Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow

by Gabrielle Zevin

he thought that the crowd seemed to part for her, in a way that the world never moved for him.

everyone, in Sam’s estimation, loved Sadie and Marx. No one, Sam felt, had ever loved him except those who had been obligated to love him:

Other people’s parents are often a delight.

Around eight, Sadie drove Sam to the hospital. It was past visiting hours, so only immediate family were allowed to accompany patients into their rooms. But when the nurse asked Sam who Sadie was, Sam answered quickly, “My wife.”

He was happiest when he did not have to think about his body—when he could forget that he had a body at all.

Tell me I don’t know you, Sam thought. Tell me I don’t know you when I could draw both sides of this hand, your hand, from memory.

It isn’t a sadness, but a joy, that we don’t do the same things for the length of our lives.”

I don’t feel like anyone in the world knows me except Sadie.”

There are no ghosts, but up here”—she gestured toward her head—“it’s a haunted house.”

he did what he could for Sadie. He went to work, even when he didn’t want to, even when he was in pain. He called Alice, whom he disliked, to see how Sadie was. He drove past her house to make sure her lights were on, but he kept his distance because that was what she had asked. Maybe it wasn’t enough, but it was what he could do.