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“What I was going to say is that my mentor had this theory that our lives are like an aboriginal longhouse. Just one huge room.” He swept one arm out to illustrate scope. “He said that if we thought we could compartmentalize things, we were deluding ourselves. Everyone we meet, every word we speak, every action taken or not taken lives in our longhouse. With us. Always. Never to be expelled or locked away.”
In a flash he was back there. Running toward the ambulance. Isabelle on the gurney, unconscious. The old poet’s bony hands holding Isabelle’s. Her voice unwavering as she whispered to Isabelle over and over again the only thing that mattered. That she was loved. Isabelle would never remember that, and Armand would never forget it.
‘Be very, very careful who you let into your life. And learn to make peace with whatever happens. You can’t erase the past. It’s trapped in there with you. But you can make peace with it. If you don’t,’ he said, ‘you’ll be at perpetual war.’”
“The Baroness’s son? We just saw him yesterday afternoon. At his house.” Benedict had said the same thing. Most people did, Armand knew. It was as though seeing someone recently should be protection against sudden death.
she’d finally realized some clients didn’t want freedom from their resentments, they wanted validation. Entitlement was, she knew, a terrible thing. It chained the person to their victimhood. It gobbled up all the air around it. Until the person lived in a vacuum, where nothing good could flourish.
In the kingdom of the blind, Amelia recited to herself as she trudged along— —the one-eyed man is king, Gamache read.
It started with the four statements that lead to wisdom: I don’t know. I need help. I was wrong. I’m sorry. And ended with him saying, simply, “Matthew 10:36.”
And a man’s foes shall be they of his own household.
Far from inspirational, it was a harsh warning in a gentle voice. A whisper out of the darkness. Be careful.
But when she sat at the table, behind “her” laptop, she was nimble. Strong. Unyielding. Relentless. No bully could hide. Ruth’s hat was so black it was white.
