And so I drifted through the void, wanting out. I was paralyzed, could not reach out a finger, much less leap the gap of belief. And the fog closed in, closed in, over weeks, months, until I could barely see, could make out only shapes, of my children, my husband, the cashier at the supermarket, the people on the streets. I smiled and smiled and made words, but I could not even see myself, through the fog.

Such a thing, despite the words and smiles, could not be hidden. For a while, yes, a depression, a vagueness, this would be tolerable. But not this, and the life became punctuated by Stephen, reaching through the mist, trying, always trying. “Is something wrong, Abra?” he would ask, again and again. He would offer his help when I could not answer. “Do you want this? Would you like that?” I could not tell him. The last thing I could believe in was the power of another person to give me faith. Faith had to be in me somewhere. I could not abdicate it to someone else, however tender and kind and good willing. I did not realize then that that stubbornness was in itself a sign of a strength in me, a signal of the end.

It was my struggle. I could hardly say to Stephen, “I want faith.” Where would that get me? Into another kindly, logical discussion of alternatives?

What were the things he could not speak of to me? Did he have faith, or did he not look for it, did he not care? Was it possible not to care? I would have vaguely liked to know; knowing might bring us closer, might put a dent in my detachment. But I did not want it enough to reveal my own despair, to be vulnerable to his reason if he did not share it.

“Nothing’s wrong, why?” I would say, turning to him brightly, blankly.

“I just thought you didn’t look too well.”

“Don’t I?” Vaguely. “I feel all right. It’s just the winter. It always gets me down.”

“Maybe we should get some vitamins. They’d probably be good for all of us.”

“Good idea.” Knowing I would never go out to buy them.

With variations we replayed that conversation again and again, while he probed gently, too gently, into what was happening.

“Well, what did you do today?” he would ask, all hearty and trying, just in the door from work.

“Not much. The laundry, dinner, you know.”

“Feel like a movie tonight?”

“Not really. I’m kind of tired, and it doesn’t look good outside.”