We had an awesome trip.” “I am trying,” he said. “I am trying, I swear.”
It was around then that I realized Peter Van Houten had a dead person in his family.
I considered the honesty with which he had written about cancer kids;
the fact that he couldn’t speak to me in Amsterdam except to ask if I’d dressed like her on purpose;
his shittiness around me and Augustus; his aching question about the relationship between pain’s extremity and its value.
He sat back there drinking, an old man who’d been drunk for years.
I thought of a statistic I wish I didn’t know: Half of marriages end in the year after a child’s death.
I looked back at Van Houten. I was driving down College and I pulled over behind a line of parked cars and asked, “You had a kid who died?”
“My daughter,” he said. “She was eight. Suffered beautifully. Will never be beatified.”
“She had leukemia?” I asked. He nodded. “Like Anna,” I said. “Very much like her, yes.”
“You were married?” “No. Well, not at the time of her death.
I was insufferable long before we lost her. Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you.”
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