“You know about gravity, right? The larger something is, the more mass it has, the more gravitational pull it
exerts1? It pulls smaller things to it, and they orbit around and around?”
“Yes....”
“My mother dying...it’s the pivotal thing...everything else goes around and around it...I dream about it, and I also—time travel to it. Over and over. If you could be there, and could
hover2 over the scene of the accident, and you could see every detail of it, all the people, cars, trees, snowdrifts—if you had enough time to really look at everything, you would see me. I am in cars, behind bushes, on the bridge, in a tree. I have seen it from every angle, I am even a participant in the aftermath: I called the airport from a nearby gas station to page my father with the message to come immediately to the hospital. I sat in the hospital waiting room and watched my father walk through on his way to find me. He looks gray and
ravaged3. I walked along the shoulder of the road, waiting for my young self to appear, and I put a blanket around my thin child’s shoulders. I looked into my small uncomprehending face, and I thought...I thought....”I am weeping now. Clare wraps her arms around me and I cry soundlessly into her mohair-sweatered breasts.
“What? What, Henry?”
“I thought, I should have died, too!”
We hold each other. I gradually get hold of myself. I have made a mess of Clare’s sweater. She goes to the laundry room and comes back wearing one of Alicia’s white polyester
chamber4 music playing shirts. Alicia is only fourteen, but she’s already taller and bigger than Clare. I stare at Clare,
standing5 before me, and I am sorry to be here, sorry to ruin her Christmas.
“I’m sorry, Clare.
