It wasn’t even dark, but I figured time and schedules weren’t an issue for me that week. I would probably enjoy waking up at dawn and going to the lake. Had there been a coffee maker in the kitchen? There must have been, I thought. Irwin had given me filters and grounds. Crawling into bed, I picked up the scrapbook. I flipped through pictures of Scott and me riding elephants, hiking through jungles, playing at waterfalls, feeding monkeys. There were a lot of beach photos, including one of the two of us at the same beach whose image I had come to know so well. As I studied the pictures, I could almost hear some of the sounds. I closed my eyes and remembered the humid walk through a tropical fruit plantation. I recalled the surprisingly bristly feel of the elephant. I couldn’t remember the events themselves, but I was beginning to remember how they had felt. I remembered my amazement at finding an endless field of starfish at ourfeet one evening. And beneath all those sensory memories. ’ ‘Fragile in what way?’ she asked. So I told her about the nervous breakdown, and how she had precipitated it. I told her about the long days of reading theology on the banks of the river, of my gradual re-conquest of my soul. I said that I was there not only to renew our friendship, but to test myself, to see how much I had really healed from the pain she’d caused me. She didn’t say a word. She sat on the chair, legs pressed together, hands clasped on her lap, leaning forward. She stared into my eyes as I spoke, never looking away or down, as if she wanted to catch every nuance of my facial expressions. When I paused, she nodded, as if to ask me to go on. When the whole story was finished, I sat back and we regarded each other in silence. ‘I didn’t know,’ she said finally. ‘You told me about how you recovered from your divorce through prayer and reading and meditation, but I had no idea that it was really me you were recovering from. I’m so sorry. I really didn’t know.’ ‘Of course.
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