"So Christ brought Lazarus back from the dead," this acquaintance-who had gone on to become a highly thought-of o. b. man in Dearborn, Michigan-had said.
"That's fine with me. If I have to swallow it, I will. I mean, I had to buy the concept that the fetus of one twin can sometimes swallow the fetus of the other in utero, like some kind of unborn cannibal, and then show up with teeth in his testes or in his lungs twenty or thirty years later to prove that he did it, and I suppose if I can buy that I can buy anything. But I wanna see the death certificate-you dig what I'm saying? I'm not questioning that he came out of the tomb. But I wanna see the original death certificate. I'm like Thomas saying he'd only believe Jesus had risen when he could look through the nail holes and stick his hands in the guy's side. As far as I'm concerned, he was the real physician of the bunch, not Luke."
No, he had never really believed in survival. At least, not until Church.
"I believe that we go on," he told his daughter slowly. "But as to what it's like, I have no opinion. It may be that it's different for different people. It may be that you get what you believed all your life. But I believe we go on, and I believe that Mrs. Crandall is probably someplace where she can be happy."
"You have faith in that," Ellie said. It was not a question. She sounded awed.
Louis smiled, a little pleased and a little embarrassed. "I suppose so. And I have faith that it's time for you to go to bed. Like ten minutes ago."
He kissed her twice, once on the lips and once on the nose.
"Do you think animals go on?"
"Yes," he said, without thinking, and for a moment he almost added, Especially cats. The words had actually trembled on his lips for a moment, and his skin felt gray and cold.
"Okay," she said and slid down. "Gotta go kiss Mommy."
"Right on."
He watched her go. At the dining room doorway, she turned back and said, "I was really silly about Church that day, wasn't I? Crying like that."
"No, hon," he said. "I don't think you were silly."
"If he died now, I could take it," she said and then seemed to consider the thought she had just spoken aloud, as if mildly startled. Then she said, as if agreeing with herself: "Sure I could." And went to find Rachel.
Later, in bed, Rachel said, "I heard what you were talking about with her."
"And you don't approve?" Louis asked. He had decided that maybe it would be best to have this out, if that was what Rachel wanted.
"No," Rachel said, with a hesitance that was not much like her. "No, Louis, it's not like that. I just get... scared. And you know me. When I get scared, I get defensive."
Louis could not remember ever hearing Rachel speak with such effort, and suddenly he felt more cautious than he had with Ellie earlier. He felt that he was in a mine field.
"Scared of what? Dying?"
"Not myself," she said. "I hardly even think of that... anymore. But when I was a kid, I thought of it a lot. Lost a lot of sleep. Dreamed of monsters coming to eat me up in my bed, and all of the monsters looked like my sister Zelda."
Yes, Louis thought. Here it is; at last, after all the time we've been married, here it is.
"You don't talk about her much," he said.
Rachel smiled and touched his face. "You're sweet, Louis. I never talk about her. I try never to think about her."
"I always assumed you had your reasons."
"I did. I do."
She paused, thinking.
"I know she died... spinal meningitis... " "Spinal meningitis," she repeated. "There are no pictures of her in the house anymore."
"There's a picture of a young girl in your father's-"
"In his study. Yes, I forgot that one. And my mother carries one in her wallet still, I think. She was two years older than I was. She caught it... and she was in the back bedroom... she was in the back bedroom like a dirty secret, Louis, she was dying in there, my sister died in the back bedroom and that's what she was, a dirty secret-she was always a dirty secret!"
Rachel suddenly broke down completely, and in the loud, rising quality of her sobs, Louis sensed the onset of hysteria and became alarmed. He reached for her and caught a shoulder, which was pulled away from him as soon as he touched it.
He could feel the whisper of her nightdress under his fingertips.
"Rachel-babe-don't-"
"Don't tell me don't," she said. "Don't stop me, Louis. I've only got the strength to tell this once, and then I don't want to ever talk about it again. I probably won't sleep tonight as it is."
"Was it that horrible?" he asked, knowing the answer already. It explained so much, and even things he had never connected before or only suspected vaguely suddenly came together in his mind, She had never attended a funeral with him, he realized-not even that of Al Locke, a fellow med student who had been killed when his motorcycle had collided with a city bus. Al had been a regular visitor at their apartment, and Rachel had always liked him. Yet she had not gone to his funeral.
She was sick that day, Louis remembered suddenly. Got the flu or something.