May We Be Forgiven

of the attic stairs, whining. Madeline and Cy are standing there in their nightclothes, looking upward. “Shall we call in the cavalry?” Cy asks.

    I s this what I’ve been waiting for?

    T he book is done. Cooked. There is no more need for perfection, it has simply ended—or, more specifically, electronically imploded.
    It’s not as though the version on the computer was my only copy: there are others, various versions, iterations, three on flash drives, including one buried in the backyard in a time capsule—a fireproof box that I bought at the hardware store—and another e-mailed to the desk of Franklin Furness.
    At another point in time, I would have been hysterical at having lost the changes since my last backup, or perhaps paralyzed, stunned dumb by the blinking eye of the black screen. Curiously, I feel relieved. It is as though something I carried with me for so long has vaporized, a great cloud lifting. I don’t have to do anything—beyond accepting that it is over. Finis. I am free. And I am oddly exhilarated.
    And then it occurs to me—was the book the foul thing that Londisizwe said I was holding on to, the thing I’d been keeping close like a companion? Is this what lived inside and needed to come out? Is this it?

    J ust before the children are due to return from camp, a letter is forwarded from the hospital where Jane died, with a Post-it attached. “This arrived a couple of weeks ago, sorry to be delayed in sending it, I was on vacation. Do not feel pressured to engage if the enclosed is not of interest to you. But if you want to respond—I am happy to act on your behalf as a confidential courier. Hope you’re having a good summer. Best.” And it is signed by the doctor who was in charge of Jane’s case.
    Hello, My name is Avery and I am writing to thank you for the gift of life. I live in Ohio and was on the wait list for a heart and lungs for a long time before I received your donation. At the time, I didn’t know if I would stay alive long enough to even have this chance to write to you. Through your tragic loss, I received an incredible gift, a second chance at life, and want to thank you and your family. I hope that you find comfort in knowing what the heart and lungs of your loved one have provided for me—since the transplant I have gained great strength and can now breathe well enough to walk and to climb a flight of stairs. I was able to return to school and finish my undergraduate degree—it is my hope to continue my education and become a social worker or perhaps a poet. And the big news, I am engaged to be married. For years I have been in love with a wonderful man, but I did not feel able to accept his proposal until I knew there was a chance we might be able to build a long life together. And more recently I have been able to travel, we went to California. It was amazing. Anyway, part of my reason for writing is to say that if you are open to the idea I would very much like to meet you and thank you in person. I know that this is a difficult thing—but it is my hope that seeing the opportunity and joy you have given me will give you some comfort in dealing with the loss of your loved one. I look forward to hearing from you.
Avery

    I read the letter and I can’t help but cry. I cry for Avery, for Jane, for Ashley and Nate and Ricardo. I cry for everyone. And then I stop. I stop because Cy and Madeline are waiting for me to take them somewhere, Tessie wants her lunch, and the children will be home from camp in a few days and there are things to do. I put the letter away.

    T he children return, stronger and more confident than before. Ricardo arrives wearing medals for swimming, archery, boating. He is golden brown, slimmer, taller, with a golf swing and a tennis serve, and he is on no medications, instead a regimen of activity plus amino acids and some kind of fish-oil swirl that he says tastes like melted ice cream—I try it and almost vomit. Ashley has breasts that I swear weren’t there four weeks ago. She’s a funny mix, part girl, part woman, and painfully self-conscious. And on Nate’s upper lip there’s an unmistakable dark fuzz, and depth to his voice. They are filled with stories of friendships, adventures, and secret languages, the high of the South Africa trip extended through their time at camp, and I see not only growth but a new kind of thinking—things are possible.
    Ricardo presents me with a wallet he made for me, pieces of leather