In the hospital a realization had crept up on me insidiously like a mouse in the dark, a mouse whose presence you suspect, yet who you hope will never appear. I was responsible for the survival of this creature. It was paralyzing. Who the creature was in relation to me, my body, was a riddle: no longer part of my flesh, yet if I accidentally pricked her with a pin my nerves jumped in harmony with hers. I had headaches and inexplicable spells of fever, and my stitches were infected. The infection was painful and lingering. I took it as symbolic—I had been torn and would never heal. My mother and Edith, who behaved in a saintly way, were in what they only half-jokingly called the prime of life, their middle fifties. My father had been promoted and transferred to the New York office of his insurance firm, and my mother loved the change. She became chummy with Edith. Afternoons, they went to matinees and movies, occasionally to lectures or panel discussions at worthy institutions. Victor said a peripheral benefit of our marriage was the bringing together of two such compatible women.
What do You think about Disturbances In The Field?
