Free Unsaid: A Novel by Neil Abramson Page B

mother left, that little girl hugged her dog as if she knew it would be for the last time.
    When I called a few hours later, Samantha answered the phone. I told her, “The angels came and took Brutus to heaven.”
    There was a pause of a few seconds. When Samantha spoke, there was a tremor in her voice. “You think he’s running again?” she asked.
    “Yes,” I said, holding back my own tears. “Like a puppy.”
    Samantha began to cry. “Then that’s good. That’s real good.”
    After that day, whenever I picked up the file for a terminal case, I prayed for better angels, for the truth, wisdom, and mercy that Samantha had found in opening the gates of heaven for Brutus. I guess during those last days with me in the hospital, David’s fear of being alone again forced him to pray for something else entirely.
    Four hours. Two hundred and forty minutes. Fourteen thousand four hundred seconds. I waited for David as long as I could. I suppose perhaps I still am.
    In our bedroom now, David drops the photo on the bed and reaches for the phone. I assume that, like me, he’s looking for contact, for sound, anything to stop the white noise that rings in his ears. He dials a number he now knows by heart. It rings a few times before Liza’s sleepy voice comes on the line.
    “David?” Liza yawns into the phone. “You okay? Never mind, don’t answer that.”
    “I’m really sorry to be calling so late.”
    “Don’t even. What’s keeping you up?”
    “I never told her it was okay, you know? I never said good-bye.”
    Liza takes her time before answering. “I know, honey.”
    “Maybe I should’ve listened to you.”
    “I said it for you, not for Helena.”
    “Still…”
    “Have you slept at all tonight?”
    “It’s too quiet.”
    “I’ll get someone to phone in a scrip for something in the morning to help you sleep.”
    “Thanks, but I don’t think I really want to sleep.”
    “Bad dreams?”
    “No. It’s just that every time I wake up, it starts all over again… the newness of her being gone… Does that make any sense?”
    “I think so. But if you don’t start sleeping, you’ll start circling the drain. Trust me. There’s a reason why sleep deprivation is a method of torture.”
    “I’ll let you know. What I really want—” David stops himself.
    “What?”
    “I just want to be able to cry until there’s nothing left—until I can’t feel a damn thing anymore. It’s like if I could stick my finger down my throat and make myself vomit, it would all come out and I wouldn’t be sick anymore. But I can’t get there. I haven’t cried since the funeral, but I feel everything. I know it sounds stupid.”
    “Not stupid. It just sounds like you’re wound pretty tight right now. I think if you can just get some sleep—”
    “—I heard you the first time, dear.”
    Liza knows that it’s time to get off the subject. “How’s the housekeeper search going? Did you find someone?”
    David laughs. “You don’t want to know.”
    “C’mon. Tell me.”
    “I wouldn’t trust any of them to wash Collette’s fruit, let alone take care of Skippy.”
    “Skippy can take care of himself. It’s you I worry about, doll. You’re going to need to choose someone.”
    “This I know.” David hesitates. “When do you think…” His voice trails off.
    “When do I think what?”
    “Nothing. I should let you get back to sleep.”
    “You want to know when I think it gets to be okay?”
    “Smart girl.”
    “Do you want me to answer you as your friend or as a shrink?”
    “Which answer will I like better?”
    “I’ll give you both and you can decide.”
    “Good. I like the illusion of having a choice.”
    “As a shrink I’d tell you that it takes time to heal, and that over time you’ll be able to learn to objectify the loss you’ve experienced. Objectification is the first step; it will provide the context that will allow you to deal with the loss.”
    “I hope your answer as a friend is more