Page 50 of Wall

“We’ll go to the pharmacy in the morning. You can breathe, Mona.”

“I can’t. You weigh five hundred pounds.”

“You’re hurtin’ my feelings, woman.” He still rolls over, but he pulls me with him, cuddling me to his chest. “How about we freak out about this tomorrow?”

“Are you freaking out?” I squirm, but his enormous hands hold me in place.

“Nope.”

“You’re not?” He nudges my head until my ear is pressing against his chest. His undershirt is damp with sweat. His heart’s definitely beating fast, but not crazy fast. And it slows as I listen.

“Why aren’t you freaking out?” I whisper.

“Too tired.” He grunts, and then the big lug has the audacity to fall asleep. Never mind the mess. Our mistake. He’s out cold in sixty seconds.

It takes me a little longer, but not much. I drift off to the sound of his heart, steady and sure, as his warmth surrounds me.

???

I wake up, groggy and disoriented, hours later. Someone’s rummaging in the linen closet. The hallway light is on.

John?

It comes rushing back. I’m naked and sticky, tucked neatly under the covers. I listen a few more seconds. Those are John’s footsteps. He must be looking for a blanket. Instead of heading back to bed, though, he pads toward to door to the garage.

Is this a nail and bail? I fight to sit up as my stomach sinks. But John parked on the street. He’s leaving through the wrong door if he’s making his escape. I only use the garage for storage.

Besides, now that I’m looking around, his shirt, undershirt, and boots are on the floor. What’s he doing?

I slide my feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers and tie on a robe. Whatever he’s up to, it’s not clandestine. He’s making no effort to be stealthy.

He left the door to the garage open, and the bare lightbulb overhead is on. He’s back by the metal shelving where I keep the Christmas ornaments.

“John?”

I cross to him, and his face emerges from the shadows. His hair’s sticking up, and there’s a bleak expression on his face. He has a teal plastic tub in his hands.

“I’m sorry I woke you.” His voice is gritty with sleep. His eyes are red. Maybe it’s not from sleep.

“What are you looking for?” I step closer, and rest my hand on the tub.

He clears his throat. “The blanket my ma knitted. I wasn’t gonna take it or nothin’. I just wanted to see it. If you kept it.”

Of course I kept it. I take the tub from him. He lets me. I set it on the picnic table I brought in for the winter.

I haven’t looked in the tub since I packed it up, but I know exactly what’s in it. A stuffed rabbit John and I bought at a little boutique in Pyle when we went to dinner to celebrate finding out about Peanut. A congratulations card from his parents. We waited to tell mine—good thing—but we had to tell Ma and Pa Wall. A half-dozen little outfits because Ma Wall couldn’t help herself. A sonogram. A sympathy card.

Another sonogram. No cards. We didn’t tell anyone with Jellybean.

And then two more sonograms. No card. We were all so much more superstitious with Lemon. But then we passed the twelve-week mark, and Ma Wall presented us with a beautiful, crocheted blanket, a pastel rainbow with an adorable yellow bunny rabbit on it.

The blanket’s on the top. I hand it to John.

“You can have it, if you want.” It kills me to say it.

“No, baby. I just wanted to see it. I knew you had it somewhere.”

It was hard to put the things in the garage. I’d had them in my bedroom closet, but seeing the tub every day when I got my clothes was too hard.

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