The Wives(45)
He’s right. I’ve always refused to talk about what happened. It was too painful. I haven’t wanted to relive those feelings, drag over them again and again in some shrink’s office. My hurt is a living thing—sick and swollen, still festering under the surface of my calm. It’s personal; I don’t want to show anyone else. I nurture it on my own, keep it alive. Because as long as my hurt is still there, the memory of my son is, as well. They have to coexist.
“Thursday!” he says. “Thursday, are you listening to me?”
The smell—even the sight—of the food makes me sick. I begin pushing the containers off the bed, one by one.
The sound of them hitting the floor with wet thuds diverts Seth’s attention. He races for the bed, which is just five steps away, and grabs my wrists before I can get to the pea soup. I lift my knee under the white sheet and try to topple it off. That’s the one I’ve been looking forward to most—seeing it spread across the hospital tile like sludge.
“Our baby died, Thursday. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault!”
I writhe, throwing myself back against the pillows and then rearing up again. My wrists ache where Seth holds them and I bare my teeth at him. That isn’t true and we both know it. It isn’t true.
“You have to stop this,” he pleads. “All the lies you tell yourself. They won’t let you out of here until you tell the truth...”
An alarm goes off, high and ear-piercing. I wonder if it’s because of what I’ve done. Sarah races into the room, her braid flying comically behind her. She’s followed by a man and another woman—all flashes of blue scrubs and determined faces.
The alarm is here, in this room, I realize. Seth must have set it off. But no...it’s not an alarm...it’s me. I’m screaming. I can feel the burn as the noise churns through my throat and out of my open mouth.
One of the nurses slips, and she goes down hard into the smear of food across the floor. The male nurse helps her up, and then they’re on me, pushing Seth aside to hold me down. He backs away, against the wall, watching.
I expect his eyes to be wide with fear, or his face distorted with worry—but he looks quite peaceful. I feel something cold slide into my veins and my eyes flutter back. I force them open; I want to see Seth. He blurs for a minute, but he’s still there, watching. The drugs tug at my eyelids, pulling me down. What was that look on his face? What did it mean?
TWENTY
When I come to, I am cold. I don’t remember where I am, and it takes a few minutes for the events of the last few days to settle over me. Scratchy memories—they don’t feel good. The smell of antiseptic fills my nostrils and I struggle to push sheets aside and sit up in bed.
A hospital... Seth... Food on the floor.
I rub my forehead, which is throbbing painfully, and peer over the side of the bed; there’s no trace of the collage of color I left behind before they cocktailed me out. Why did I do that? It’s a stupid question because I know. Because Seth thinks food fights are wasteful and stupid. I hadn’t thrown anything at him, but throwing it on the floor had felt like enough—a childish display of acting out.
Practical, dry, somewhat stern Seth—that’s not how I would have described him a few weeks ago. What changed?
Hannah! That name hits me harder than the rest. Because it’s been how many days since I last heard from her? Three...four? I remember the look on Seth’s face before the drugs pulled me under... I couldn’t make out his expression; it was a mix of things I hadn’t seen on his face before. Isn’t that something? Being married to a man for years and seeing an expression for the first time.
I have to contact Hannah—see if she’s all right. But without my phone, I don’t have access to her number, and what if Seth has already been through my phone and deleted the texts we’d exchanged? Does he know my password? It’s not hard to figure out—our dead baby’s due date.
A new nurse walks in, this time an older man with a buzz cut, white eyebrows and a face like a bulldog. I slink down in bed. His shoulders are too wide and I can tell he won’t take my shit. I was hoping for someone younger and inexperienced, like Sarah, who I could talk into helping me.
“Hello,” he says. “I’m Phil.”
When did his shift start? When will he be gone?
“I spoke to your doctor. Seems like everything looks good with your head...” He knocks on his own skull with his knuckles as he pages through my chart and I grimace at the gesture. He’s a caveman in a nurse’s uniform. “They’ll be transferring you over to the psych ward.”
“Why? If I’m fine, why am I not being discharged?”
“Hasn’t the doctor spoken to you about this?” Phil scratches over his left nipple and flips another page.
I shake my head.
“He should be over in a bit and he’ll discuss it with you then.”
“Great,” I say dryly. I’m sour. I don’t like Phil. He is obviously ex-military and thinks everything should be done a certain way: discipline and order. I want a young, easily manipulated nurse like Sarah, who will feel sorry for me.
Before Phil leaves, I ask if I can make a call.
“To whom?”
“My husband,” I say sweetly. “He’s working in Portland and I’d like to check on him.”