"What do you want?" Ingrid asks.
"Opiates." She picks through a baggie full of pills and offers me an assortment; I spot Ultram and take two. After I swallow them dry she gets me a glass of water and I drink it down.
"Well." Ingrid runs her long red fingernails through her long blond hair. "When are you coming from?"
"December, 2006. What's the date here?"
Ingrid looks at her watch. "It was New Year's Day, but now it's January 2. 1994." Oh, no. Please no. "What's wrong?" Ingrid says.
"Nothing." Today is the day Ingrid will commit suicide. What can I say to her? Can I stop her? What if I call someone? "Listen, Ing, I just want to say...." I hesitate. What can I tell her without spooking her? Does it matter now? Now that she's dead? Even though she's sitting right here?
"What?"
I'm sweating. "Just...be nice to yourself. Don't...I mean, I know you aren't very happy—"
"Well, whose fault is that?" Her bright red lipsticked mouth is set in a frown. I don't answer. Is it my fault? I don't really know. Ingrid is staring at me as though she expects an answer. I look away from her. I look at the Maholy-Nagy poster on the opposite wall. "Henry?" Ingrid says. "Why were you so mean to me?"
I drag my eyes back to her. "Was I? I didn't want to be."
Ingrid shakes her head. "You didn't care if I lived or died."
Oh, Ingrid. "I do care. I don't want you to die."
"You didn't care. You left me, and you never came to the hospital." Ingrid speaks as though the words choke her. "Your family didn't want me to come. Your mom told me to stay away." "You should have come."
I sigh. "Ingrid, your doctor told me I couldn't visit you." "I asked and they said you never called."
"I called. I was told you didn't want to talk to me, and not to call anymore." The painkiller is kicking in. The prickling pain in my legs dulls. I slide my hands under the afghan and place my palms against the skin of my left stump, and then my right.
"I almost died and you never spoke to me again."
"I thought you didn't want to talk to me. How was I supposed to know?"
"You got married and you never called me and you invited Celia to the wedding to spite me."
I laugh, I can't help it. "Ingrid, Clare invited Celia. They're friends; I've never figured out why. Opposites attract, I guess. But anyway, it had nothing to do with you."
Ingrid says nothing. She's pale under her makeup. She digs in her coat pocket and brings out a pack of English Ovals and a lighter.
"Since when do you smoke?" I ask her. Ingrid hated smoking. Ingrid liked coke and crystal meth and drinks with poetic names. She extracts a cigarette from the pack between two long nails, and lights it. Her hands are shaking. She drags on the cigarette and smoke curls from her lips.
"So how's life without feet?" Ingrid asks me. "How'd that happen, anyway?"
"Frostbite. I passed out in Grant Park in January."
"So how do you get around?"
"Wheelchair, mostly."
"Oh. That sucks."
"Yeah," I say. "It does." We sit in silence for a moment. Ingrid asks, "Are you still married?"
"Yeah." "Kids?"
"One. A girl."
"Oh." Ingrid leans back, drags on her cigarette, blows a thin stream of smoke from her nostrils. "I wish I had kids." "You never wanted kids, Ing."
She looks at me, but I can't read the look. "I always wanted kids. I didn't think you wanted kids, so I never said anything."
"You could still have kids."
Ingrid laughs. "Could I? Do I have kids, Henry? In 2006 do I have a husband and a house in Winnetka and 2.5 kids?"
"Not exactly." I shift my position on the couch. The pain has receded but what's left is the shell of the pain, an empty space where there should be pain but instead there is the expectation of pain.
"Not exactly,'" Ingrid mimics. "How not exactly? Like, as in, 'Not exactly, Ingrid, really you're a bag lady?'"
"You're not a bag lady."
"So I'm not a bag lady. Okay, great." Ingrid stubs out her cigarette and crosses her legs. I always loved Ingrid's legs. She's wearing boots with high heels. She and Celia must have been to a party. Ingrid says, "We've eliminated the extremes: I'm not a suburban matron and I'm not homeless. Come on, Henry, give me some more hints."
I am silent. I don't want to play this game.
"Okay, let's make it multiple choice. Let's see... A) I'm a stripper in a real sleazy club on Rush Street. Um, B) I'm in prison for ax-murdering Celia and feeding her to Malcolm. Heh. Yeah, ah, C) I'm living on the Rio del Sol with an investment banker. How 'bout it Henry? Do any of those sound good to you?"