Chương 4
Then his face closed again.
He picked up the prescription bottles.
“I’m taking these to the kitchen.”
“She’ll be furious.”
“I am rapidly adjusting to that possibility.”
“Don’t hide them.”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
The sentence hung between them.
Evan heard it too.
He set the bottles back down.
“Sorry.”
Laura pulled the quilt over her legs.
“I deserved that one.”
“I wasn’t trying to give you one.”
“I know.”
He sat beside her.
Not touching.
That was new.
They had been married nine years. Evan was a casual toucher. A hand at the small of her back. A knee against hers under restaurant tables. A palm on her shoulder while he reached past her for a coffee mug.
Now there were four inches between them.
Laura could feel every one.
“Are you scared of me?” she asked.
He looked at her.
“No.”
“You’re sitting like I’m contagious.”
“I’m trying not to act like everything is normal.”
“I don’t want normal.”
“What do you want?”
She started to answer and stopped.
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“I want you not to hate her.”
“I don’t.”
“You looked like you did.”
“I looked like I wanted to throw her out of the house.”
“That’s different?”
“Yes.”
Laura glanced toward the hall.
“Some of it wasn’t her.”
Evan’s expression sharpened.
“What does that mean?”
“The bruises.”
“Laura.”
“I bumped into things too.”
He said nothing.
“I did.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I believe you bump into things. You walk into the coffee table twice a week.”
“It’s badly placed.”
“We have not moved it since 2021.”
“That proves nothing.”
He looked at her.
She looked back.
For one brief second they were themselves again.
Then he said, “How bad did Tuesday get?”
Laura’s eyes went to the lamp.
The truth was harder in pieces.
Margaret had called because she believed a woman was in her house taking jewelry.
Laura found her in the bedroom pulling drawers out of the dresser.
The “woman” was Laura’s reflection in the dark television screen.
When Laura tried to calm her, Margaret accused her of taking a gold chain that had belonged to Evan’s grandmother.
Laura found it around Margaret’s neck.
That should have ended things.
Instead Margaret became more frightened.
She demanded her pills.
Laura refused because Margaret could not remember whether she had already taken them.
Margaret tried to get past her.
Laura blocked the hallway.
Margaret kicked her twice in the shins.
Then, with shocking strength, she shoved the small side table over.
A lamp shattered.
For maybe ten seconds Margaret did not know Laura at all.
And Laura—this was the part she had not told anyone—had grabbed Margaret by both wrists and shouted directly into her face.
Not calmly.
Not kindly.
Not like a patient caregiver.
“Stop it! Stop it! What is wrong with you?”
Margaret went still.
Then she whispered, “Laura?”
The shame on her face had been immediate.
Laura felt ashamed too.
They cleaned the lamp together.
Neither called Evan.
Now Laura told him.
All of it.
When she finished, he stood and walked to the window.
His reflection floated faintly in the glass.
“You screamed at her.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Laura frowned.
He turned.
“I’m serious.”
“That’s a strange response.”
“You’re acting like you committed a felony because you yelled after getting kicked.”
“She was confused.”
“You were scared.”
“She was more scared.”
“Maybe.”
“I shouldn’t have lost it.”
“Laura, I once screamed at a customer because he put diesel in a gasoline car and then blamed me.”
“That isn’t comparable.”
“No, because the customer didn’t hit me with furniture first.”
She rubbed her face.
He came back and sat down.
This time his knee touched hers.
“I’m angry with you,” he said.
“I know.”
“I’m really angry.”
“I know.”
“I also don’t want you turning this into a trial where you’re the only defendant.”
She looked at him.
The prescription bottles stood between the lamp and the clock.
“I didn’t know how to tell you after the first lie.”
“What was the first lie?”
“When you asked why I was going to your mom’s so much.”
“You said she was lonely.”
“She was.”
“Was that all?”
“No.”
“So that was the first one.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Then he asked, “Why me?”
“What?”
“Why was I the person you couldn’t tell?”
The question hurt more than his anger.
Laura looked down.
“Because you love her.”
“That should have made me the first person.”
“I know.”
“No, I’m actually asking.”
She picked at a loose thread on the quilt.
“Your dad.”
Evan stopped.
“He was sick for two years,” she said. “And everybody made you responsible for everything. Your mom made you responsible. Your aunt made you responsible. The hospital called you. Insurance called you. Your dad called you at work because he couldn’t remember what the doctor said. You used to sleep in your truck outside the shop so you could work at six after being at the hospital half the night.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He was dying.”
The room changed.
Evan looked toward the door as though worried Margaret had heard.
Laura lowered her voice.
“You never really came back from it.”
“That was seven years ago.”
“I know.”
“You think I’m still—what? Traumatized?”
“I think if somebody you love has a problem, you turn yourself into the emergency contact for the universe.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s also true.”
He looked irritated.
Which usually meant she had gotten close to something.
She continued.
“When your mom started forgetting things, I thought if I could keep it small, you could keep having a normal life.”
“And yours?”
“What?”
“What happened to your normal life?”
Laura had no answer.
Evan pointed toward her covered legs.
“This is what you traded for mine?”
“No.”
“It looks like it.”
“I didn’t think it would get this far.”
“It always gets this far when nobody says anything.”
“That isn’t true.”
“It’s true enough.”
May you like
They went quiet.
From down the hall came the sound of a cabinet opening.
