Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

and talk.” I don't know if she began to feel sorry for me, or sorry for herself, but she started paying me short visits, she wouldn't say anything at first, only tidy up the room, brush cobwebs from the corners, vacuum the carpet, straighten the picture frames, and then one day, as she dusted the bedside table, she said, “I can forgive you for leaving, but not for coming back,” she walked out and closed the door behind her, I didn't see her again for three days, and then it was as if nothing had been said, she replaced a light bulb that had worked fine, she picked things up and put them down, she said, “I'm not going to share this grief with you,” she closed the door behind her, was I the prisoner or the guard? Her visits became longer, we never had conversations, and she didn't like to look at me, but something was happening, we were getting closer, or farther apart, I took a chance, I asked if she would pose for me, like when we first met, she opened her mouth and nothing came out, she touched my left hand, which I hadn't realized was in a fist, was that how she said yes, or was that how she touched me? I went to the art supply store to buy some clay, I couldn't keep my hands to myself, the pastels in long boxes, the palette knives, the handmade papers hanging on rolls, I tested every sample, I wrote my name in blue pen and in green oil stick, in orange crayon and in charcoal, it felt like I was signing the contract of my life. I was there for more than an hour, although I bought only a simple block of clay, when I came home she was waiting for me in the guest room, she was in a robe, standing beside the bed, “Did you make any sculptures while you were away?” I wrote that I had tried but couldn't, “Not even one?” I showed her my right hand, “Did you think about sculptures? Did you make them in your head?” I showed her my left hand, she took off her robe and went onto the sofa, I couldn't look at her, I took the clay from the bag and set it up on the card table, “Did you ever make a sculpture of me in your head?” I wrote, “How do you want to pose?” She said the whole point was that I should choose, I asked if the carpeting was new, she said, “Look at me,” I tried but I couldn't, she said, “Look at me or leave me. But don't stay and look at anything else.” I asked her to lie on her back, but that wasn't right, I asked her to sit, it wasn't right, cross your arms, turn your head away from me, nothing was right, she said, “Show me how,” I went over to her, I undid her hair, I pressed down on her shoulders, I wanted to touch her across all of those distances, she said, “I haven't been touched since you left. Not in that way.” I pulled back my hand, she took it into hers and pressed it against her shoulder, I didn't know what to say, she asked, “Have you?” What's the point of a lie that doesn't protect anything? I showed her my left hand. “Who touched you?” My daybook was filled, so I wrote on the wall, “I wanted so much to have a life.” “Who?” I couldn't believe the honesty as it traveled down my arm and came out my pen, “I paid for it.” She didn't lose her pose, “Were they pretty?” “That wasn't the point.” “But were they?” “Some of them.” “So you just gave them money and that was it?” “I liked to talk to them. I talked about you.” “Is that supposed to make me feel good?” I looked at the clay. “Did you tell them that I was pregnant when you left?” I showed her my left hand. “Did you tell them about Anna?” I showed her my left hand. “Did you care for any of them?” I looked at the clay, she said, “I love that you are telling me the truth,” and she took my hand from her shoulder and pressed it between her legs, she didn't turn her head to the side, she didn't close her eyes, she stared at our hands between her legs, I felt like I was killing something, she undid my belt and unzipped my pants, she reached her hand under my underpants, “I'm nervous,” I said, by smiling, “It's OK,” she said, “I'm sorry,” I said, by smiling, “It's OK,” she said, she closed the door behind her, then opened it and asked, “Did you ever make a sculpture of me in your head?” ... There won't be enough pages in this book for me to tell you what I need to tell you, I could write smaller, I could slice the pages down their edges to make two pages, I could write over my own writing, but then what? Every afternoon someone