Forever, Interrupted(62)

“You okay?” I called out to him as I got into the apartment.

“Yeah, but I still can’t move that well,” he said.

“Well, you’ll be happy to know I almost crashed about four times in the damn truck going up Laurel Canyon. Why do they let normal people drive those things?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say you’re normal,” he said. “But I understand your point.”

I put the bag of McDonald’s on the bed and helped him to get to a sitting position.

“I really think I should call the doctor,” I said.

“I will be fine,” he told me and started to eat. I followed suit, and when I was done, my fingers covered in salt, my mouth coated in grease, I took a big sip of my large soda. I lay back, finally resting after the long day. Ben turned on the television and said he wanted to watch something. Then it all got fuzzy and I fell asleep.

I woke up the next morning to an empty bed.

“Ben?” I called out. He answered from the living room. I walked out there and found that a whole section of boxes had been unloaded.

“How are you feeling? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “As long as I stay upright and don’t twist, I feel fine.”

“I really think you should see a doctor. That doesn’t sound good.”

“Quit nagging me, wife,” he said and smiled. “Can I remove some of your dumb books? I want a place to put all of these,” he said. He gestured awkwardly to stacks and stacks of paperback books.

“Maybe we should just buy a new bookshelf,” I said.

“Or maybe you should donate some of these lame classics to the library. Do we really need two copies of Anna Karenina?”

“Hey! It’s two different translations!” I said. “You can’t just come in here and throw my stuff out because you need room, you jerk!”

“I’m not saying we should throw it out,” he said. “Just . . . donate it.” He opened the book up and smelled it and then thrust his head away. “Owow!” he exclaimed and rubbed his back. “These books smell all old and gross, Elsie. Let’s at least get you some new books.”

I grab Anna Karenina out of his hand and put it back on my shelf. “I doubt your books smell all that great,” I said. “Any book you have for a long time starts to smell of must. That’s how it works.”

“Yeah, but I don’t buy my books at used bookstores and flea markets,” he said. “I get ’em hot off the presses so they stay fresh.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake! Books aren’t bagels. They don’t go stale,” I said as I pulled one from the stack. It had a teenage girl standing in front of what appeared to be an oversize falcon. “Seriously?” I said.

“Let’s do a little experiment,” Ben said. “What’s Anna Karenina about?”

“It’s about a married aristocratic woman who falls in love with a count but she can’t—”

“I am falling asleep just listening to you. Do you know what this book is about?” he asked me, grabbing the falcon-cover book from my hand. “This book is about a group of kids who are part human, part bird.” He said it plainly, as if the facts spoke for themselves. “This is a better book.”

“You haven’t even tried to read Anna Karenina. It’s an incredibly moving story.”

“I’m sure it is,” he said. “But I like my books to take place ‘in a world where . . .’ ”

“In a world where what?”

“Just in a world where . . . anything. In a world where love is classified as a disease. In a world where the government chooses your family for you. In a world where society has eliminated all pain and suffering. I love that kind of stuff.”

“That last one was The Giver,” I said. “Right? You’re talking about The Giver?”

“If you tell me you don’t like The Giver, this relationship is over,” he said to me. “I have a zero tolerance policy on not appreciating The Giver.”

I smiled and grabbed his copy of The Giver. I opened it up and smelled the pages. “I don’t know . . . ” I teased. “Smells a little musty.”

“Hey!” he yelled, trying to pull the book away from me. But the pain was too excruciating. He was wincing and crying out. I took my keys off the table.

“Stand up,” I said. “We’re going to the goddamn doctor.”

“Not until you admit you loved The Giver,” he muttered.

I knelt down to help him up, and I told him softly, “I loved The Giver.”

He smiled and groaned as he got up. “I knew it,” he said, unfazed. “You want to know a secret though?”

I nodded.

“I would have adjusted the policy for you.” Then he kissed me on the cheek and let me help him out to the car.





SEPTEMBER


We have packed up most of his things by the afternoon, saving the bedroom and closet for last. We grab the rest of the boxes and head in there.

I throw the boxes onto the bed and look at the room. I can do this. I can do this. If I can’t, Susan will. So at least it will get done.

“Come on!” she says. “Let’s go.” She opens a dresser and starts throwing clothes into boxes. I watch as striped shirts and dirty jeans are pulled out of their rightful home. I start taking clothes out of the closet with their hangers. You don’t realize how dead clothes look on their hangers until the person who owned them is . . . Anyway, I don’t even bother to take them off the hangers. I simply throw them in the box with the rest of his clothes. I have made my way through the closet and through his nightstand before Susan is done with the dresser. She has a look on her face like she’s fine, but I spot her smelling a shirt before she puts it in the box. She sees me catch her.