Blue (3 page)

“Are you okay?” Alan asked his wife with a look of concern.

“I just talked to Ginny. She's in New York. Tomorrow is the anniversary,” she said with a meaningful look, and he nodded.

“She should come out and see her father if she's back in the States,” he said in a disapproving tone. He was tired of seeing Becky shouldering all the burden, and Ginny none. There was always some excuse why she couldn't. Becky was more understanding about it than he was. It didn't seem fair to him.

“She said she will,” Becky said quietly. Alan said nothing, took off his jacket, sat down in his favorite chair, and turned on the TV to watch the news, while Becky went out to the kitchen to make their dinner, thinking about her sister. They had always had very divergent goals, but the differences between them had gotten more extreme in the past three years. Now they had nothing in common, except the same parents and their childhood history. Their lives were a million miles apart.

Ginny was thinking the same thing as she walked into her bathroom in New York, turned on the shower, and took off her clothes. Becky had a husband, three teenagers, a house in Pasadena, and an orderly life, while she had no material possessions she cared about, an apartment filled with secondhand furniture, and no one in her life, except the people she took care of around the world. When the water was hot enough, she got into the shower and let it run down her long, lean body, and on her face as it washed away her tears. She knew how painful the next day would be for her. She'd live through it as she had every year, but sometimes she wondered why. Why did she fight to hang in and stay alive? For whom? Did it really matter? It was getting harder and harder to find an answer to that question as time went by, and nothing changed, and Mark and Chris were still gone. She found it difficult to believe that she had managed to live without them for three interminable years.

The next day when Ginny woke up, it was bright and sunny, and she could tell from the chill of the room that it was bitter cold outside. It was the day before Christmas Eve, the day she hated most in the year, and she was dealing with culture shock and jet lag after her trip. She turned over and went back to sleep. When she woke again four hours later, the day had turned gray and it was snowing. She found some instant coffee in the cupboard and a can of stale peanuts, which she threw away. She was too lazy to go out into the cold to get something to eat. She wasn't hungry anyway, she never was on this day, and she wandered into the living room in her pajamas and tried not to notice the photograph of Mark and Chris in a silver frame on her battered desk. She had only two photographs of them in the apartment. The one she was trying to avoid was of Mark with Chris at his second birthday party. She sat down in the recliner and closed her eyes, thinking inevitably of the day three years before when they had gone to the party, with Chris in his little red-velvet suit with short pants and the plaid bow tie. She tried to push the image out of her mind but couldn't. The memories were just too strong, of the party, waking up in the hospital after the accident, and then Becky telling her what had happened. They both had sobbed and everything after that was a blur. They had held the memorial service after she got out of the hospital a month later, she could hardly remember it she had been so hysterical. She had stayed in bed at Becky's afterward for weeks. The network had been wonderful about it and asked her to take a leave of absence instead of quitting, but she knew she could never go back without Mark. Working in network news without him made no sense and would have hurt too much.

She lived on their savings, his life insurance, and the proceeds from the house sale ever since. She had enough to continue the kind of work she was doing for a long time, despite a meager salary from SOS/HR. She spent almost nothing and wanted no trappings of a fancy life. She had no needs, other than new hiking boots when hers wore out. All she needed now were rough clothes for her trips. She didn't care what she wore, how she dressed, what she ate, or how she lived. Everything that had mattered to her before was gone. Her life was an empty shell without Mark and Chris, except for the work she did, which was the only thing that gave meaning to her existence. She had no tolerance for the injustices she saw committed every day, in different cultures and countries around the world. She had become a freedom fighter, defending women and kids—perhaps, she realized, to assuage her own guilt for not having been more aware on that fateful night, and letting her husband put all three of them at risk. All she wished was that she had died with them, but instead, cruelly, she had survived. Her punishment was to live without them for the rest of her life. The thought was almost more than she could bear when she allowed herself to contemplate it, which she rarely did, but she could never avoid it on this day. The memories came rushing at her like ghosts.

After dark, she stood at the window, watching the snow fall gently onto the streets of New York. There were already three or four inches sticking to the ground. It was beautiful, and made her suddenly want to go outside and take a walk. She needed to get some air and get away from her own thoughts. The visions in her head were oppressive, and she knew the cold and snow would distract her and clear her head. She could stop and get something to eat on the way back, since she hadn't eaten all day. She wasn't hungry but knew she had to eat. All she wanted now was to get out of the apartment and away from herself.

