After the Garden
"How are you feeling, Joan?" The doctor's hand was on her foot, cupping her swollen ankle, but he was looking entirely at her eyes.
"Like Eve in the garden." He quirked an eyebrow at her and waited for her to explain. Joan sighed in exasperation. "You know. Ashamed. Like I screwed up or something, which I totally did. You know, if you're the one who wrote the book, you really should be better at getting the similes."
"I knew what you meant. But I needed you to say it."
"Why? Why any of this? I get it, now, I guess--you made me join band practice to, like, distract me from how mad I was, and you made me do laundry so I would--what? Break my foot? To punish me?"
"I don't punish you--you punish yourself. We've already had this piece of the conversation."
"Okay, then, maybe, just to distract me again. But here's the thing: what Friedman did was wrong"---he looked at her then, exactly as Adam had the night before, and again, she flushed as she switched gears back--"what I did, what we all did to Angela was wrong, but we didn't know. About her mother. But you did. Why didn't you stop us?"
"Free will, Joan. We've done this one also."
"No, no, that's not good enough. Okay, fine, you couldn't STOP US, stop us, but you could have, um, you could have just told me that her mother had cancer. I would have called it off, if I'd known."
"How is that different from taking your free will?"
"That's just giving me information. I'd still have the choice."
"Joan. I know you better than that. You know yourself better than that. If you'd known, really known, about what Angela was going through, you would not have been capable of choosing otherwise. You know that it is evil to willfully hurt another person who is already experiencing pain. Even the smallest deliberate act can have something evil about it.--you understood that, after the fact, with Iris and those children. And you don't choose evil, Joan--you don't willfully pick things out of that side of the spectrum."
"Then why do I screw up all the time?"
"Because you're human. Because you're impulsive: you usually act without all the information, even if the information is there for you to have. Because there are things you still need to learn."
"Then, can't you teach me that by, um, by giving me the information at first?"
He shook his head. "Every day, billions of people make choices without having all the information. That's what it is to be human: to move in the world without certainty, to weigh what you know against what you feel. To manage yourself--to the best of your ability--such that the brighter parts of who you are remain available to you even in the midst of your ignorance and pain. "Now we see through a glass, darkly," is how one of you put it a long time ago. You don't get to know everything. You can still make the right choice."
"But I didn't."
"Not this time." She looked up at him and was amazed to see a small smile on his face, a look of absolute acceptance, even as he confirmed that she'd made a mistake.
"And next time? What it I screw it up again?"
"You will."
"Gee--thanks."
"Joan, you're human. That's just how it is. But you learn--every time, every day, every choice. You choose, and you learn, and you think and choose again."
"Wouldn't it, um, wouldn't be easier if you just, well, chose for us?"
He shook his head again. "Joan, if I made it so that every human being could do only what I thought they should do, this whole beautiful, terrible universe would be nothing more than a puppet show."
She considered that, and was silent for a moment. He pressed--gently but firmly--on her ankle in one final gesture, and wrapped the bandage back around.
"This swelling is normal. You still haven't broken it: you've just been stepping on it too much. Next time, do what the doctor tells you--even if the doctor isn't God--for at least four days before you freak out and have your mom make an appointment."
She nodded, blushing again, and shifted herself in preparation for slipping down from the examination table. He stretched out his arm, and, although part of her knew she could have managed it herself, Joan reached out and grabbed his shoulder, again briefly amazed to feel the solid human weight against her hand. She slid down against his body, and leaned against the table as he offered her the crutches, one by one. As she hobbled her way towards the door, a thought struck Joan and she turned around, to face him as he shuffled her papers back into the file.
"Um, what about Angela? What about, um, all the people that we hurt when we're learning?"
He set the papers down, carefully, beside the table. "What can you do for Angela?"
"I apologized. You know that. But that isn't enough, is it?"
"What would be enough? Do you think you should be friends with her?"
"Ecch. No--she's mean. And I'd be faking it. But, um, should I? Is that what you want?" She desperately hoped that wasn't what he had in mind, but part of her was already racing ahead, picturing options for how she might do it. If he asked.
"No. No one needs a pity friend. Not Scott, not Iris, not Casper, not Angela. You're right when you realize I don't want that from you."
"What do you want from me? For Angela?"
"Will you hurt her again? Deliberately?"
"No."
"Even if she..."
"Even if. I know where it comes from, when people act like that, now. But that still isn't enough, is it?"
"Joan, your job is hard enough. Do it. Keep doing it. And I will do mine."
Their eyes met, and she bowed her head once, agreeing and accepting. He returned the gesture and picked up the file again.
"Um--God?" She had briefly considered calling him "doctor" instead: she still wasn't sure how to do this.
"Yes?"
"Thanks."
He smiled, nodded, and watched as she hobbled away from the room and back into the world he'd created for her, ready, in her own baffled, angry way to go through it all again, and again. As he watched, he saw it all from her eyes. How she blinked and shook herself slightly as the door closed behind her, as though she had just stepped out of a darkened movie theater into the bright chaos of a downtown afternoon. How she looked at the people around her, walking and wheeling and running through the hospital hallways, with a sudden hard awareness of the secrets each one carried within them--the memories and plans each had of hurting each other and being hurt in turn. The realization she had that he'd just asked her to go beyond this, and the fear that she had that she couldn't help but fail. How she paused for a moment beside the soda machine, filing away the visit in her heart, and the quiet resolution with which she moved forward, crutch- crutch, step, crutch-crutch, step, trying to plan for the choices she'd make next.
