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“Wait with me for sunrise, Zoë.”
Her eyes widened as realization slowly grew. “No. Don’t.” Despite her previous resolution she was struck with an overpowering desire to stop him, to offer her companionship to save him from this. She couldn’t bear to lose him too. She reached for his other hand and held both his hands tight. She didn’t have to say it. She didn’t have to offer. He knew.
“No, Zoë. You are sweet and kind, but it would never work. It’s my decision, isn’t it?”
She knew he was right.
“I have stayed too long. Death is the nature of things.” He looked away from her. “I am unnatural.”
It was as if his thoughts had paralleled hers all along and so validated them. She leaned to him and kissed him on his cheek. He moved slightly, and his lips caught hers in a fleeting, delicate touch.
“What have I done, Zoë? Why did I exist?”
“You stopped Christopher. You even stopped von Grab. It was all worthwhile.”
He let out a quick, crisp laugh of pleasure. “You are so generous. You’re the only one in the world who knows or cares that I exist, and I can only bring you sorrow.”
She let go of his hands. “Lately it seemed sometimes that you were the only one who knew I existed. Soon I won’t have anyone.”
He looked surprised. “But you have yourself. A good, kind, strong, brave self. It was you who gave me courage.”
He stood and put the suitcase back on the bench; then he opened it, revealing gray, dry earth. He grabbed a handful and threw it to the air. She inhaled sharply. It was his life scattering. “Help me, Zoë. I can’t turn back.”
She hesitated. Then she stood too. Sometimes when things won’t change, you have to force them. She took a tentative scoop and dribbled it through her fingers, but every grain cried out to her.
“No. Throw it,” he demanded.
She scooped a large fistful and threw it as far as she could, screwing up her eyes against the sight. He’s burning his bridges, she thought. I should be happy, but I ache.
He was flinging the earth every which way. He started to laugh, as if unburdened by a diminishing load. He threw faster and faster. She tried to keep up. Furiously, the
dirt scattered through the air, thudded on the gazebo, spatted on the path, trickled through the slats of the bench. I can’t stand it, she thought.
Then there were just a few crumbs left. Simon picked up the suitcase and, with a final wild cry, hurled it as far as he could into the bushes. He sank exhausted to the bench. Zoë settled beside him and took his hand again.
“Please keep the painting for me, Zoë. I want you to have it.”
She touched the gilt frame in answer, accepting his gift, a piece of him always.
They sat in silence for a long while. Occasionally a car roared in the distance, miles telescoped by night. A mask of chill lay across her cheeks.
“I’m afraid,” he finally said.
She slid her arms around him and held him tight, giving him her strength and love. This is all my mother wants, she realized.
The night was cold, but it wasn’t the cold that trembled him in her arms. Now and then they kissed, then he would pull away and sigh. Sometimes he would stroke her neck longingly, place one kiss there, then lay his head on her breast. Once she saw he had tears in his eyes.
Birds began to sing here and there. The sky lightened to a pearly gray. She remembered Christopher in the pit and shuddered. Could she stand to see that again? Yet she held him tight. She wouldn’t let him down.
Then the sun was rising.
They parted. Simon looked as if he might spring from the bench and run. She reached for him, and he almost fled from her touch, but he turned back and took her hand again.
He held ruthlessly still.
They didn’t dare look anywhere but at each other as the sun rose higher. He flinched. She held her breath.
Then suddenly he was smiling. His face was lit by day for the first time in three hundred years, and also lit by joy. He did not burn.
