That was how it must have been, kootchy kootchy, pink and smoochy. That was what he had craved and bought at so high a price. For that she had had to suffer. It was no more just or rational than the arbitrary blows of disease, the failures of vision she dealt with every day, and it could hardly be called a surprise. Even the devastation and the calm aftermath seemed inevitable now, the detachment hollowed out inside her like a crater. And yet seeing it so clearly brought a jolt.

She tried to telegraph back the kindly message he wanted: I'm sorry it turned out this way. I would help you if I could. But as the door shut behind her, her face showed envy, not sorrow. He owned all the misery his risks had earned; he was in the thicket of his mistakes, impaled, fending off an excess of feeling, even if it was remorse. His life was dense and palpitating. She was clean and dry as old bones.

Excerpted from Truthtelling by Lynne Schwartz. Copyright © 2020 by Lynne Schwartz. Excerpted by permission of Delphinium Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.