"How are you feeling, Joan?" The doctor's hand was on her foot, cupping her swollen ankle, but he was looking entirely at her eyes.
"Like Eve in the garden." He quirked an eyebrow at her and waited for her to explain. Joan sighed in exasperation. "You know. Ashamed. Like I screwed up or something, which I totally did. You know, if you're the one who wrote the book, you really should be better at getting the similes."
"I knew what you meant. But I needed you to say it."
"Why? Why any of this? I get it, now, I guess--you made me join band practice to, like, distract me from how mad I was, and you made me do laundry so I would--what? Break my foot? To punish me?"
"I don't punish you--you punish yourself. We've already had this piece of the conversation."
"Okay, then, maybe, just to distract me again. But here's the thing: what Friedman did was wrong"---he looked at her then, exactly as Adam had the night before, and again, she flushed as she switched gears back--"what I did, what we all did to Angela was wrong, but we didn't know. About her mother. But you did. Why didn't you stop us?"
"Free will, Joan. We've done this one also."
"No, no, that's not good enough. Okay, fine, you couldn't STOP US, stop us, but you could have, um, you could have just told me that her mother had cancer. I would have called it off, if I'd known."
"How is that different from taking your free will?"
"That's just giving me information. I'd still have the choice."
"Joan. I know you better than that. You know yourself better than that. If you'd known, really known, about what Angela was going through, you would not have been capable of choosing otherwise. You know that it is evil to willfully hurt another person who is already experiencing pain. Even the smallest deliberate act can have something evil about it.--you understood that, after the fact, with Iris and those children. And you don't choose evil, Joan--you don't willfully pick things out of that side of the spectrum."
"Then why do I screw up all the time?"
"Because you're human. Because you're impulsive: you usually act without all the information, even if the information is there for you to have. Because there are things you still need to learn."
"Then, can't you teach me that by, um, by giving me the information at first?"
He shook his head. "Every day, billions of people make choices without having all the information. That's what it is to be human: to move in the world without certainty, to weigh what you know against what you feel. To manage yourself--to the best of your ability--such that the brighter parts of who you are remain available to you even in the midst of your ignorance and pain. "Now we see through a glass, darkly," is how one of you put it a long time ago. You don't get to know everything. You can still make the right choice."
"But I didn't."
"Not this time." She looked up at him and was amazed to see a small smile on his face, a look of absolute acceptance, even as he confirmed that she'd made a mistake.
"And next time? What it I screw it up again?"
"You will."
"Gee--thanks."
"Joan, you're human. That's just how it is. But you learn--every time, every day, every choice. You choose, and you learn, and you think and choose again."
"Wouldn't it, um, wouldn't be easier if you just, well, chose for us?"
He shook his head again. "Joan, if I made it so that every human being could do only what I thought they should do, this whole beautiful, terrible universe would be nothing more than a puppet show."
She considered that, and was silent for a moment. He pressed--gently but firmly--on her ankle in one final gesture, and wrapped the bandage back around.
"This swelling is normal. You still haven't broken it: you've just been stepping on it too much. Next time, do what the doctor tells you--even if the doctor isn't God--for at least four days before you freak out and have your mom make an appointment."
She nodded, blushing again, and shifted herself in preparation for slipping down from the examination table. He stretched out his arm, and, although part of her knew she could have managed it herself, Joan reached out and grabbed his shoulder, again briefly amazed to feel the solid human weight against her hand. She slid down against his body, and leaned against the table as he offered her the crutches, one by one. As she hobbled her way towards the door, a thought struck Joan and she turned around, to face him as he shuffled her papers back into the file.
"Um, what about Angela? What about, um, all the people that we hurt when we're learning?"
He set the papers down, carefully, beside the table. "What can you do for Angela?"
"I apologized. You know that. But that isn't enough, is it?"
"What would be enough? Do you think you should be friends with her?"
"Ecch. No--she's mean. And I'd be faking it. But, um, should I? Is that what you want?" She desperately hoped that wasn't what he had in mind, but part of her was already racing ahead, picturing options for how she might do it. If he asked.
"No. No one needs a pity friend. Not Scott, not Iris, not Casper, not Angela. You're right when you realize I don't want that from you."
"What do you want from me? For Angela?"
"Will you hurt her again? Deliberately?"
"No."
"Even if she..."
"Even if. I know where it comes from, when people act like that, now. But that still isn't enough, is it?"
"Joan, your job is hard enough. Do it. Keep doing it. And I will do mine."
Their eyes met, and she bowed her head once, agreeing and accepting. He returned the gesture and picked up the file again.
"Um--God?" She had briefly considered calling him "doctor" instead: she still wasn't sure how to do this.
"Yes?"
"Thanks."
He smiled, nodded, and watched as she hobbled away from the room and back into the world he'd created for her, ready, in her own baffled, angry way to go through it all again, and again. As he watched, he saw it all from her eyes. How she blinked and shook herself slightly as the door closed behind her, as though she had just stepped out of a darkened movie theater into the bright chaos of a downtown afternoon. How she looked at the people around her, walking and wheeling and running through the hospital hallways, with a sudden hard awareness of the secrets each one carried within them--the memories and plans each had of hurting each other and being hurt in turn. The realization she had that he'd just asked her to go beyond this, and the fear that she had that she couldn't help but fail. How she paused for a moment beside the soda machine, filing away the visit in her heart, and the quiet resolution with which she moved forward, crutch- crutch, step, crutch-crutch, step, trying to plan for the choices she'd make next.