11. Jules
— ? —
Jules
On day four, I refuse to see him.
He doesn’t bring divorce papers, which surprises nobody. I tell the nurse I’m not accepting visitors, and I lie in bed and stare at the wall while he sits in his hallway chair all day.
He disappears for an hour and a half around lunch, and through the cracked door I watch him come back carrying a paper bag. He talks to the nurse in low tones with an earnest expression, and she shakes her head. He nods, accepting it without argument, and hands her the bag.
“Soup dumplings,” she tells me later, setting the container on my bedside table. “From that place across town. He said they’re your favorite.”
They are my favorite, and he drove forty minutes to get them.
The nurse has to feed them to me, which I hate, and I eat every last one while he sits in the hallway, and I try not to think about what that means.
On day five, my Kindle lights up with notifications.
There are thirty-six new books on it. It’s my entire wishlist, downloaded to my account overnight, including the smutty ones. Especially the smutty ones.
Later that morning the day nurse unwraps my bandages with careful fingers.
“These are healing well,” she says, examining my palms. “The blisters are starting to scab over. Another few days and you should be able to grip things properly again.”
I look at my hands. They’re red and raw, and the skin is tight and shiny where new tissue is forming. They don’t look like my hands anymore.
“The doctor was impressed with how quickly you’re recovering,” she continues, applying fresh ointment. “You must have a strong constitution.”
“I’m stubborn.”
“That helps too.” She starts wrapping the new gauze, and her movements are practiced and gentle. “Your husband is the same way, I think.”
I don’t respond.
“He hasn’t missed a day, you know. Not one. He’s out there every morning when I start my shift, and he’s still there every night when I leave.” She secures the bandage with medical tape. “Honestly, a few of us are jealous. It’s rare to see a man so devoted.”
“It’s guilt.”
She looks up at me with her eyebrows slightly raised.
“He feels responsible for what happened. Once the shock wears off, he’ll go back to his normal life.”
The nurse is quiet for a moment, finishing the wrapping on my other hand.
Then she says, carefully, “I’ve been a nurse for eight years.
I’ve seen a lot of guilty husbands. They bring flowers and they sit for an hour and then they go back to work.
They don’t sleep in hallway chairs for five days straight. ”
“He’s very committed to his guilt.”
She smiles a little. “If you say so.” She gathers the old bandages and stands. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No. Thank you.”
“I’ll check on you again in a few hours.”
She leaves. Through the window in my door I can see Harry in his chair, reading on his phone, and I look away.
I tell myself she’s wrong.
***
On day six he’s still here, and I let him in, not because I’ve forgiven him and not because I’m ready to talk, but because I’m desperate.
“I need help,” I say when he appears in the doorway. “With my hair.”
His eyebrows rise slightly. “Your hair?”
“I haven’t washed it since before the fire. It’s disgusting. And I can’t…” I hold up my bandaged hands. “I can’t do it myself.”
My palms have healed enough that I can just about hold my Kindle, but nowhere near well enough to work shampoo through my hair and rinse it out. The nurses have offered to help, but the thought of a stranger’s hands on my head makes my skin crawl.
Harry is not a stranger. Harry knows exactly how I like my hair washed, from the temperature of the water to the pressure of his fingers to the way I like him to scratch lightly at my scalp.
I hate that I know this about him. I hate that two years of marriage have left me knowing exactly how good he is at this particular task.
“Of course,” he says. “Whatever you need.”
He looks at the wheelchair in the corner, and then at me. “I’ll have to get you into that first. With your leg, you can’t put weight on it yet.”
“I know how a broken leg works.”
“So you know I have to lift you.”
I do know. I’ve known since I decided to ask him for help with my hair, and I’ve been dreading this part.
“Just do it,” I say.
He moves to the side of the bed and slides one arm under my knees, careful to avoid the cast. His other arm goes around my back, supporting my shoulders.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
He lifts me, and it’s the first time he’s held me since the fire.
I keep my arms stiff at my sides. I keep my face turned away from him, staring at the wall instead of at his jaw, his neck, the familiar slope of his shoulder.
He’s being so careful. I can feel it in the way he moves, slow and controlled, making sure he doesn’t jostle my ribs or bump my leg. His arms are steady around me, and his grip is firm but gentle.
He smells like soap and coffee, and under that, like himself. I hate that I notice. I hate that my body remembers how safe I used to feel in his arms.
He lowers me into the wheelchair. My ribs protest the movement, but I don’t make a sound.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Fine.”
He adjusts the footrest so my cast is supported. His hands are quick and efficient, and they don’t linger.
“Let me know if anything hurts.”
“Everything hurts. That’s not news.”
He doesn’t respond. He just wheels me toward the bathroom, and I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead.
The bathroom is small but functional, with a sink low enough that I can lean over it from the wheelchair. Harry positions me carefully, adjusting the chair and testing the water temperature three times before he’s satisfied.
