“Never.” His hope was as tangible as a piece of string between them. “I never hurt them. I promise you on my life.”
He sounded so persuasive, so sincere, that Claire might have believed him. But she had seen the uncut movies—the raw footage before Paul changed the sound and edited down the scenes and filtered the skin tones and distorted the voices and slyly altered blemishes so that the true identity of the masked man would remain unknown.
Claire knew what her husband looked like when he neatly laid out his tools for a project. She knew the roll of his hand when he jerked himself off. She knew the three tiny moles under his left shoulder blade that she could feel when she lightly stroked his back with her fingers.
Which is why she knew without a doubt that the masked man was Paul.
Claire told him, “Send the pictures. I’ll let you know what we’re going to do when I’m ready.”
“Claire—”
She slammed down the phone.
VI
I am sorry my handwriting is so difficult to read, sweetheart. I’ve had a very minor stroke. I am okay now, so please don’t worry. It happened shortly after I finished my last letter. I went to sleep scheming my great plans and woke the next day to find that I could not get out of bed. I will admit only to you that I was frightened (though I am really okay now). I experienced a momentary blindness in my right eye. My arm and leg refused to move. Finally, after a great deal of struggling, I managed to rise. When I called your mother to wish her happy birthday, my speech was so unintelligible that she immediately called an ambulance.
The doctor, who assured your mother that he was, in fact, old enough to shave, said that I had experienced a TIA, which of course further infuriated your mother (she has always been hostile to abbreviation). She coaxed him into speaking English, which is how we found out that a TIA, or mini-stroke, stands for transient ischemic attacks.
Attacks as in plural, your mother clarified with the poor man, which explained some of the weakness and dizziness I’ve been experiencing for the last week.
Or month, between you and me, because now that I think back on my last visits with Ben Carver, I recall some odd exchanges that indicate there were times when my speech must have been unintelligible with him, too.
So perhaps we have our answer as to why Ben Carver stopped my visits and wrote that inscription in the Dr. Seuss book. His mother suffered a massive stroke a few years ago. He must have been attuned to the signs.
There is kindness in so many unexpected places.
Can I tell you that I am the happiest I have been in a good, long while? That your sisters rushed to my side, that my family surrounded me, enveloped me, and that I was finally reminded of the life we all shared before we lost you? It was the first time in almost six years that we all gathered in a room and did not hurt for the lack of you.
Not that we have forgotten you, sweetheart. We will never, ever forget you.
Of course, your mother has used the TIA as an excuse to berate me for my continued tilting at windmills (her words). Though stress is a contributing factor to stroke, and though I have always had high blood pressure, I believe the fault rests firmly on my own shoulders for not getting enough sleep and exercise. I have been skipping my morning walks. I have been lying awake too late at night, unable to turn off my brain. As I have always told you girls, sleep and exercise are the two most important components to a healthy life. Shame on me for not taking my own good advice.
I suppose you could call it a silver lining that your mother has been by the apartment every day since I got out of the hospital. She brings me food and helps me bathe. (I don’t really need help bathing, but who am I to stop a beautiful woman from washing me?) Every day, she says all of the things that she has been saying to me for almost six years: You are a fool. You are going to kill yourself. You have to give this up. You are the love of my life and I cannot watch you draw out your suicide any longer.