Free Leaving the World by Douglas Kennedy

overnight bag when the intercom began to buzz.
    David!
    I went running downstairs. But when I yanked open the door, Christy was standing there. From the way she looked at me – a mixture of distress and fear – I could tell immediately that something was terribly wrong.
    ‘Can we go upstairs?’ she asked.
    We climbed the stairs and entered my apartment. I switched off the coffee maker, then turned back to the doorway. Christy was standing there, five fingers wrapped around the door handle, as if she was preparing to make a break for it.
    That’s when I knew. From the moment her frightened face was revealed outside my front door . . . I knew .
    ‘David?’ I asked in a near-whisper.
    She nodded slowly. Then: ‘He was knocked down and killed by a car yesterday.’
    It took a moment or two to register. I found myself gripping the side of the stove. The world grew very quiet, very small. Christy continued talking, but I wasn’t aware of her anymore.
    ‘He was on a bicycle down by a beach near his house in Maine. It was late in the afternoon. A lot of glare and shadows. He was pedaling along this back road, a truck came by, and . . .’
    She paused. Then: ‘They think it was an accident.’
    Now I was very cognizant of her again.
    ‘What did you just say?’
    ‘The driver of the truck—’
    She broke off.
    ‘Tell me,’ I whispered.
    ‘According to Mrs Cathcart, the driver of the truck was on the opposite side of the road from David. He could see him cycling towards him. But then, suddenly, David seemed to swerve right into his path. And . . .’
    I let go of the stove. I sank down into one of the kitchen chairs. I put the palms of my hands against my eyes and pressed hard. But the world wouldn’t black out.
    Christy came over and put her arms around me. But I didn’t want to be consoled. I didn’t want someone to share my loss. In the moments of aftershock that accompanied the news, a little voice in my head cautioned me to be careful how I played all this. Get hysterical and they’ll realize the truth .
    I shrugged Christy off. I said to her: ‘I think I need to be by myself now.’
    ‘That’s the last thing you need,’ she said.
    I stood up and started heading for the bedroom.
    ‘Thank you for coming here and telling me.’
    ‘Jane, you don’t have to pretend.’
    ‘Pretend what ? There’s nothing to pretend here.’
    ‘For fuck’s sake, your lover just died.’
    ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’
    ‘Not if you can’t even bring yourself to—’
    I closed the bedroom door. I sat down on the bed. I half-expected Christy to barge in and confront me with all of my manifold shortcomings – especially the way I couldn’t even talk to her at the worst moment in my life.
    But there was no such dramatic confrontation. Instead I heard the front door open and close and the apartment go silent.
    What happened next surprised me. I felt as if I was operating on some sort of autopilot. I got up. I grabbed the overnight bag and threw some clothes into it. I called a cab. I went to Avis, I picked up the rental car I had reserved. I drove out of Cambridge, headed north to Route 1, branched onto Interstate 95 and sped up to Maine.
    Why was I doing this? I had no idea. All I knew was that I had to see where he died.
    I was in the town of Bath by one o’clock that afternoon. I stopped in a gas station and got directions to Popham Beach. The road east to the ocean passed through expansive New England terrain – green rolling fields, white clapboard houses, old red barns, a salty inlet from the ocean. I focused on every feature, every characteristic of that road which he biked down towards his death. I reached Popham around thirty minutes after leaving Bath. The parking lot was empty. I was the only beachcomber on this bleak May day, the sky the color of dirty chalk. I walked down a little pathway through some dunes and reached the water. Everything David had told me about Popham – and he often talked about