The Leftovers by Tom Perrotta Page B

hours without telling her where I was going or when I’d be back. If she called, I wouldn’t answer my phone.
    “I guess in some way I blamed her. Not for what happened to Henry—I knew that was nobody’s fault. I just … I didn’t mention this before, but Henry was an only child. We wanted to have more, but my wife had a cancer scare when he was two, and the doctors recommended a hysterectomy. Seemed like a no-brainer at the time.
    “After we lost Henry, I kind of got obsessed with the idea that we needed to have another kid. Not to replace him—I’m not crazy like that—but just to start over, you know? I had it in my head that that was the only way we could live again, but it was impossible, because of her, because she was physically incapable of bearing me another child.
    “I decided that I would leave her. Not right away, but in a few months, when she was stronger and people wouldn’t judge me so harshly. It was a secret I had, and it made me feel guilty, and somehow I blamed her for that, too. It was a feedback loop, and it just kept getting worse. But then, one night, my son came to me in a dream. You know how sometimes you see people in dreams, and it’s not really them, but somehow it is them? Well, this wasn’t like that. This was my son, clear as day, and he said, Why are you hurting my mother? I denied it, but he just shook his head, like he was disappointed in me. You need to help her.
    “I’m embarrassed to admit this, but it had been weeks since I’d touched my wife. Not just sexually—I mean I literally hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t stroked her hair or squeezed her hand or patted her on the back. And she was crying all the time.” Mr. Gilchrest’s voice cracked with emotion. He wiped the back of his hand almost angrily across his mouth and nose. “So the next morning I got up and gave her a hug. I put my arms around her and told her I loved her and didn’t blame her for anything, and it was almost like saying it made it true. And then something else came into my mind. I don’t know where it came from. I said, Give me your pain. I can take it. ” He paused, looking at his audience with an almost apologetic expression. “This is the part that’s hard to explain. Those words were barely out of my mouth when I felt a weird jolt in my stomach. My wife let out a gasp and went limp in my arms. And I knew right then, as clearly as I’d ever known anything, that an enormous amount of pain had been transferred from her body into mine.
    “I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t blame you. I’m just telling you what happened. I’m not saying I fixed her or cured her, or anything like that. To this day, she’s still sad. Because there’s not some finite amount of pain inside us. Our bodies and minds just keep manufacturing more of it. I’m just saying that I took the pain that was inside of her at that moment and made it my own. And it didn’t hurt me at all.”
    A change seemed to come over Mr. Gilchrest. He stood up straighter and placed his hand over his heart.
    “That was the day I learned who I am,” he declared. “I’m a sponge for pain. I just soak it up and it makes me stronger.”
    The smile that spread across his face was so joyful and self-assured he seemed almost like a different person.
    “I don’t care if you believe me. All I ask is that you give me a chance. I know you’re all hurting. You wouldn’t be here on a Saturday afternoon if you weren’t. I want you to let me hug you and take away your pain.” He turned to Reverend Kaminsky. “You first.”
    The minister was clearly reluctant, but he was the host and couldn’t see any polite way out. He rose from his chair and approached Mr. Gilchrest, casting a skeptical sidelong glance at the audience on the way, letting them know he was just being a good sport.
    “Tell me,” Mr. Gilchrest said. “Is there a special someone you’ve been missing? A person whose absence seems especially troubling to you?