8. James #2
I watch as she smiles, though the rest of her body looks weary and tired.
Last night, after we got back home, I helped her get Sophia ready for bed.
She bathed her while I combed out the wet knots in her hair.
I tucked her into bed after Kendall brushed her teeth and kissed her good night.
I didn’t ask if she was feeling better, though I wanted to.
After our little spat in the small half-bathroom at my parents’ house, I didn’t want to broach the subject.
I didn’t know how to broach the subject.
At least not without bringing up things I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to.
It left things suffocatingly tense in our home.
I ended up mumbling some excuse about my work laptop and having it get it out of the car, and she was already asleep by the time I made my way into bed.
A cavernous dam sat between our two sides of the bed.
I didn’t dare cross it, hoping to reach out and be able to feel her touch through the thick comforter.
I just watched her body rise and fall with each breath.
Every so often, she rustled against the sheets, repositioning herself or stirring with no cause.
I eventually fell asleep too, the images of her slightly agape mouth and fluttering eyes filling my dreams.
I swipe through my phone, going against my better judgment. Kendall answers on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Are you at home?” A question I already know the answer to.
“Um, yeah,” she answers, her voice hesitant. “I’m not feeling too well, so I had a sub fill in.”
When did she decide this? “You called them this morning?”
“Last night.” She already made the decision to stay at home before she even went to bed. And she didn’t even bother telling me.
“Do you need to go to the doctor?” I push aside whatever personal grievances I have with her withholding this type of information from me.
Something husbands and wives don’t generally keep from each other.
It’s like toying with the safety pin on a grenade when I pry about her well-being, but I’m worried it could be something more than a case of side effects or food poisoning.
“I already called my psychiatrist,” she tells me.
“She mentioned the new medication could cause some pretty serious nausea, so that’s probably it.
I just need to—” I hear heavy thumping steps followed by retching.
She doesn’t get the chance to hang up, so I hear her heave and gag.
“I gotta go,” she croaks before the line cuts.
Shit. Worry starts to claw at my chest. She’s been sick a whole twenty-four hours. I don’t think she’s even eaten anything since yesterday morning, and whatever she did eat, I’m sure has been emptied out of her stomach.
I shoot a quick email to my team, letting them know to call me if there are any emergencies. It’s swooshed out into cyberspace as I lock my computer and head out the door.
I don’t bother calling Kendall back. It wouldn’t do any good considering she’s sick. It’ll probably just end up with a string of false assurances, telling me I don’t need to check on her and that she needs to just sleep it off or something.
As soon as I get home, I beeline for our room and find Kendall in bed. She’s asleep, and I don’t want to wake her, so I move quietly to close the door, but she stirs.
“James?”
“Yeah,” I answer hesitantly. My hand is still on the doorknob, and I watch her lift her head, her weight on her elbow.
Strands of her hair fall across her temple and cheeks, and the collar of her sweater slips past her shoulder.
Aside from a single strap from the top she’s wearing, it’s bare.
I have an impulse to pull her sweater to cover her up and keep her warm.
“What are you doing here?”
“I just came to check on you.”
“You left work?”
I nod. I close the space between us, perching myself at the edge of the bed.
She smooths her hand over her head, pushing her hair back out of her face.
Her eyes are puffy, and I can see the paleness in her complexion run down her neck, but she still somehow manages to look beautiful.
Her brown eyes shimmer underneath her hooded lids, and a hint of a smile lazes her body back into the mattress.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” I tell her. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
She lazily reaches for my arm. Something I think she does out of muscle memory, not something she necessarily intends to do. I reciprocate, stroking a hand down the side of her head, tucking away the few strands she missed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I don’t ask what she means or say that an apology isn’t even necessary. Because we’ve gotten to the point where we fill in the blanks with unspoken words and hope.
“Did you want something to eat?” I ask. I hover closer, feeling her warmth radiate off her.
She shakes her head. “I just want to get some rest.”
“Okay,” I tell her, trailing another slow, soothing stroke down to her cheek. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
She tugs at my hand. Another involuntary move, one that has me stopping in my tracks.
