Page 685 - A Little Life: A Novel

the other—I had never seen him without them—and I watched as he sank
his left leg into the socket, drawing the elastic sleeve up around his knee
and thigh, and then pushed his pants leg down over it. As you know, these

prostheses had feet with paneling that resembled the shape of a toe box and
a heel, and I watched as he pulled on his socks, and then his shoes. And
then he took a breath and stood, and I watched as he took a step, and then
another. But even I could tell something was wrong—they were still too
big; he was still too thin—and before I could call out, he had lost his
balance and pitched forward onto the bed, where he lay still for a moment.
And then he reached down and tore off both legs, one and then the other,

and for a second—they were still wearing their socks and shoes—it
appeared as if they were his real legs, and he had just yanked away a piece
of himself, and I half expected to see an arcing splash of blood. But instead
he picked one up and slammed it against the bed, again and again and
again, grunting with the effort, and then he threw it to the ground and sat on
the edge of the mattress, his face in his hands, his elbows on his thighs,

rocking himself and not making a sound. “Please,” I heard him say,
“please.” But he didn’t say anything else, and I, to my shame, crept away
and went to our bedroom, where I sat in a posture that mimicked his own,
and waited as well for something I didn’t know.
In those months I thought often of what I was trying to do, of how hard it
is to keep alive someone who doesn’t want to stay alive. First you try logic
(You have so much to live for), and then you try guilt (You owe me), and

then you try anger, and threats, and pleading (I’m old; don’t do this to an
old man). But then, once they agree, it is necessary that you, the cajoler,
move into the realm of self-deception, because you can see that it is costing
them, you can see how much they don’t want to be here, you can see that
the mere act of existing is depleting for them, and then you have to tell
yourself every day: I am doing the right thing. To let him do what he wants

to do is abhorrent to the laws of nature, to the laws of love. You pounce
upon the happy moments, you hold them up as proof—See? This is why it’s
worth living. This is why I’ve been making him try—even though that one
moment cannot compensate for all the other moments, the majority of
moments. You think, as I had thought with Jacob, what is a child for? Is he
to give me comfort? Is he for me to give comfort to? And if a child can no
longer be comforted, is it my job to give him permission to leave? And then

you think again: But that is abominable. I can’t.