look on your face) you are deeply moved to see her.

  “Professor, I hoped I’d catch you before the workshop. First time I’ve been back on campus in a while but—I wanted to see you . . .”

  In a cascade of words that sound rehearsed, yet sincere, Letitia apologizes for having stopped coming to the workshop, and not answering your emails. She insists that the workshop was very important to her. You are very important to her.