“Sorry,” she says, as if she’s unsure why she reached for me in the first place.
She covers her still bare shoulder with the blanket, hiding her face behind it as well, almost as if she’s embarrassed for acting so impulsively.
“Do you want me to stay?” It’s something I would’ve offered in the past as a way to comfort her.
Usually through an embrace like spooning her from behind while we both crawl under the covers.
I’ve done it, and she’s done it too. When either one of us is feeling a bit under the weather.
Like an effusive bottle of cold medicine we each take in heaps.
And for some reason, it’s always more effective than anything that comes in a tiny medicine cup, bitter taste and all.
“It’s okay,” she assuages. “I’ll be fine.”
“I can stay,” I tell her. It’s firm and resolute, and I leave little room for doubt by lying next to her over the covers.
I don’t slip inside. Instead, I let her warm skin heat mine through a protective layer neither one of us is willing to give up.
I keep a barrier between us, the last bits of the wall we’ve unwillingly built, to let her know I pose no threat.
I don’t want to push her boundaries. I’m taking what I can get.
She scoots back to the middle of the bed, and we’re left facing each other. I use my arm as a pillow, watching her as my curative qualities seep into her tired body.
“You should probably eat something.” I fist my hand at my side. I’ve been touching her too much since I walked into the room, a habit we’ve slowly grown out of, and I stop while I’m ahead.
She nods. “The doctor said the same thing.”
“I’ll make you something,” I offer.
“It’s okay. I’ll get up to make something in a minute.” She sinks lower into the comforter. Her eyes grow heavy, and they flutter as she breathes a soft sigh. After a pause, she says, “Remember when Sophia was sick right before Thanksgiving?”
“When all she could keep down was Gatorade and popsicles?”
Her smile spreads wider. “All she wanted was ‘more Mommy and Daddy cuddles.’”
I remember it. It was when I realized all the remedies Kendall and I held through our hugs and kisses worked on Sophia too. She was fully recovered for Thanksgiving dinner, ready for turkey legs and pumpkin pie.
“Remember our first Thanksgiving? When we were first dating?”
She nods. It’s followed by a laugh. “Oh my god. I was so nervous.”
“My parents were so excited to finally meet you.” It was a time when our relationship felt so new and invincible yet vulnerable in a good way. Where the unknown felt exciting instead of scary. She was under the weather then too, but for different reasons.
“I was really hoping this medication would help,” she says, her words forlorn.
“It probably just needs to pass,” I assure. “Side effects usually subside over time.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She flicks a piece of lint off my shirt. “I know this has been really difficult for you, what with me being in therapy and trying to find the right meds, and I’m sorry. You didn’t sign up for this when we got married—”
“I signed up for you,” I interrupt. “This is just a speed bump.”
“What if it isn’t?” She looks up at me with glassy eyes. A tear slips out and slides down the side of her face, seeping into her pillow. “What if I’m this stupid, useless depressed blob for the rest of my life.”
“Honey,” I say softly. It’s been a while since she’s spoken so openly about her fears, the things that haunt her about her depression, and I want to bury myself in all of it. Use this chance to finally understand her. “You’re not stupid. Or useless.”
“But I’m depressed,” she quips.
“We’re working on that.”
She nods, and our hands find each other. This time, it’s her touching me. I feel her thumb brush gently over my knuckles, small circles like she’s testing the waters. “It’s been nine years, and I still wonder. I think about how different our lives would’ve been.”
It’s there. The small window with the jamb and sill painted over and over, causing it to stay glued together and closed for almost a decade. We’re finally attempting to pry it open, crowbar in hand.
“I know I shouldn’t think about it,” she continues, her gaze lost and hazy. “I see Sophia, and I know I should be thankful that we have her and that she’s healthy, but I can’t help but wonder…”
“I know,” I finally say after a quiet pause. “I wonder too.”
She looks up at me. “You do?”
“Yeah,” I croak.
She doesn’t ask me to elaborate or clarify exactly what it is I wonder. We both know.