14

The coin in the palm of the dead hand is a disc the color of the earth, if the earth were melted down and poured out and splattered into drops. It has almost no weight as the hand closes around it and the coin reappears at the fingertips and fits into the slot.

Impersonating the dead is easy; it seems that the entire purpose of a life is to rise to the point when it is necessary to do so: to speak in the voice which cannot speak.

“Mother.”

“Mead!”

“I’m all right.”

She can’t speak for a moment, making the sounds of a woman sitting down, drawing herself in, trying to clarify what is happening. “Where are you?”

“Don’t worry. I’m all right.”

And for the first time, the hand does not raise the receiver at this point and end the conversation. The hand stays, telling the voice to continue, that there is discourse here which must take place.

“We’ve been so worried,” she says. “Please tell us where you are.”

“Don’t worry—”

“Please, Mead. Please—for God’s sake, tell us where you are.”

If a person could walk on water, this is how it would be. Setting forth, one foot after another, across a surface which is all reflection, and which the foot presses down with each step. The surface works and shifts, expecting the body to plunge. The body does not. What is happening is not like anything that really happens. This is not a time for things to be what they really are. The walk continues, farther out, where the lights of the buildings are reflected, and where the water begins to be deep.

The dead voice says, “I’m in a safe place.”