entryway, and despite the grayness outside, the light had a raw brightness that Kate had to turn away from. Charles was wet, and the stringy flatness of his hair made him appear desperate. He held a small bunch of drenched tulips out to her, and she managed to carry them back to the couch. Looking at the flowersâtheir dramatic mess of colorâexhausted her. âI got caught in this,â he said. Water dripped off his coat and onto her wood floor. âIâm sorry,â he said. Then he explained himself: âI just wanted to visit. As a friend.â
âIâm tired, Charles,â she said. âI wonât be able to say much.â As usual he was nervous, and for the first time Kate was irritated by his fear rather than touched by it. She knew that he was merely afraid to be in the presence of a dying person. He seemed so reduced: every inch the furniture salesman. She should have offered him tea or coffee, but she could not imagine how she would get up from the couch again. She was in her robe, for Godâs sake. âYour eye,â he said. âIs it OK?â Sheâd forgotten about her patch until then, and now felt humiliated. She didnât want him there. She didnât want him to see her dying. He had been right: They didnât know each other well enough.
âNo,â she said. âItâs not OK.â
âYou look good.â
She almost laughed, but stopped herself when she realized how horrific laughter would sound coming from her. For a time they were silent until Kate finally said, âIâm tired.â
He nodded. âI hope ⦠I hope I wasnât unkind. I hope I didnât mistreat you. I hope â¦â
Kate understood now why he had come. She shook her head, and because he looked so achingly vulnerable, so convinced of his guilt, and because he was so extremely kind that he believed he was in the wrong when he wasnât, she said, âOf course not.â And though she was too exhausted to summon the requisite tone of penitence and regret, though she wasnât sure it was entirely true, she remembered her daughterâs recent courage and summoned her own. âI suppose I used you ⦠a little. I didnât want to end up alone. I didnât want to end upââshe paused and let her head sink into her pillowââlike this.â She smiled. âItâs not as bad as it looks. Itâs not as bad as I thought it would be. I have my daughter.â And now that she had said it, she thought it was true.
His shoulders lifted as if a chain had just come off him. How easily people might push him around. How easily she might have delivered a blow to him right now, had she wanted to. âIt was just using me?â he asked.
âNot just. It was more than that, too.â The truth of these words was in the sudden enthusiasm and fullness of her voice, and his smile and the lift in his face told her that he had heard it. For a moment, she wondered if he deserved to be this happy given what would soon happen to her. But the moment passed.
âIâd rather you not come back,â she said. âIâm going to get worse, and Iâd rather you remember me as the woman you took to bed and not the woman with an eye patch.â
âSure,â he said. She wished heâd struggled more before saying that.
âIâm tired,â she said again. But she wasnât prepared for how quickly he kissed her forehead and then turned around and left.
Her heartbreak continued. When she was especially lonely, in the long hours of daylight, she thought again of his lanky nakedness, his surprising competence at killing, his melancholic voice on her answeringmachine asking to speak to her. How odd to be heartbroken at this time in her life. How odd to be left with desire. It was a relief and a luxury to know that she did not want the actual man. Not now. She liked him best in her thoughts. He was