34. Heidi
HEIDI
Our first proper argument after Beau comes home begins with a chair.
This disappoints me. I would have preferred something dignified, or at least something that could be explained without admitting we are standing in the living room glaring at a piece of furniture.
It is Friday in February. I have worked a longer morning at the clinic, come home to Ivy, fed her, changed twice and spent twenty minutes trying to remember where I put the envelope I was holding when the phone rang.
Beau has been working more again, with the arrangements for Ivy settled between us and Mom and the help we chose. He is tired too.
The chair has moved from beside the window to the other side of the room.
“Why?” I ask.
Beau looks up from the rug where he is helping Ivy admire her own feet.
“The light was in her eyes this morning. I moved it while we were sitting there.”
“And left it.”
“Yes.”
I look at the empty place by the window. It is where I read, where I sit with Ivy when she is awake and interested in the branches, where I have been putting my body through these months until the corner has begun to feel shaped around me.
“I liked it there.”
“I can move it back.”
“You could have asked before moving it.”
His face changes. Not much. Enough that I see the fatigue beneath the offer.
“Heidi, I moved a chair.”
The sentence strikes the bruise beneath the argument.
“I know it is a chair.”
“Then why are we talking as though I packed the house?”
“Because I came home and something was different.”
He looks at me, understanding arriving too late to prevent the hurt.
“I need to be able to come home and recognize it,” I say.
His irritation gives way to concern, and that irritates me too.
“Do not agree because I made it tragic.”
“I'm not. I can see that.”
“Then tell me why you wanted it moved.”
“I liked being able to see the television without turning sideways.”
I open my mouth and find nothing ready.
“I've had a long day,” I say.
“So have I.”
The words land harder than they should. For a second I hear something he hasn't said: your day isn't the only one that counts. Then I remember that of course it isn't. I don't want a marriage in which his tiredness has to remain invisible because he once made mine irrelevant.
But I am still angry about the chair.
“I want it back,” I say.
“All right.”
His tone is too flat.
“Don't say all right like that.”
He looks at me.
“Like what?”
“As though you're agreeing because you have to.”
“I am agreeing because you want the chair there. I still like the television from this angle.”
“Those are different things.”
“I'm tired, Heidi. I get to be tired in my own house.”
“I know you do.”
We stare at each other. Then Ivy grabs her foot with both hands and looks triumphant.
“Somebody's had a breakthrough,” Beau says.
I laugh. The sound comes out half angry.
He rubs a hand over his face.
“I snapped. I'm sorry.”
“I was making the chair carry quite a lot.”
“Yes,” he says, then looks at me carefully. “Possibly beyond the manufacturer's intention.”
This time I laugh properly.
We leave the chair where it is while I go upstairs and change out of my work clothes. Beau stays with Ivy. Nobody leaves the house. Nobody announces a pause in the marriage. The argument remains downstairs, unfinished but not enormous enough to follow me into every room.
I wash my face. In the mirror I look tired, irritated and faintly embarrassed. An ordinary woman at the end of an ordinary difficult day.
There is something almost luxurious about that.
When I come back, Beau has put Ivy safely on her blanket and is standing by the disputed chair with his hands on his hips.
“I've considered an alternative,” he says.
“Does it involve demolishing a wall?”
“Only emotionally.”
He turns the chair slightly and moves it nearer the window without putting it directly in the bright patch. From the new angle, I can see outside and he can see the television.
I sit down.
“Well?” he asks.
“Annoyingly reasonable.”
“I'll try not to make a habit of it.”
He crouches beside me. The familiar height difference vanishes, and I can see the tiredness in his eyes.
“I don't want us afraid to disagree,” he says.
“I know.”
“I also don't want to use that as an excuse to be an ass.”
“A narrow path.”
“Especially for me.”
I touch his cheek. He leans into it, and the affection between us feels sturdy enough to survive the last half hour without pretending it was pleasant.
“I had a child cry for most of the morning,” I tell him. “Her mother is moving them, and she doesn't want to leave her class. I couldn't make it better.”
His face softens.
“That's what came home with you.”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Tell me about her.”
So I do. Not every private detail, not anything the child would feel betrayed by me sharing. Just the sadness of being small and having your life changed by adults who have reasons you cannot use to make the loss hurt less.
Beau listens. Then he tells me about a conversation with an employee whose work has been slipping because his father is ill. There is no grand solution in either story. We are two tired people who have spent the day wanting to help.
I reach for his hand.
“We need dinner.”
“We do.”
“And I need not to decide what it is.”
“I can manage that.”
“No elaborate surprise.”
“Food. Plates. A modest concept.”
I smile. “Excellent.”
We eat early, then give Ivy her bath together.
She has developed a fondness for kicking at precisely the moment one of us thinks the splashing has stopped. Beau takes the first assault with dignity and the second with an expression so offended that I have to put down the towel before I drop it laughing.
“She planned that.”
“She has your strategic mind.”
“You've blamed me for the forehead before.”
“It's a comprehensive contribution.”
He leans close enough to kiss me, damp sleeve brushing my arm. Ivy kicks again and catches us both.
“Neutrality,” I say. “Wise child.”
After she is dry, fed and asleep, we sit in the newly positioned chair together. It is not really large enough for two, which makes it an excellent piece of furniture for our purposes. I curl sideways in Beau's lap, his arm around my waist, and rest my head against his shoulder.
“You can see the television,” I say.
“I've lost interest.”
“Fickle.”
“Distracted.”
His mouth touches the side of my neck. My eyes close. The warmth moves through me.
Now I want his mouth on mine.
I turn in his lap and kiss him until the tiredness changes shape. His hand spreads over my back, pulling me closer, and I feel the smile he is trying to hide when I catch a breath.
“What?” I ask.
“I support the new arrangement.”
“The chair?”
“Among other things.”
I laugh into the kiss.
Later, when we go upstairs, I leave the room exactly as we have made it. I do not look back to check whether it still feels like mine.