CHAPTER 44

The next day, Sean got a letter from Yasmin Chaudhry, the doctor he’d worked with in Kenya. She’d been happy to hear from him, having wondered why a letter she’d sent to the hospital in the Democratic Republic of Congo had elicited no response.

I can only imagine how dislocated you must feel! For people like you and me, our own birthplaces have become the “foreign” countries. Your description of the shop windows had me shaking my head in wonder. A whole display of fancy women’s purses—how exotic! At the moment, I’d give anything to see a full display of canned goods and unused ­syringes.

As you can see from the postmark, I’m in Haiti now. The world seems mostly to have forgotten about the devastation here. Ah, well. The news cycle lasts only so long. And there’s no real news—things haven’t changed all that dramatically. Still so many homeless and ill.

If, as you say, you are looking for your next “adventure,” I could certainly use your help. It would be delightful to work with you again, a trusted comrade, a dear friend.

The letter went on to describe her clinic near Port au Prince. Yasmin was in charge, and he could imagine her competent, no-­nonsense approach, a very satisfying person to work for. But he had to secure short-term employment before focusing on the future. He walked his sub nurse application and license copy over to the middle school, leaving Kevin and George throwing a stick in the backyard. He didn’t want Kevin to know, in case it didn’t work out. He submitted the paperwork to the secretary and asked when they would start interviewing.

“As soon as they feel they have a qualified candidate,” she said.

Well, they’ve got one now, he thought, and hoped they might call by the end of the day. He was anxious to check this off his list.

* * *

After dinner, Kevin said, “I guess I’ll see him. My grandfather.”

“What made you change your mind?” asked Sean.

“Well, it was really fun hanging out with Rebecca last night. I figured maybe it wouldn’t be so bad meeting another new person. But you’ll be with me, right?”

“I won’t even leave to go to the bathroom. I’ll just hold it the whole time.”

Kevin crossed his eyes and made a pained face.

“That’s just how I’ll look,” said Sean. “By the way, I’m going over to Rebecca’s tonight. I might be home late.” Like in the morning. “You all right with that?”

“Oh. Sure. But why doesn’t she just come over here again?”

“Hey—are you trying to steal my girl?”

Kevin giggled. “She did kinda like me. Maybe even better than you!”

* * *

Sean was still smiling about that as he drove to Rebecca’s. Getting bird-dogged by an eleven-year-old. He told her about it when he got there. She smiled, but he could see it wasn’t a real one. “What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “It just sounds funny—referring to me as ‘your girl.’ ”

A prickle of anxiety ran up his neck. “It’s just an expression.”

“I know.” She unplugged a huge brown ceramic lamp and brought it down to the garage.

* * *

Later, after he’d finished brushing his teeth and checking to make sure he still smelled reasonably good, he came into her room to find her sitting up in the twin bed reading a book.

Should he have brought a book? Is this what couples did after they’d been together a little while—read before sex? If he had known, he would have brought The Last Battle. He was almost finished. Now he felt like a kid at a masquerade party who’d forgotten to wear a costume.

She looked up and there was something there, an uncertainty of some kind. Could she possibly be unsure of how absolutely giddy he was to sleep with her? Maybe she was worried that after a week of pouncing on each other every chance they got, he was losing interest. She had no cause for concern. None whatsoever. But was he supposed to come out and say it?

And what was with the book?

She slid over to the wall, as far as she could go in the narrow twin bed. He hesitated. “Are you sleepy?” he asked, wanting to give her a gentle excuse if she wasn’t interested in sex. Because if there was some other reason, he didn’t want to know it.

“No,” she said. “Are you coming?”

He climbed in beside her, every cell rising up to heave itself in her direction. She allowed his arms around her—how else would they fit? And then her hand began its customary migration across the landscape of his chest, and at last he took a normal breath.

Their lovemaking felt self-conscious and frenetic. Rebecca gasped once, then again, and he was relieved that she was climaxing. But it didn’t quite sound the same. In fact, it didn’t sound the least bit happy or ecstatic. In another moment he realized she was crying.

He quickly pulled back. “Oh, my God,” he said. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” In the dark he could hear that the pain she was feeling was worse than physical.

“Tell me . . .” he said, though part of him absolutely did not want to know—would have paid good money to avoid hearing whatever it was she might say.

“I thought I could do this,” she whispered, “but I can’t. I feel like I’m falling into a hole I might never climb out of.” She rolled away from him and off the bed, grabbing up a blanket that had fallen on the floor to wrap around herself.

He sat up in bed. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. It’s fine. You’re just you. It’s not like you ever tried to hide it.”

“Hide what?”

“That you like me, but not enough.”

“Enough for what? To want to be with you every second of the day? Because I do.”

“Enough to do more than hang out and have sex, Sean. Enough to stay.”

Which of course silenced him. He thought of Cormac talking about Barb’s desire for a child with his genes and asking, What’s the comeback for that? Absolutely nothing.

“This isn’t healthy for me, Sean. I thought it was—like it might be some kind of closure for how in love with you I was in high school. But it’s not. I’m thinking crazy thoughts, like, ‘Maybe if I were more like Chrissy . . .’ Or ‘Maybe if my face—’ ”

“No!” he said, standing up and coming toward her. “That’s not—”

But she backed away from him. “I know. But don’t you see why that makes it worse? I know it’s crazy, but I’m thinking it anyway.”

He stood there stunned. Because he did see why that made it worse. And he couldn’t believe he could cause someone that kind of pain. He wasn’t used to . . . affecting people like this.

“I’m sorry.” He meant it so sincerely, but knowing, too, how meager a response it was.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish I were so much . . . cooler than this.”

“Rebecca, you’re perfect. I’m the—”

“Oh, my God, please don’t do the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ line. We both know it’s you. But it’s also me for knowing you so well and wanting you anyway. So let’s just not say it.”

They stared at each other in the dimness, and he could see the reflection of light from a streetlamp on her dampened face. He knew that if he offered the only kind of comfort that he had ever been good at—physical comfort, palliative care—she was likely to reject it. But he did it anyway, because how much worse could it get than this?

He put his arms around her and was surprised when she didn’t pull away. He held her as close as he dared and said, “You are everything that’s good.”

“Please shut up,” she whispered. And he knew that at least it was better than the other thing she could have said, which was But still not good enough.