The Queen of Hearts(76)

After the last note from the last song died away and the priest finished, and the rest of my classmates had clambered past me, I finally stood. The sanctuary was empty as at last I walked out.

When I arrived back at the apartment, Emma was gone. I found myself in an unfamiliar situation: a block of time with nothing to do. Feeling hollow, I wandered into Emma’s room, wondering again how much she had known or suspected prior to his suicide. I’d barely seen her: unlike surgery, our ER rotation lacked thirty-or forty-hour periods of enforced wakefulness, but the constant switching between day and night disoriented me. I hadn’t seen Emma for days.

I looked around. Emma was irritatingly organized. Her clothes hung with precision on identical hangers; her bed was crisply made; her makeup was neatly arranged in clear Lucite dividers: an obedient little regiment of lipstick soldiers. I reached for one, an unassuming pink shade, and absently twirled it up and down. An image of Emma and Graham sitting on the bed rose in my mind: Emma, wearing little granny glasses, her long hair caught up in a golden bun, her cheekbones appleing up as she laughed, leaning into Graham. His face had been partly hidden—he was turned to the side and looking down—but even from the partial glimpse of one eye and half of his mouth, it was obvious he was gazing at Emma, looking both fierce and fond, his contentment visible. He was whole and young, his skin warm, his heartbeat thrumming steadily, his eyes quick and aware. The trillions of cells in his body were vibrant, industrious little factories; electrolytes moving, ion channels opening, neurons firing. Alive. There was nothing, no hint, that all of this could just cease to be. One moment someone you know was whole, and the next he could be stilled and buried. The thought of Graham’s beautiful body alone under the ground suddenly doubled me over; despite the deaths I’d seen this year, my thoughts had not extended to what came after.

I tried to catch my breath, but all I could manage was a shuddering gasp; it took a second to realize I was on my knees, tears caught in my throat. I bowed my head and howled.

When my grief storm finally dimmed, I got to my feet, my mind blank. I paced around the generously sized room. My bedroom had an attached bathroom, but Emma had opted for the prettier space; it had high whitewashed wood ceilings and two big dormer windows, and the floor was padded by a lovely old oval braided rag rug. She had a fat red reading chair and a huge painted oak bookcase, which was filled with hardbacks, alphabetized and grouped by category, their dust jackets removed to reveal muted jewel-toned spines. I ran my finger along them: here, the history books, there, the biographies, then the fiction: Sophie’s Choice, The Bonfire of the Vanities, Bridget Jones’s Diary, The Secret History, A Prayer for Owen Meany. Among the many things causing me to envy Emma, her book collection was foremost. She had hundreds of well-loved volumes, most of them hardbacks, which had value not only for the inherent pleasure of reading them, but also for their beauty. More classifications: poetry, beloved children’s books, science texts, and finally a sizable selection of popular psychology and spirituality, a little surprising for Emma. Although she respected my attempts to attend church, she believed the only rational position on religiosity was agnosticism; she also considered clinical psychology to be a load of bunk. Something about this last group of books drew my eye. What was it? I regarded them again and realized one slender volume had broken ranks, sticking out an inch or so from the others. I pulled it free from the shelf.

It was The Screwtape Letters by C. S. Lewis. I’d been a huge fan of the Narnia series as a child but hadn’t read much of Lewis’s overtly religious writing. I knew vaguely of the theme: the demons plotting for the damnation of a human life, hoping to enmesh their victim in his own failings and temptations, the final betrayal. But I had never heard Emma mention it as a favorite.

I opened it, and a folded sheet of paper fell out. It was a poem, to Emma from Graham, dated October 18, the day he had died.

I walked all night through clouds and mist

My blurry tears concealed the stars

and melted the air around me.

I called your name

but there was no answer

My voice echoed through the darkness

reaching every corner of the sky

but you were gone and did not hear me.

I found a painting in shades of blue

My hungry eyes saw your image

walking in the rain

I reached out to pull you through

and hold you in my arms

I grasped and clawed throughout the dampness

searching for your hands

but you were gone and did not feel me.

I had a dream

of dark content

My sleepless soul felt your body

looming over me

I struggled upward

to kiss your face and touch your hair

and hold you close once more

But I awoke and you were gone.

I read the words again. A swirl of new confusion enveloped me; had Emma and Graham broken up before he died? The paper on which the poem was printed held an unexpected heft; I turned it over, figuring something was stuck to the back.

A photograph: taped neatly on all four sides with the picture side facedown. I fingered the tape-blunted edges, burning with curiosity. It appeared Emma had not untaped it to see what it was.

Hesitantly, I picked at one edge of the tape, beginning to elevate the edge of the picture when I heard a rustling noise behind me. Shrieking, I whirled around with my hands up, only to realize the air-conditioning had activated, rustling the crackly dead leaves of Emma’s houseplant. My heart pittering in relief and embarrassment, I retrieved the piece of paper, which had gone flying under a chair as I’d surrendered to the plant. Hastily refolding the paper, I placed it back in the book and fled from the room.