22

Gradually it is different. It is not easy anymore. The body does not transform itself like a tree changing into its autumn colors. It changes, but it is not a sure change.

Faith in the act fails. It does not fail entirely. It returns, finally the inner voice that says anything is possible.

Faith was always like this. Coming at the last moment to keep the walker on water from plunging in.

The phone rings. It rings again. And it seems that an entire life has been spent waiting for someone to answer.

This time she is tired. She sounds as if she has not slept for a long time, only that sleep which stills the body but does not rest it. Faith is dying in her, too, and as it dies it leaves her weak, her voice transparent. She is less of a human, now, and more of a ghost.

“Mother, I don’t want you to worry.”

“I am worried, Mead. I can’t help it.”

“Stop it. I’m all right.”

“Tell me where you are.” Her voice is so tired it’s hard to recognize. And why does she seem wary?

“You should trust me.”

“How can I trust you, Mead? You’ve been gone such a long time. Sometimes—” and here she weeps, but it is not strong weeping—“sometimes I even forget what you look like. It’s like your face changes in my memory and I can’t get it clear in my mind.”

For a long time, there is no answer, and the dead breath and her breath are the only sounds. She is listening to this breath. It says something to her.

“I wish you would tell me where you are,” she says, and this time she’s angry. “It’s not fair for it to be a secret. Nobody wants to hurt you. We only want to know where you are.”

The hand hangs up the phone quickly, then, because there is something wrong.