Our Infinite Sadness

Confession

With Edythe's assistance, Ben managed to regain his bearings. His head gradually cleared. She was looking up at him with silent scrutiny, head tilted, eyes full of concern.

He got his breath and concluded that no, there was no danger whatsoever that she would break Dad's chair. In her carefully poised, solid posture, she couldn't be putting more than ten pounds on it. He had no words for what had just transpired between them; he just stared at her, dumbfounded and besotted.

"Please eat, Ben, before that tray needs the microwave again."

He nodded, his head suddenly swimming with the aroma of reheated tomatoes and oregano. He took his seat, famished, and went to work.

"I must remember for the future that day-long outings will require preparation," she said with self-reproach. "You are growing, and you need to eat more than once a day."

The leftover lasagna had cooled sufficiently in the course of their interlude at the chair that he ravenously inhaled it without ever properly tasting a single bite. He already knew, from their picnic in the Port Angeles playground, that there was no point in offering her anything whatsoever, not even water, as she would only decline.

He drank his second tall glass of water and went back to the sink to refill it.

"I've been dying to ask, ever since the meadow," he said, rinsing out the empty tray, "what's it like?"

"What is what like?'

He came back with his refilled water glass. "You said that Rex wishes he were dead. But there must be compensations. Benefits to accept in trade."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Such as what, specifically? The virtual immortality?"

He considered for a time and admitted, "I'm not sure, on that one. On the face of it, sure. Life without death. It's why we've invented religion, isn't it? But I'm reminded of Midas. And Pandora. And Eve. So many cautionary tales. I can imagine how immortality might be a curse as well as a blessing."

She stared at him with wonder.

"No," he went on, "I was thinking more about the little things. Your strength. Your athleticism. You said you love running, and you're exceptionally good at that."

Edythe considered and quietly acceded, "Yes, there are compensations, certainly. But there are prices as well. Nothing is free. There is much that I have lost, sacrifices, deficits that I will forever regret."

"Give me a for-instance," he begged, sipping his water, "your biggest regret, the thing you miss most."

She smiled languidly and suggested, "How about a little one. For starters."

Ben nodded and listened.

She pursed her lips and confessed, "I've told you that I don't sleep. That's nice. I never tire, so I can accomplish more. But there is a steep price. I wish I could dream. That is what I most envy, I think. Dreams are so childlike and escapist, so fantastically asymmetrical and delightfully irrational and illogical, with the topsy-turvy structure of an Escher woodcut and the whimsy of Chagall. I think that if I could dream, I would have closed myself off long ago, removed myself entirely from the world, and I would have spent all of eternity dreaming and doing nothing else."

Perhaps predictably, Ben said, with forced nonchalance, "So, you don't dream, and you don't sleep. What do you do all night? Tonight, for instance. Any big plans?"

Edythe smiled pensively. She had wanted this opportunity for weeks. And now it had arrived.

Not long ago— it seemed like yesterday— she had confessed her field trip to Sonoran Heights, to worm her way into Zoey Martine's head and fully assay her competition: her first attempt to deliver a harsh truth which might induce him to drive her away. This one would be bigger. Immeasurably so. And it had to be done. She didn't deserve another stolen moment.