Ginny put on two heavy sweaters, jeans, hiking boots with warm socks, a knitted cap, and her parka. She pulled the hood over the cap and grabbed a pair of mittens out of a drawer. Everything she owned now was functional and plain. She had put all her jewelry from Mark in a safe deposit box in the bank in California. She couldn't imagine wearing it again.

She put her wallet and keys in her pocket, turned off the lights, left the apartment, and took the elevator downstairs. And a moment later she was walking through the snow on Eighty-ninth Street, heading east toward the river, taking deep breaths of the freezing air as the snow continued to fall around her. Long plumes of frost sailed into the air when she exhaled. She walked along the overpass to the river, then stood at the railing looking at the boats drifting by—a tugboat and two barges, and a party boat all lit up for someone's Christmas party. It looked festive as it went by, and she could hear music and laughter in the crisp night air.

There was almost no traffic on the FDR Drive while she stood looking down at the water, as images of Chris and Mark forced their way into her mind again and she thought about what her life had become since their deaths. It was a life that she had dedicated to others, a life that served someone at least, but, as her sister had guessed, she hadn't cared if she lived or died, and had lived accordingly, taking outrageous risks. People thought she was brave, but only she knew how cowardly she was, hoping to get killed so she wouldn't have to spend the rest of her life without her husband and son.

As she looked down at the water shimmering beneath her, she thought about how easy it would be to climb over the railing and slip into the river. It would all be so much simpler than living without them. Feeling strangely calm, she wondered how long it would take her to drown. She was sure that there were currents in the river, and with her layers of clothing on, she would be pulled under quickly. And suddenly the idea seemed immensely appealing. She didn't think of her sister or father. Becky had her own life and family, they never saw each other, and her father wouldn't understand that she had died. As she mused about it, it seemed like the perfect time to make an exit.

She was considering climbing over the railing when a sudden movement in her peripheral vision at her left caught her eye and startled her, and she turned her head to see what it was. The hood of her parka partially blocked her vision, and all she saw was a flash of white dashing into a small utility shed as she heard the door slam. Clearly, someone was hiding inside it, and she wondered if whoever it was had been intending to attack her. Jumping into the river and drowning seemed simple and reasonable to her in her current state of mind—getting mugged by a hoodlum hiding in a utility shed seemed more unpleasant and she'd still be alive, presumably, at the end of it. But she didn't want to leave. She had her plan to carry out, to jump into the river, and she didn't want to wait until the next day. There was something poetic that appealed to her about dying on the same day they had, even if it was three years later. Her sense of good order dictated that she should kill herself tonight. It never occurred to her that her thinking was distorted, her judgment paralyzed by grief. It all made perfect sense to her. And she didn't want to run away and give up her plan just because someone was hiding in the shed. In fact, it was annoying her that whoever was in there didn't come out but continued to hide. She stood waiting for someone to emerge, so they couldn't startle her or attack her. And she refused to leave and stood her ground, determined to carry out her plan. Having made the decision gave her a sense of relief from pain. She had chosen a way out.

It seemed very silent in the shed, and then she heard some shifting around and muffled coughing. Her curiosity got the best of her. If they were coughing, maybe whoever it was in there was sick and needed help. That hadn't occurred to her before. She stared at the shed for long minutes, and then boldly walked up to it and knocked on the door. She wondered if it was a woman after all, although she thought she'd seen a man out of the corner of her eye, but whoever it was had moved very quickly into the shed and closed the door.

She stood in front of the shed for a minute, then knocked cautiously on the door again. She didn't want to pull it open and startle them. There was no answer, so she knocked a third time. She was going to offer help if the person was sick. And once she had tended to their needs, she would address her own. She had it all worked out in her head. She was a classic suicide about to happen. She knew people did things like it every day, and it no longer seemed shocking to her.

“Are you all right?” she asked in a firm voice. There was still no answer, but as she started to walk away, a small voice finally spoke up.

“Yeah, I'm okay.” The voice sounded very young. It could have been male or female, she couldn't tell. Her instincts took over then, and she forgot about herself.

“Are you cold? Do you want something to eat?” There was a long, long pause, as the person in the shed thought about it, and finally answered again.

