Page 132 of The Book of Luke
“It’s more complicated than that,” I say quietly.
She raises an eyebrow. “Luke, when the light turns green? Don’t put the car in park.”
Erika appears at the door, still glowing from her triumph, the victory that might now be her only one. Unless… “Sorry to interrupt, but they need to leave soon.”
Melange hugs me knowingly before departing, and Erika offers a measured smile. “I swear they’re as nervous as you.”
Erika wanted to arrange something before the season premiered, but I’d been adamant: they needed to see the truth first. Erika called last Thursday after the episode with my confession aired; they still wanted to meet. Not a camera in sight, Erika brings me to a dressing room, where Mr. and Mrs. Bhaduri stand. I’m struck by how little they’ve aged. Their eyes alone betray the years. I’m not the only one who lives with regrets, Erika has assured me many times. “All three of you want forgiveness,” she’s said. “Maybe when you’re convinced you’ve forgiven each other, you’ll actually forgive yourselves. And give me new material to discuss in therapy.”
Mrs. Bhaduri wraps me in her arms as Mr. Bhaduri leans against the counter, his back to the mirror. Arjun lingers with us in every breath, and I can practically hear him scoffing affectionately at the swells of emotion. We move past customary small talk and agree to dinner at my house beforeChristmas. Mrs. Bhaduri wants to meet the kids, and I promise to invite Imogen. No mention is made of Barnes, nor would he expect there to be.
“I have something of yours,” Mrs. Bhaduri says gently before we leave. From her purse, she hands me a weathered copy ofThe Mysteries of Pittsburgh. Inside, my name is inscribed neatly in my own handwriting. My childhood address is written underneath in another’s.
“The last section was marked,” she indicates, her delicate bare fingers turning pages to the book’s final four paragraphs, where a line extends along Chabon’s prose:When I remember that dizzy summer, that dull, stupid, lovely dire summer…And I can’t read any further, for here rests Arjun’s wild writing in all capital letters: “THIS.” Indeed. Forever this.
“Arjun always said you were so academic,” Mrs. Bhaduri murmurs. “He told me you had more books in your suitcase than he’d read in his whole life. ‘The football player?!’ I said. And he had the biggest smile on his face, and he told me, ‘Mama, you don’t understand. Luke is a library.’” I struggle to respond as she takes my hand. “I have thought about that moment many times since. Maybe we’re all libraries, one way or another.”
After a handful of cordial if brief text messages, Shawn and I decide to meet halfway between us in Studio City, the Monday after the Reunion. There is a cozy café on Tujunga that I tried with Jenny on her last visit, filled with ample nooks where we can tuck ourselves away. I drop Andie and Wallace at school, an hour to burn before meeting Shawn. Imogen rings me first with one last bit of encouragement, followed by Erika and Melange together on speaker after a yoga class. PB and Jiamin call before their flight to JFK. Greta texts me kitten GIFs (of course). I hear nothing from Barnes this morning, an aberration from our normal routine now, but I think he means it as a courtesy. The senator has already made his endorsement of the candidate clear.
I ride the 101 to where it braids with the 405 in Sherman Oaks and take the surface roads back, sneaking up the canyon to Mulholland, those famous lanes whose thin spine snakes across the narrow crests of the hills.I hug the switchbacks, glimpsing the Pacific on one side and the San Fernando Valley on my other. The curves are so tight you can’t see what’s coming ahead or what you just left behind. Calamity could strike any time, but, my God, the views…
Not long ago I would have thought I deserved to careen off the edge, the just deserts for a lifetime sewn together by disastrous choices. But then I remember I already fell. So many times, so many ways. Somehow the world still gives me chances to make things right, regardless of whether I deserve them. How do we receive a punishment when life refuses to grant it? Or maybe we don’t recognize it when it’s assigned, the loss we don’t realize we’ve been dealt? There’s certainly no milestone to confirm you’ve atoned for your sins, that the person you were has been erased into the dust of history, both your quest and your community service hours complete. All you can do is try to be someone better.
When I consider all my losses—every ability, every opportunity, every prestige—the only ones I ever genuinely grieved were people. Because it’s not you who determines how you’ve changed or how you’ve failed. It’s not a network or an audience or a country. It’s the people you love. They are the only truly irreplaceable things you can lose. How miraculous it is when the rare one returns.
I sit now on the cushioned bench outside the café, five minutes remaining before he arrives. I’ll know as soon as I see him what my decision is, what I should tell Zara. At least that’s what I hope, that I’ll instantly know what to do. Before our eyes even meet, I sense him coming down the sidewalk, and all I can do is rise.