Page 31 of Beyond Oblivion

“Thank you,” she said quietly from our bed.

Lights off, blinds closed—just the faint glow of a heating pad cord snaking out from under the comforter, like a beige lifeline. Hazel, Beck and Sylvie would take turns covering the front desk at Skin Deep, while Camille lay there, trying to will the pain into submission.

“Water, tea, pills, heating pad… Want me to draw you a bath?” I offered.

She winced, then tried to move away from the pain.

I kissed her on the temple. “I’m so sorry, baby doll. God, I wish I could stay home and take care of you.”

“No, you’re already late,” she said, barely able to say the words.

I kneeled by the bed, gently placing my palm on her hair. “You’re so damn tough. I’d have crumpled like a piece of paper by now.”

She gave me a tired, faint grin. “Pretty sure that’s exactly what I look like right now.”

“No, you look beautiful. I’d be begging for that good emergency room liquid happy.”

“You’re tougher than you think, Mr. Maddox.”

“I used to believe that,” I muttered. “But you hurting? That’s the one thing I can’t handle.”

She jutted out her lip and touched my face, her eyes still closed, breathing through the pain.

“I’ll call and check in, Mrs. Maddox.”

“My favorite thing to be called.”

My eyebrows pulled together. Even in that state, she made sure I knew how much she loved me. “I don’t wanna leave.”

She peeked one eye open, trying to hide the agony just long enough to smile. “Go, baby. I’ll be fine.”

Fuck, I hate leaving her.

I pressed my lips against her forehead, letting them linger on her skin for a moment before I stood, patting my pockets. “Keys, phone, wallet.” I looked down at my wife, everything in me screaming to stay. “You sure? It doesn’t feel right, leaving you here like this.”

“I know,” she said. “But I’m always okay, and you have to go, babe.”

“I’m calling you in an hour,” I grumbled, forcing myself to walk out the door.

As I drove to work, the many conversations we had with the doctor ran through my head. There was no lasting cure for endometriosis except a hysterectomy, and it felt like we’d tried everything else short of sacrificing a fucking goat. Ablation, hormones, even laparoscopy for excising lesions and once to remove scar tissue. She went almost a year without pain and we were hopeful, but then it came back. When the gynecologist finally recommended a partial hysterectomy, Camille refused. The same endometriosis that was causing her pain was probably the reason we’d had a hard time conceiving. I’d begged her to have the surgery so many times, but every month she lay in the fetal position, determined to suffer in exchange for the small chance we might have a baby someday.

I’d once made the mistake of telling her kids weren’t worth her going through that every month, hoping that if she was holding out for my dreams of a family, she’d agree to the procedure. Not one of my finer moments. I thought it’d help if she knew I wasn’t putting baby dreams over her health, but all it did was throw her into a deep depression for six weeks.

I finally got her to smile again when I pointed out baby Vans at the mall. She wanted me to hold on to hope with her, and even if it made me feel like a selfish bastard, I’d do anything for my wife.

I picked up my phone and dialed.

“Kostas,” Lachlan answered, his voice muffled by his truck’s speakers. Clearly, he was on the move, too.

“I don’t know if we’re gonna make it tonight, bro. Cami’s not feeling great. She’s home,” I said, gripping the wheel.

“No worries, mate,” he replied. “Just let us know, and if not, I’ll grab the phone from you later this arvo.”

“SpeakEnglish, Vegemite.”

“Afternoon, seppo.”

“What the fuck did you just call me?”

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