The Signature of All Things

palms of their hands: her one experience with the mystical and the ineffable. She still didn’t know what that had been, really. She still wasn’t entirely certain she hadn’t imagined it all, in a fit of love and desire. Alternatively, she sometimes wondered if Ambrose truly had been a magical being—perhaps some evolutionary mutation in his own right, simply born under the wrong circumstances, or at the wrong moment in history. Perhaps there would never be another one like him. Perhaps he had been a failed experiment himself.
    Whatever he had been, though, it had not ended well.
    “I must say, Mr. Wallace,” she replied, “you are most kind to invite me to a séance, but I think I shall not do that. I have had a small bit of experience with silent communication, and I know that just because people can hear each other across the divide does not mean they can necessarily understand each other.”
    He laughed. “Well, if you should ever change your mind, please do send word.”
    “You may be sure I shall. But it is far more likely, Mr. Wallace, that you will be sending word to me , after I am dead, during one of your spiritualist meetings! You should not have to wait long for such a chance, for soon I will be gone.”
    “You will never be gone. The spirit merely lives inside the body, Miss Whittaker. Death only separates that duality.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Wallace. You say the kindest things. But you needn’t comfort me. I am too old to fear the great changes of life.”
    “Do you know, Miss Whittaker—here I am, expounding upon all my theories, but I have not paused to ask you, a wise woman, what you believe.”
    “What I believe is not, perhaps, as exciting as what you believe.”
    “Nonetheless, I would like to hear it.”
    Alma sighed. This was quite a question. What did she believe?
    “I believe that we are all transient,” she began. She thought for a while and added, “I believe that we are half-blind and full of errors. I believe that we understand very little, and what we do understand is mostly wrong. I believe that life cannot be survived— that is evident!—but if one is lucky, life can be endured for quite a long while. If one is both lucky and stubborn, life can sometimes even be enjoyed.”
    “Do you believe in an afterworld?” Wallace asked.
    She patted his hand once again. “Oh, Mr. Wallace, I do so try not to say things that make people feel upset.”
    He laughed again. “I am not as delicate as you may think, Miss Whittaker. You may tell me what you believe.”
    “Well, if you must know, I believe that most people are quite fragile. I believe that it must have been a dreadful blow to man’s opinion of himself when Galileo announced that we do not reside at the center of the universe—just as it was a blow to the world when Darwin announced that we were not specially crafted by God in one miraculous moment. I believe these things are difficult for most people to hear. I believe it makes people feel insignificant. Saying that, I do wonder, Mr. Wallace, if your longing for the spirit world and an afterworld is not just a symptom of a continued human quest to feel . . . significant? Forgive me, I do not mean to insult you. The man whom I dearly loved had this same need as you, this same quest—to commune with some mysterious divinity, to transcend his body and this world, and to remain significant in a better realm. I found him to be a lonely person, Mr. Wallace. Beautiful, but lonely. I do not know if you are lonely, but it makes me wonder.”
    He did not answer that.
    After a moment, he merely asked, “And don’t you have that need, Miss Whittaker? To feel significant?”
    “I will tell you something, Mr. Wallace. I think I have been the most fortunate woman who ever lived. My heart has been broken, certainly, and most of my wishes did not come true. I have disappointed myself in my own behavior, and others have disappointed me. I have outlived nearly everyoneI ever loved. Remaining alive to me in this world is but one sister, whom I have not seen for more than thirty years—and with whom I was not intimate, for most of my life. I have not had an illustrious career. I had one original idea in my life—and it happened to be an important idea, one that might have given me a chance to be known—but I hesitated to put it forth, and thus I missed my opportunity. I have no husband. I have no heirs. I once had a fortune, but I gave it away. My eyes are deserting me, and