Page 64 of Wall

“Oh, John, no! The smell! No!”

Oh, yeah. What else is there? The towel hamper? I’ve got her halfway there when that smell hits me.

“Just put me down.” She’s slapping at me weakly. “Put me down, and I’ll be fine. But not by that hamper.”

I return her to the bench, but this time, I kneel on the mat, so we’re eye to eye. And there’s some distance in case she hurls. She wasn’t sick much with Peanut and Jellybean, but she was a champion puker with Lemon. One of the reasons we thought she was gonna be okay.

I let the sadness swell for a little, and then I tuck it back. Took me a long time to learn how to do that. Heavy helped. And working outside with my hands, not living emergency to emergency.

And I don’t have a clue what road Mona’s come down with the losses. We haven’t talked about it. We never did.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? I tried to fix it with flowers and day trips and bike rides and date nights, and she didn’t want none of that. Flowers in the trash ‘cause they smelled like a funeral, she said. Lake Patonquin had too many mosquitos, Pyle had too many people, and there was no movie she wanted to see.

There was nothin’ I could do to make her happy but leave her alone.

And she got sadder and sadder.

And I got—weak. I got weak, and I fucked up, and we didn’t talk about it then, neither. She said leave. I left. ‘Cause there was nothing I could do, was there?

Except I could have talked. I could have made her listen.

Any time after I pulled myself together, I could have picked up the phone. But I let shame get between us. It’s easier to be a wrong man than a weak man, right?

Easier to say nothing than try to fix things and make it worse with your words. The neckline of Mona’s scrubs is wet from her tears. I don’t think words could make shit worse at this point.

I exhale a long breath. This is not my fuckin’ forte.

“You’re pregnant.”

She inhales on a sob, wrapping her arm around her lower belly. “I don’t know. I’m spotting. I took a test. It was positive, but I’m spotting.”

Oh, fuck. I sit back on my heels, and she stands, really to bolt. I grab her calves.

“Sit back down, Mona. Talk to me.”

She looks down, and I look up, a man on his knees, praying, trying to pin the whole world with his eyes.

“Sit down, Mona. Please.”

“I can’t do this again.”

“I’m here, baby. You ain’t alone.”

“Youleft.” Her voice breaks.

“No. I, mean, I did. I left that night, and I—I went on a binge until I hit rock bottom. But when I got my head straight, you need to know, I came back. And I was always there.”

Her face is hardening. She don’t believe me.

“Do you know how many nights I slept in my truck in front of the Chaudharys? They called the cops. I had to talk to Ajay. Explain that sometimes I can’t sleep unless I know you’re okay.” Most embarrassing conversation of my life.

“I drove by Shady Acres. I’d follow you home sometimes at the end of your shift. I take Greg out for beers all the time just so he’ll talk about Lorraine and maybe mention you. I fuckin’ hate that guy.”

Mona’s staring at the floor, chewing that lower lip. What’s goin’ on in her head?

“I ain’t been with you, Mona, but I been around. I couldn’t leave you. You’re my world.”

Then her eyes meet mine, and there’s so much fear there.

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