They seemed truly happy, and it made me happy to watch them—a thousand small kindnesses among people who had nothing to give.
* * *
—
I was all day in the water, making my way toward the southern end of Manhattan, steering clear of 140 Broadway.
Progress was slow.
I went from block to block. Patiently. Carefully.
As I swam up the FDR, the first fires of the evening appeared in the surrounding skyscrapers, and Venus wobbled in the sky, the Earth’s atmosphere bending its light.
I finally stumbled out of the water, onto the dry ground of the on-ramp for the Brooklyn Bridge.
It was eerily silent.
No one out.
I walked onto the bridge, moving down the empty car lanes, and when I reached the highest point—127 feet above the water—I caught a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty. On this winter evening, she stood in ominous silhouette against a bloodred sky—more time capsule than symbol.
I opened Kara’s bag, pulled out an auto-injector. It was light in my hand. Unassuming. Strange to think that just a few of these could alter the trajectory of a species.
I took my time tossing my sister’s handiwork, one by one, into the dark waters of the East River, that terrible pressure returning, the scream of grief begging for a voice.
Was this the last vestige of my humanity, shrieking at me to feel?
I could’ve stopped the emotion; I didn’t. To feel nothing about my sister’s death seemed like crossing a frontier I couldn’t return from.
The tears came.
Streaming.
And I let myself break.
Thinking about those eighteen perfect moments, and our last one—her hand touching my face just before she died.
For a moment, I felt like the Logan of old, wondering if I could somehow merge the man I had once been with the man I had become.
I glanced back at the city of darkness, the city of light.
And I was walking again, moving toward the lights of Brooklyn, and my thoughts racing, my mind alight with the flickering of a wild notion, and I could feel the good, warm hope of a new idea taking its first breath.
We were a monstrous, thoughtful, selfish, sensitive, fearful, ambitious, loving, hateful, hopeful species. We contained within us the potential for great evil, but also for great good. And we were capable of so much more than this.
My sister had been right about one thing: I couldn’t do nothing.
Human nature will be the last part of Nature to surrender to Man. The battle will then be won. We shall have “taken the thread of life out of the hand of Clotho” and be henceforth free to make our species whatever we wish it to be. The battle will indeed be won. But who, precisely, will have won it?
—C. S. Lewis, The Abolition of Man
THE VALEDICTORIAN HAS JUST finished her speech, and I’m sitting in the highest row of bleachers overlooking the football field and the raised platform on the fifty-yard line.
The principal begins to call out the names.
She’s somewhere down there with the other graduates, in a sea of royal blue, though I haven’t spotted her yet. I did see Beth as I climbed the concrete steps to the upper reaches of the stadium—sitting with the man I observed her having dinner with several years ago at La Fleur. His name is John. He’s an English professor at American University, where Beth still teaches, and his specialty is British literature from 1485 to 1660. I’ve read all of his publications. They’re fine.
“Ava. Gray. Ramsay.”
As I watch my daughter walk onto the stage, my eyes well up.
When did she start using my name?
* * *
—
After the ceremony, I wait by Beth’s car in the high school parking lot.
It’s evening now, and I watch the families moving past with their graduates, the air vibrating with ebullience.
John walks between Ava and Beth, each of them holding an arm. He wears a blue suit, and his shoes are newly shined. I’m pleased he dressed up for Ava’s day. It speaks well of him.
He stops when he sees me.
Straightening.
Beth senses the change in his body language, glances up at him, then seeing the intensity of his gaze, follows it to me.
There is no facial augmentation I could make that would fool my wife and daughter.
When Beth gasps, Ava looks up from her phone. I was leaning against the hood of their car. Now I stand and walk over carrying a bouquet of pink roses and a small package. Ava drops her phone and diploma and runs at me, throwing her arms around my waist, sobbing uncontrollably. As I hold her, I look at Beth. Huge tears roll down her face against an expression of complete shock.
Cracks running through my heart of stone.
“I’m John,” John says.
“I know.”
He looks at Beth.
“I’m okay,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Maybe the three of us could have a moment?”
“Of course. I’ll take a walk.”
John looks at me with his kind eyes—extremely unsure of the situation.
“You have nothing to worry about,” I say. “I’m glad you’re in their lives.”
* * *
—
It’s the first time we’ve been together in four years, and I feel our disunity intensely. I am an interloper in their lives now. A discordant note.
We sit in the car—Beth behind the steering wheel, Ava and me in the back seat. The interior smells of the roses and of Beth’s perfume, a new brand she never wore when we were together.
I say, “I hope I didn’t spoil your day.”
Ava shakes her head, eyes red, swollen with tears.
“Is it safe for you to be here?” Beth asks.
“Not particularly.” I disabled all CCTV within two blocks of the school, but AI would likely sniff out the virus and have it removed within the next fifteen minutes. I’d be gone by then.
I look at my daughter. “Number three in your class.”
“It’s perfect,” she says, finally finding her voice. “The top two had to make speeches. I hate public speaking.”
It’s like a dream being in the same space together. Nothing and everything to say. In proximity, I can see the subtle toll the last four years have taken on Beth: deepening laugh lines and a heaviness in her eyes that wasn’t there the last time I looked into them—the residency of grief.
And in my absence, Ava has changed. I see far more of the woman she is becoming than the child she used to be.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Beth says.
After New York, I wrote her a letter—the hardest words I’d ever put to paper. I tried to explain everything. The breadth of my transformation. Kara’s plan, and what I’d had to do to stop her. I told her that, as much as I wanted to be her husband, my presence in their life would only be a liability. I encouraged her to move on from me and seek happiness. I told her I would always love her.
I hand Beth the package. “This is for both of you.”
“What is it?”
“When I was looking for Kara, I kept a journal. Sometimes I’d write you letters I never thought you’d get to read. Maybe this will help you understand what I’ve become. There’s also a letter in there. To both of you. I can’t stay long enough to tell you what I’ve been doing these past few years. It’s not safe. Read it later, after you’ve celebrated.”