I shrug. “You shouldn’t. People commit suicide all the time. It’s the eleventh leading cause of death. Nothing’s going to change that.”
“You don’t understand,” she says. “I feel awful for you.”
“For me? Why on earth?”
“You purposely hung these sad photos in your living room.”
“Well yes, but-”
“This is supposed to be your happy place.”
Definitely not the reaction I was hoping to elicit from Willow.
“These photographs aren’t just art,” I say. “They’re human art.”
“So?”
“It’s an example of how simple, everyday items we all take for granted, like shoes, represent something far more important.”
“So?”
“Art is supposed to move you. And you were moved. Does that make sense?”
She shrugs. “I guess.”
I almost leave it at that, but decide to ask, “Why did the photos make you feel worse for me than the victims?”
“You chose to display pictures of dead people’s feet on your wall. You knew people would ask about them.”
“I don’t get your point.”
“Why would you want your guests to feel sad?”
I start to say something, but stop myself.
I look at the photos.
She’s right.
I’m a sad man, living a sad life. The few guests I’ve had thought my shoe photos were creepy, weird, or, as Willow says, sad.
But only Willow felt badly for me.
“What sorts of pictures do you have in your apartment?” I say, defensively.
She shows the faintest glimmer of a smile. When she speaks, it’s almost reverential.
“A velvet Elvis,” she says.
“A velvet Elvis,” I repeat. “A suicide victim. Interesting.”
“Elvis died of a heart attack, not suicide,” she says. “He accidentally overdosed on prescription drugs.”
“I won’t dispute that. But I fail to see a big difference. Elvis overindulged himself to death, these people jumped. You’re displaying a dead person’s face, I’m displaying their feet.”
“How many of those shoe people were the king of rock n’ roll?”
Game.
“The velvet Elvis on my wall doesn’t show his face after he died.”
Set.
“No one looks at my velvet Elvis and thinks about his death. They think about the joy he brought them or their parents or grandparents.”
Match!
Game, set, and match, Willow Breeland.
“You must be a great doctor,” she says.
Willow has a remarkable facility for changing subjects without notice. I wonder if this is who she is or if it’s the product of cocaine use.
I respond, “Are you being facetious?”
“Not at all.”
“You mean because of what I did for Cameron?”
She points to my face. “A couple of days ago your face looked like Dawn of the Dead. This type of healing is on a whole different level.”
She’s got a point.
“How did you manage that?” She says.
“What made you decide to come to Manhattan?” I say, proving I can change subjects just as quickly.
“You mean what made me show up on your doorstep?”
“Yes. As I recall, when I made the original offer, you slapped my face.”
“I slapped you because you tried to kiss me.”
“I tried to hug you.”
She shrugs. “Either one would earn you a slap.”
I remember how she recoiled when I snuck a kiss to her breast that first night.
“You brought a suitcase,” I say.
“I had the cab bring me here from the airport. I thought you might recommend a hotel.”
“ Me?”
“I’ve never been to New York, and you’re the only one I know who lives here.”
“You have enough cash?”
“For a room? Yes. For cancer treatment?” She shakes her head.
“What type of cancer do you have?”
“Offer me something.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m a guest in your home. You should offer me something. Water, tea, coffee?”
“Oh. Sorry. Can I get you something? Some water, tea, or coffee?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
I give her a look.
She smiles.
“You’re funny,” I say.
She shrugs. Then says, “Hodgkin’s.”
32
“Hodgkin’s Lymphoma?” I say.
She nods.
“That’s terrible. But on the bright side, the cure rate for Hodgkin’s is extremely high.”
“If it hasn’t recurred.”
“Has it?”
She nods.
“Shit.”
“Exactly.”
“Still, there are plenty of treatment options,” I say.
“For those with money or insurance.”
“Yes.”
“Ask me if I’d care to sit,” she says.
“Would you?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She walks across the room, passing two chairs and a couch, and sits on a small stool beside the fireplace.
“The sofa and chairs would be far more comfortable,” I say.
“Those aren’t you.”
“Excuse me?”
