Page 122 of Look on the Bright Side

TWENTY-FOUR

ELLIE

Gerald had thrown out his back. This news came via Winnie, who reported that she’d swung by the house and found her father lying on the floor, sweating in agony.

“I’ll be right there,” Ellie said.

She was at the studio, painting more of her rage work. That wasn’t really an appropriate name for it anymore. Her mood had gentled over bit by bit from when she’d first started. She had her moments, but these days, she was enjoying doing something different. Would she stop being a landscape artist? Probably not, but there was no law that said she couldn’t just mess around with paints. Rage had gotten her to that realization, and she would honor that.

The gallery was doing oddly well without her. Maybe because she wasn’t present, who knew? Meeko had stepped up his game, and maybe it was his youth, his good looks or his accent, but it would be a strong season.

And, Ellie admitted, some of her anxiety had doubtlessly seeped into the gallery atmosphere. Maybe her desire to make a sale had hinted at desperation. She’d been like a mother hovering over her child at the playground, stopping him from making friends because she wanted so much for him to make friends.

She had thought a lot about what Gerald had said…his jealousy over her work, whether it was the time it took, the creativity, the mental space, whatever. Had she neglected him? No. She hadn’t. But had she noticed his blues when retirement came so fast for him, when Robbie left home? “Last time I’ll move out, Dad, I promise!” their son had said. She could’ve taken more care, listened a little more attentively, looked a little more deeply.

Was it her fault that his attention wandered? Hell, no. A person was the only one responsible for their actions, and no one could force someone else to behave any kind of way. But she had seen what she wanted to see—her wonderful husband, their enviable marriage—and hadn’t wanted to know anything else. She could own that, at least. He hadn’t started talking to that trashy Camille Dupont for no reason. It hadn’t been a good reason, and he should have come to Ellie with his worries, but he hadn’t. Maybe she just hadn’t given him the space. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to know he was no longer middle-aged…that he was a senior citizen now. Maybe she didn’t feel like she had the time or patience to deal with him being anything but the best version of himself.

That wasn’t fair. He’d put up with her flaws and irritations, insecurities and frustrations all these years. She owed him the same.

“See you tomorrow,” she called to Meeko, who was talking to a couple in front of one of her cranberry bog paintings. Huh. She hadn’t realized he’d hung it. Good for you, Meeko, she thought.

The lawn mower had been in the driveway so long it was still strange to have it gone. The grass had been cut recently, and the flower beds had been weeded, a job she knew her husband hated.

She went inside the house.

“Hi, Mom,” Winnie said, kissing her on the cheek. “I got Dad to the couch, but I have to run. A baby shower in Orleans.”

“Hope it goes well, honey. Thanks for helping your father.”

“You bet.” Winnie was her favorite. Well, all the kids had their moments, but right now, she really appreciated Winnie’s matter-of-fact ways and dearth of questions.

There was Gerald, lying awkwardly on the couch. “You didn’t need to come,” he said. “But hi. Thank you.”

“What happened?” she asked.

He’d been at the urgent care center, helped a rather large man sit up on the examination table, and that was it. Felt the pop, the shredding pain in his lower back, and had walked in baby steps to his car. He thought lying on the floor might help—it sometimes did—but not today.

“Did you take a muscle relaxant?” she asked.

“Not yet. They’re upstairs.” His forehead was damp with sweat, and his face was flushed—a blood pressure spike because of the pain.

“Let’s get you into bed,” she said.

“I’m fine here,” he said. “It’s okay.”

She put her hands on her hips. “No, it’s not. Come on. Arm around me.”

She bent to help him, and as he stood, leaning heavily against her, she had the thought that this was where she belonged. That no one could do what she could do in this moment, knowing exactly how to support him, what he’d need, how he liked the pillows.

They went up the stairs, slowly, Gerald gripping the railing hard. He was breathing through his teeth when she got him into their bedroom and helped him recline.

“Jesus,” he hissed, taking a slow breath.

She got a pillow for under his knees, ran down the stairs for an ice pack. The countertops were clean, and a new clock hung in place of the one that had stopped working back when Robbie was in high school. She went back to Gerald and tucked the ice pack underneath him. Then she found the bottle of Baclofen tucked up on the high shelf in their medicine cabinet, though it had been years since they’d needed to stow prescription drugs away from the kids. A throwback to another era. She filled a glass with water, brought it to him and handed him the pill.

“Thanks, Ellie. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

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