“No, I'm fine.” It sounded like a boy that time, and then he added, “Thank you.” Ginny smiled. Whoever it was, was polite. She started to walk away, and thought about her plan again, although the interruption had slowed her momentum and distracted her. She didn't feel quite as determined as she had a few minutes before, but she started to walk back to the railing, wondering who was in the shed and what they were doing there, when she heard a voice in the distance behind her shout “Hey.” She turned in surprise and she saw a boy who looked about eleven or twelve in a T-shirt and torn jeans, and high-top sneakers, with his hair uncombed and a little wild. He was looking at her with wide eyes, and even from the distance she could see that they were a bright, almost electric blue in a pale light-coffee-colored face. “You got food?” he asked her, as she stood looking at him, shocked at how little he was wearing in the snow.

“I could get some,” she answered. She knew there was a McDonald's nearby. She bought breakfast or dinner there often herself.

“Nah, that's okay,” he said, looking disappointed and shivering in the cold, standing near the shed. It belonged to the city, but clearly someone had left it unlocked, and he was using it as shelter and a place to sleep.

“I could bring you something,” she offered. He hesitated, then shook his head, and disappeared back into the shed, as Ginny went back to the railing to gaze down at the river. By then she was beginning to feel awkward about what had seemed so right only moments before. She was about to go home when he was suddenly standing beside her with his bright blue eyes and jet-black hair.

“I could come with you,” he suggested, in answer to her earlier offer of dinner. “I've got money to pay.” It was a clear sign, as she looked at him, trying hard not to shiver, that she wasn't meant to leap into the river and die that night. She was meant to feed this child instead. She started to take off her parka to offer it to him, but he bravely declined. They began walking away from the river side by side. She had intended to die moments before, as the final escape from her sorrows, in a bout of cowardice that was rare for her, and now she was going to dinner with this unknown boy.

“There's a McDonald's about two blocks away,” she said to him as they walked. She tried to walk quickly so he wouldn't get too cold, but he was shaking visibly when they got to the restaurant and she got a good look at him in the bright lights. He had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen, in a sweet, still childish face that gazed at her full of innocence. It felt as though their paths had been meant to cross that night. It was warm in the restaurant, and he jumped up and down to warm himself. She wanted to put her arms around him to help him but didn't dare.

“What would you like?” she asked him gently. He hesitated. “Go for it,” she encouraged him. “It's almost Christmas, live it up.” He grinned and ordered two Big Macs and fries and a large Coke, and she ordered a single Big Mac and a small Coke. She paid for it, and they went to a table to wait for their order, which was ready a few minutes later. By then he'd warmed up and had stopped shivering. He dove into the food with a vengeance, and was halfway through the second burger before he stopped to thank her.

“I could have paid for it myself,” he said, looking mildly embarrassed, and she nodded.

“I'm sure you could. My treat this time.” He nodded.

She watched him, wondering how old he was, still startled by how blue his eyes were. “What's your name?” she asked cautiously.

“Blue Williams,” he answered. “Blue is my real name, not a nickname. My mama named me that because of the color of my eyes.” She nodded. It made perfect sense.

“I'm Ginny Carter,” she said, and they shook hands. “How old are you?” He looked at her suspiciously then, suddenly afraid.

“Sixteen,” he said instantly, and she could tell that he was lying. He was obviously worried that she'd report him to Child Protective Services. At sixteen he would have been exempt.

“Do you want to go to a shelter tonight? It must be cold out there in the shed. I could drop you off, if you want,” she offered. He shook his head vehemently in answer and drank half the Coke, having already finished both burgers and most of the fries. He was starving and ate as though he hadn't had a meal in a while.

“I'm fine in the shed. I have a sleeping bag. It's pretty warm.” She considered that unlikely but didn't challenge him.

“How long have you been out on your own?” She wondered if he was a runaway someone might be looking for. But if so, whatever he had run away from had to be worse than what he was experiencing on the streets, or he'd have gone home.

“A few months,” he answered vaguely. “I don't like shelters. There's a lot of crazy people in them. They beat you up, or rob you, and a lot of them are sick,” he said knowledgeably. “It's safer where I am.” She nodded, willing to believe it—she'd heard stories about violence in shelters before. “Thank you for dinner,” he said, smiling at her, looking more than ever like a little boy, and nowhere near sixteen. She could see that he didn't shave yet, and despite the life he was leading, he had the appearance of a child, a very wise child, but still a child.

“Would you like something else?” she offered, and he shook his head, and they left the table. She stopped to order two more Big Macs and fries and another Coke, and handed the bag to him when she got it, to take with him. “In case you get hungry later.” His eyes were wide with gratitude as he took the bag, and they left the restaurant and walked back the way they had come, hurrying along the street in the cold. It was still snowing, but the wind had died down. They got back to the shed quickly, and when they did, she unzipped her parka, took it off, and handed it to him.