“Tell me if it’s too hot,” he says.
“I know the drill.”
He cups water in his hands and pours it over my hair. The warmth feels incredible after days of dry shampoo and hospital sponge baths, and I close my eyes.
His fingers work shampoo through my hair, massaging my scalp with exactly the right pressure. He’s gentle with the tangles, working through them slowly instead of yanking, and he’s careful to keep the water out of my face.
He’s done this a hundred times, in our shower at home, in hotel bathrooms on vacation, and in the tub when I’ve had a bad day and just needed someone to take care of me.
I hate how good it feels, and I hate how much I’ve missed being touched by him.
“This is guilt,” I say with my eyes still closed. “You know that, right? This is you feeling guilty about what happened.”
His fingers go still for a moment, and then they resume their work.
“This is me being in love with my wife,” he says.
“Harry…”
“You can call it whatever you want. You can tell yourself it’s guilt or obligation or penance. But I know what it is.” He rinses the shampoo out, and his hands are gentle as they guide the water through my hair. “I love you. And I’m going to keep loving you whether you want me to or not.”
“That’s not how love works.”
“It’s how my love works.”
He applies conditioner, working it through the ends of my hair with careful fingers. The room smells like my shampoo, which he must have brought from home, and I have to fight the urge to lean back into his touch.
I don’t say anything else. I let him finish in silence, and I let him rinse the conditioner out and wrap my hair in a towel. When he wheels me back to my bed, I don’t look at him.
“Thank you,” I say, and I pick up my Kindle and turn it on.
He stands there for a while. I read the same line four times without looking up, and eventually he understands that I’m finished with him.
“I’ll be in the hall,” he says.
“I know.”
He leaves the door cracked behind him.
I sit in my bed with my wet hair wrapped in a towel, and I stare at the wall, and I do my best not to think about how his hands felt on my scalp, or how gentle he was with the tangles, or how he knew exactly what I needed without being told.
I hate him. I hate him for being so good at taking care of me when he couldn’t be bothered to listen to me for two years.
***
The evening passes slowly.
Odette comes on shift at seven. She finds me sitting up in bed with damp hair hanging in tangles around my face, trying to read my Kindle and failing.
“Let me help with that,” she says, pulling a comb from her pocket.
I don’t argue. My hands can grip the Kindle now, barely, but holding a comb and working through tangles is beyond me.
She sits on the edge of my bed and starts at the ends, working her way up, the way you’re supposed to, and the way Harry did earlier.
“He’s still out there,” she says conversationally. “He asked me to tell you goodnight.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“Of course not.”
She works through a particularly stubborn knot, and I study the ceiling.
“Has he eaten today?” I ask.
The question comes out before I can stop it. I don’t know why I asked, because I don’t care.
“Half a sandwich,” Odette says. “Around three o’clock. I made him eat it.”
“Good.”
“You don’t care, of course.”
“I don’t.”
“Of course not.” She moves to the other side of my head. “He’s going to make himself sick, sitting out there day after day, barely sleeping and barely eating.”
“That’s his choice.”
“It is.”
“I didn’t ask him to do it.”
“No, you didn’t.”
She finishes combing and starts braiding, and her fingers are quick and practiced.
“There,” she says, securing the end with a hair tie from her pocket. “That should stay out of your face.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She stands and straightens her scrubs. “I’ll bring you some dinner in a bit.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’ll eat anyway.”
I do eat, alone. Afterward I read one of the thirty-six books Harry downloaded to my Kindle, a romance about a grumpy CEO and his sunshine assistant, which feels pointed in ways I don’t want to examine. I watch the light change outside my window as the sun sets and the city lights come on.
The wedding photo he packed is on my bedside table. I’ve turned it face down twice today, and I’ve turned it back up twice.
Out in the hallway, Harry is settling into his chair for the night with his jacket wadded up behind his head. Every few minutes he looks up and checks my window, as if he’s making sure I’m still there.
I don’t acknowledge him. I don’t wave or nod or do anything to indicate I know he’s watching, but I know.
I fall asleep around ten with the Kindle still in my bandaged hands.
I dream of the bathroom.
I dream of the door that won’t open, and the smoke filling the room, getting lower and lower until I have to crawl on the floor to breathe. I’m calling Harry’s name over and over, and my voice is getting weaker and my throat is burning.
Then I’m at the window, looking down at the street, and he’s there, safe and alive, with Avery pressed against him and her hand on his arm and his head bent toward hers.
I scream for him. I pound on the glass until my hands bleed. But he doesn’t look up and he doesn’t hear me, because he’s too focused on her.
I wake up gasping, with my heart pounding and my body drenched in sweat.
And Harry is there.
He’s standing in the doorway of my room with his hand on the frame and his eyes wide with alarm, because he’s been sleeping in that hallway chair every single night, and he heard me screaming before anyone else did.
“Jules,” he says.