What do you think he meant by that?”
It was a counselor’s question, no doubt. One designed to probe the inner workings of a patient’s broken and confused mind in order to get to the truth within. But Elizabeth wasn’t the one who asked it.
I did.
Despite the ease by which she drew me out from behind the false safety of my own self (and despite the pitter-patter she made me feel in places no woman had since Caroline), Elizabeth had until that point been no different than anyone else in my life. I had given to her as I had given to everyone, just more. That remained the extent of things. I saw no risk in the giving of myself to others, whether that giving took the shape of time or attention. But I never took. It was only in the act of taking that we were bonded to another. Whatever we took we then had a responsibility to carry, however burdensome it might be. My question to Elizabeth was not merely an invitation for her opinion, it was a request for her wisdom. To take from it. The meaning behind those eight words was lost on neither of us.
“I don’t know, Andy,” she said. “That seems like a strange thing to say. Having what you need and needing what you have seems like two ways of saying one thought. Did you ask him later on what he meant by that?”
“I tried. He’d never say. But I think he was talking about now.”
“You mean your accident?”
I was afraid to say more.
“Do you think that’s two ways of saying one thought?” I asked her.
“Do you?”
“I did. Not sure now.”
I rubbed my eyes and offered a sigh that was heavier than I’d intended. The only clock in the room was behind me, which seemed to be the worst place in the world for it. Then I realized that time had little relevance for the sick and the dying. I knew it was late. Maybe in more ways than one.
“Are you tired?” Elizabeth asked.
“More weary, but I’m fine. I like the company.”
“Me, too.”
Elizabeth’s hands wandered to the box itself rather than the contents. She ran her fingers along its edges, pondering what it all meant. How could she know? Her with all the training and experience. How could she make sense of my life?
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know what all that stuff means. It’s not like that box holds my life. I’ve had bigger moments that taught me more important things, at least by my reckoning. But those things in there, those were the times he said mattered. And I don’t know why.”
“We’ll get there,” she said. “You and I. Together.”
Elizabeth took her hands from the box and wrapped them around mine.
“He told me God sent you,” I said.
“What?”
“The Old Man. He said I should let you help me because God sent you to me. Do you believe that?”
“Do you?”
“I don’t want to answer that, Elizabeth,” I said. “I want you to.”
Whether it was the weariness or the lights or neither, I could have sworn a tear was in her eye. “Yes, Andy. I believe that.”
Outside, the nurses caught their second wind as the end of their shift drew closer. There was laughter and the smell of more coffee being made. But for a long time the only noise in my room was the beeping of my heart monitor. Those small valleys of quiet that had been peppered into our conversations were no longer evidence of the space between us. They had now instead blossomed into dialogues of another sort, the unspeakable words of two hearts that longed to say more but knew the time was not yet right. Elizabeth and I held one another in a gaze that was more knowing than longing, tethered to one another by the small grins on our faces.
“We should continue,” Elizabeth finally said.
I nodded only because I had no choice. I’d have swum naked in that silence forever.
She rifled through the contents again, picking her prize. “Okay,” she said. “I’ve been saving this one. I love it.”
The baseball cap she held up had never been shaped or worn. Even the price tag dangled from the bill, obscuring a bit of her face. The white overlapping NY seemed perfect in the sea of the navy blue everywhere else.
“Are you a Yankee fan?” I asked.
“I’m a baseball fan,” she answered.
“Well, that hat doesn’t really have anything to do with baseball.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No. But I have to say it’s a bit comical.”
Elizabeth smiled.