The Divide

Another fragment of memory flashed past He said, “You saved my life.”

“No,” she said hurriedly. “No, not really.”

“You did,” he affirmed.

He sat up cross-legged across the bed and regarded her seriously. “Did you talk to Dr. Kyriakides?”

She nodded.

“Then you know what I am. I’m not Benjamin. But I’m not John, either. They’re gone. Both gone.”

“You’ve changed,” she said. “Well, I’ve changed too. That’s not so strange.”

“You loved John,” he said.

Susan blushed, opened her mouth and then closed it.

“Yes,” she said finally. “I loved him, and it’s hard saying it that way—as if he’s dead. But I don’t think that’s really true. I think there was something in him he never talked about or acknowledged—maybe it was in Benjamin, too—something that doesn’t go away because it’s too basic, it’s built into every cell. I know that’s not scientific but I believe it.”

He regarded her with open, surprised interest.

“I’m talking too much. But I want you to know why I came. I didn’t come expecting John—not the old John. I came to see you.” She hesitated. “I guess I wanted to say, well, here I am if you need me and I have a car parked outside if you ever need to get away.” Her fists were clenched and she was avoiding his eyes. “I couldn’t not come.” But she looked at him, finally. “I came because if you need to talk to someone you shouldn’t keep silent—because it’ll kill you, doing that.”

She looked at him across the room, her eyes full of doubt—surprised at what she’d said, he guessed; worried at what he might think.

He smiled.

“Those are good reasons,” he said.

They talked, and he discovered that certain memories were not so elusive after all; that the sound of her voice or the choice of a word evoked echoes from his life before the fire. Maybe this was how “normal” memory worked—the past made subtle and mysterious, forgotten moments welling up miraculously whole at the touch of a hand or the turning of a head.

“We used to play chess,” he said. “I remember.”

“That’s right. We can play again, if you like.”

“I’m not sure—I don’t know if I can.”

“It’ll come back to you,” she said. “I can help. We can learn from each other.”

That’s true, he thought, and memory came welling up once again: of her voice, simple words, the shape of her ear in a darkened room—Of course we can learn from each other.

It wouldn’t be the first time.