Page 65 of Wall

“What if it happens again? What if I can’t handle it, and I push you away, and I lose you again? What if I can’t have babies, and it tears us apart?”

Shit. Yeah. The same questions have been keeping me up at night. I turn on the bedside lamp once she falls asleep so I can watch her, memorize her beautiful face, store up enough of her to keep me alive if it all goes south again. Even though, I know I couldn’t bear losin’ her twice.

My hands tighter and slide down to her ankles. Her socks are cold and wet. I hold on, try to warm her up.

“You remember the fire out on Hammerbacher Road?”

“The one with the barn where the horses got loose?”

“No. That was on Old Bachman Road. The one on Hammerbacher was a couple weeks after—after we lost Lemon. An elderly couple. She had dementia. Early stages. He was at a bull roast at the Elk Lodge. He came home; the place was in flames. He called us, and then he went in for her. We found them both on the stairs. He’d got her that far.”

She slides down to the floor. There’s not much room between me and the bench, so she’s kneeling between my knees. She grabs my hands, holds them tight with all her strength.

“I don’t remember that.”

“It was in the news. You might not have seen it.” She was real out of it then. She’d stare at the television, but she wasn’t really watching.

“You worked that fire?”

“Yeah. I found them. He’d wrapped a pillow case around her face as a mask.”

“Oh, John.” She squeezes my hands even tighter.

“That happened, right after we lost Lemon. And I got up, showered, went to work. And I tried to get you to come places with me. Or eat. I made you that appointment with the hair dresser, and you cried, and I felt like a total asshole—”

She don’t look too good, so I wrap my big ol’ arms around her to keep her steady.

“I tried to fix it, and I couldn’t, and it killed me. And shit could very well go wrong again, and I won’t be able to fix it.”

I worked so hard these past four years to be bigger, stronger, super-fuckin’-human. But the truth has a way of starin’ you in the face. Some shit cannot be beat into submission.

I’m looking past her, at the clock. Not ‘cause I care about the time, but ‘cause I can’t bear to see her disappointment. I can’t watch her give up on me again.

She rests her forehead on my chest.

“I left you,” she says. “I didn’t even know how far gone I was until I wasn’t anymore.”

“You went through hell.”

“It was months before I got myself together enough to get a haircut.”

“I know. That was a good day.”

“You saw my haircut?” She swipes her face on my shirt, sniffles, and looks up. There’s my beautiful wife. Still here. In my arms.

“I was working construction by then. I’d drive by the nursing home on my lunch hour. Check on you. I didn’t see your car. Kind of panicked. Drove around town. Lucked out seeing you come out of the barbershop.”

“Hair salon.”

“You were smiling, and you kept touching your hair.” I stroke a lock between my fingers. It’s a miracle to me how soft it always is.

“I’d signed up for nursing classes.”

“I was so proud of you. Iamso proud of you.”

She blushes a little. Ducks her head. And then her face falls. “What if I’m losing this baby?”

“Is it bad yet?”

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