David McElroy

I don’t know where the woman and the little girl in the image come from. I don’t know where that train station is. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. I just know the picture is burned vividly into my brain like a still frame from an old Technicolor movie.

It’s an image which has haunted my dreams for years, but I’ve never experienced the scene in real life. I’ve never been to this place. The girl and the woman both have blonde hair. One has a red coat, because it’s cold outside. The other coat is gray or black. The trains lining the platform are pulled by steam engines, so there’s the sound of hissing pressure lines and the air is heavy with the mist of steam.

Much of the picture is fuzzy. I’m meeting the woman and the girl at the train station. Who are they? Are they arriving? Or have they come to greet me as I arrive? I can’t quite tell. I know it’s my wife and daughter, but the image is like a dream that dangles something in front of me and never quite resolves itself.

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I like to pretend death doesn’t exist.

When reality forces me to admit death is waiting — even for me and for those I love — I like to at least pretend that life and death are purely mechanical processes. I like to pretend our bodies are just sophisticated biological machines.

Most of all, though, I like to pretend I don’t understand the role my emotional health plays in the physical health of my body. I like to pretend I don’t know that what goes on in my heart can kill me.

It’s as though there’s a self-destruct sequence in each one of us. When acute emotional distress hits us, that self-destruct sequence is activated. I’ve felt a nagging suspicion lately that the sequence has started for me — and I saw evidence this afternoon that terrifies me, because I’m not ready to die.

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If our culture didn’t believe so much in tales of redemption, what would Hollywood have left to make movies about?

You’ve seen that movie. You’ve read the book. They boy mistreats the girl. He doesn’t appreciate her. He takes her for granted. He has some serious weakness — an addiction to booze or pills or work or sex or ego — which causes him to risk everything he has.

Then something happens. It might be a dramatic speech. It might be the pain of losing the girl or his family. In some variations, it’s a religious experience. But the dramatic thing happens. He’s at his lowest. He realizes he’s been a terrible person and hurt people. In the climactic scene — frequently in front of many others as witnesses — he confesses what a wretch he’s been. He promises to change. She takes him back.

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