She threaded three sheets of typewriter paper with carbon sheets between them into the slot behind the platen. One keystroke at a time, slow progress, mistakes that necessitated starting over, swearing in a whisper, and finally, done.
Soul Mates
1） What are soul mates?
Two people connected invisibly. Two people fully aware of their connection and how it differs from all their other affinities. Two people separated yet belonging.
2） How are soul mates created?
Soul mates were created during the Big Bang. They exist materially. The feeling soul mates have of being halves of a whole has a material basis.
3） What basis is that?
The splitting of atoms into two parts, destined to search for their other half through eternity, until all matter is restored to its original state. Then the universe will shrink again into a dense dot.
She tapped on, writing out her idea. All the time she was working she thought of Dick. What would he make of her dreams now? It seemed unbearable to ask, and unbearable not to know. How could she put this before him without incurring skepticism? Wait—she had an idea. Impulsively she put one of the two carbon copies in an envelope and addressed it to him at the university. Then she ripped open the envelope and replaced it with the original. A carbon went into another envelope, for Agnes. She neatened the environs of Dick’s desk until she was untraceable and walked the envelopes to the mailbox. But the postmark would be a giveaway to Dick, and she’d never know what he really thought unless he judged it impartially. She happened to be expecting a visit that afternoon from a friend who was going to New York. Mail this, please? Oh yes, of course. Her whole body tingled from the thrill of making a plan.
She put the other carbon copy in the bottom of her blanket chest, where it would never be found.
The days passed in silence, however, and her excitement about the project dwindled. Dick said nothing at all about the letter. She hadn’t thought of that possibility, but—of course. He rarely mentioned his work mail, unless one of his articles was accepted for publication. She fished once or twice by asking if he’d gotten any interesting news lately, which elicited an eye roll. As time passed, she let it go, dismissing the episode as a fever dream of childbirth and nothing more. She wasn’t a philosopher, or a seer. She ripped up her handwritten copy and stuffed the shreds under the garbage in the kitchen can. It was an episode, and over.
When a letter from Agnes arrived, she was in the middle of such a busy day that she left it among the envelopes on the hall table and forgot it until after Dick came home and handed it directly to her. Agnes made an immediate excuse for brevity; but she didn’t want to wait any longer to say a few words about Polly’s essay. Polly brought the paper closer to her face, curious. She could barely remember writing the essay—a curtain had come down. But having Agnes’s mind on it brought it back, even if it didn’t seem to be exactly about her.
Your ideas are brilliant, cogent. The notion that every soul has another half floating somewhere in the universe is a galvanizing insight, and convincing. The simple profundity of the concept takes me back to one of my oldest sources of contemplation—the sad specter of all the gifted people who perish or live lives without fulfillment of their talent. People in prisons. People with debilitating illnesses. The enslaved throughout history and especially in our own country. People with no access to the official channels of information. People with singular languages unknown to others, or people locked in their own heads by an injury or an illness. You, too, are in a category of thwartedness, Polly. You aren’t a scientist or an academic, so how can you develop or disseminate your idea? But don’t feel discouraged about that. You told me, and sharing a gift with one other person has the power to make a change in the world. Now you know, and I know, and that will ripple outward.
But listen, my friend, whatever you do—do not share this with Dick. I know you will be tempted to do so, but he won’t be a good audience. I realize you might be angry with me for offering this advice, because it tacitly speaks against him. I am not speaking against him, though. I am speaking out of my respect for what is probable. Your ideas are worthy of consideration, Polly, and I wouldn’t want them to be dismissed.
Thank you for sending me to this.
That was the end of her period of heightened vision. Agnes was right; Dick would never admire an idea of hers, and if she pursued that path, it would come between them. That she did not want. He made sure Polly got a diaphragm and checked that she used it, an embarrassing exchange, and Polly’s enthusiasm for living was greatly diminished for a few years, though she didn’t show it. She behaved as happily as ever and remained a good friend, wife, and mother. But she’d lost a dream, and felt it gone—felt the phantom limb of a daughter.
Then she became pregnant again, in spite of her sincere efforts not to, but she lost the pregnancy at three months. Her grief made it clear to her that she needed another child, and she was more ardent toward Dick than ever while preparing herself to act surprised when she felt the ping. With the easier birth of baby Lydia, the most purposeful and happy years of Polly’s life began. Where she had had a deep soul affinity with Theo, Lydia was on a continuum with Polly, in affinity and also in body and spirit. The same, but different. From the first moment she held the baby, Polly had the sensation of talking with her. Lydia lived on her hip, and all the things Polly had imagined doing with a daughter came to pass.
They spent hours in the gardens at Meadowlea and in Haverford, and they made the beds together and cooked and thought up new ideas for holiday decorations and generally enjoyed the gratifying work of keeping house. Polly had little interest in social life, except for events with her other mother friends, such as going to the zoo, or to Wanamaker’s at Christmas to watch the light show and the dancing fountains, or to a performance of Peter and the Wolf at the Academy of Music. Most of her friends wanted to talk with her on those outings, though, where Polly only wanted to watch Lydia. Never was there a face she loved more, nor were anyone’s responses to the world as riveting. She made certain her fervor didn’t detract from Dick—the main part of the day was over by the time he came home, and he was happy to give the children a good-night kiss downstairs and wait for her in his study while she put them to bed. The boys had each other and got quite enough of her. Polly felt at the center of her small world, and it made her proud to keep everyone happy.
When Lydia got a fever at age nine, Polly was only mildly concerned at first. It was winter, when illnesses were regularly passed around the schoolroom. A week later Lydia was dead, of a cause never explicitly determined, as Polly wouldn’t allow an autopsy. The grief was unbearable. If Polly hadn’t had the boys, she’d have followed Lydia into the ground. Never again would she disapprove of suicide. Agnes and Polly’s mother both sensed that dark pull and watched Polly carefully until she began to “take an interest” again. But she was never really interested in much until Lydia appeared as a ghost.
* * *
Polly returned to the present. The sky was turning from black to pearl, and she was still awake. She may as well get up and make herself useful. The boys and their families were coming soon, and their rooms needed final touches. The Theos would stay with her, and Knox and Jillian, too. James and his fam would be at WesterLee, as always. The five grandchildren, all in their teens or twenties, would be lively and great company, the DILs would offer dozens of suggestions for what she could be doing better, and her boys—well, her boys. Theo was unfailingly kind to her, but Knox could be moody, and James—bossy was probably the right word. Just smile, she could hear her mother say. She always had. But leave it to Agnes to have the last word—in her mind, Polly heard Agnes instruct, Don’t let them walk all over you. As if she didn’t!