The Measure(45)

Ben laughed, but just then Hank arrived, carrying three golf clubs instead.

“Oh, I’ve never golfed before,” Maura said warily.

“Me neither,” said Ben.

“Well, I used to save lives for a living,” said Hank, “so I think I should be capable of teaching you both how to swing a club.”

“Okay, Doc,” Maura conceded. “But I’ve gotta say, I hadn’t pegged you for having such a bougie hobby.”

“I know it feels very prim and proper.” Hank smiled. “But it’s actually a pretty good release. I used to come here after rough days in the ER. And then, this is actually where I came after opening my box.”

For a second Ben wondered if Hank would tell Maura the truth about his string. But Hank led them to the elevator without adding a word.



The driving range floated atop the Hudson River, surrounded by netting to stop stray balls from splashing into the water. Ben, Hank, and Maura took the elevator three stories up to the highest floor, and when Ben stepped out onto the elevated platform, cantilevered above the fairway, the first thing he saw was the vibrant layers of color blanketing the sky. Hank was right about the sunset, the clouds gradually blending from indigo to peach to the brightest shades of orange.

Hank gave them both a quick tutorial, then they each approached their own tee.

Maura proved surprisingly adept, hitting the ball straight down the middle of the range.

“Maybe my mom had an affair with Tiger Woods,” she mused.

Ben’s first swing was an awkward miss, and when he finally made contact with the ball, it shot out sideways and into the netting.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” said Hank. “Just think of it as therapy, not golf.”

Maura began hitting ball after ball, her cathartic monologue playing like a track overlaid atop the whoosh of each swing and the crack of the club against plastic.

“This ball is for the fact that I never used to get jealous of anyone. Ever,” she said. “And now I’m jealous of every fucking person that walks down the street.”

Crack.

“And this ball is for the fact that I can’t even get angry about it, because being angry all the time will only ruin whatever’s left of my life.”

Crack.

“And that makes me really fucking angry!”

Crack.

Ben was still struggling to connect his mind with his movements.

Hank suddenly appeared at Ben’s side and put his arm on his shoulder. “This isn’t the Masters, Ben. Who cares where the ball goes? This is about you, and whatever you’re feeling now, and channeling that through your arm and down into the ball and out of your body.”

“You sound like Sean now,” Maura teased.

“Got it?” Hank asked Ben.

“I think so.”

Hank took a few steps backward, leaving Ben alone on the platform.

Ben readjusted his grip on the club, his back slightly hunched, and he realized that the last time he had posed in this very position was on his second date with Claire, playing mini-golf on Governors Island, inadvertently crashing a nine-year-old’s birthday. On the ferry ride back to Manhattan, Claire’s wind-whipped hair kept sticking to her lip balm, and Ben kissed her for the first time during the brief interval when her lips were free.

But that was a long time ago. Before she spoiled everything.

Ben could still hear Maura whacking her golf balls, but his mind was elsewhere now.

It was sitting at the kitchen table. Around seven p.m. A month after the boxes arrived.

You didn’t need to die and be reborn in order to shift from one life to the next, Ben thought. That night in the kitchen was the moment that his very existence seemed to splinter, his old life ending and his new one beginning.



It happened while they were eating takeout, which now struck Ben as a ridiculous detail. But the memory always began with Claire fidgeting in her seat as Ben unpacked the chopsticks.

She let him start eating. Why did she let him start eating? Why didn’t she just come out and say it?

Claire pushed a dumpling back and forth on her plate.

“How was work today?” Ben asked.

“I have something I need to say, but I don’t know how to say it.” Claire’s face was serious, worrying.

“Okay.” Ben wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and straightened his back, bracing.

“I don’t think we should stay together.”

Her words landed in the space between them, splayed across the kitchen table, and Ben let them settle for a moment, deciding how to react.

“Are you sure?” he asked. He immediately regretted it, what a stupid thing to say. He wished he could take it back.

But then Claire’s lips started to quiver, and soon she was crying, and Ben could feel his face burning up.

“What happened?” Ben managed to ask.

His mind flashed through all of their biggest fights from the past year and a half, culminating with the prior week’s argument, when they had listened to the president declare that the strings were real, and Claire insisted they look in their boxes together. Ben told her that he wasn’t ready.

“I opened my box,” Claire said, her face wet with tears.

The sentence was a bullet to his gut. She had opened her box. Without him.

Ben saw her tears and assumed that she was crying for herself. That she had seen her own short string.