He waited. If she were nude she’d want to cover herself. The knowledge stung, but now wasn’t the time to try to fix that.
“Julie?” He turned the knob.
His naked wife stood at the sink with her beautiful back to him. The plum-like bruise on her left hip the only flaw on her soft skin. Tremors racked her body, her shoulders were slumped in utter devastation.
He risked an uninvited approach. He pulled a towel from a nearby rod and wrapped it around her from behind, turning her into his embrace.
He held her while she cried. Her entire being shook in his arms. He didn’t know how she was silently weeping that hard, that deeply, without being able to open her mouth and gasp for air.
She slid an arm around his waist and gripped the back of his T-shirt. How long had it been since he’d felt his wife against him, clinging to him like this?
“Oh, baby. I know. This is so hard for you.”
She burrowed against him, pulling her cast-covered arm in close, hiding in the cocoon formed by his body and the draping towel. He noted the wet rag on the floor.
“Do we need to cover your cast with a plastic bag so you can take a shower?”
She shook her head.
“Did you give yourself a sponge bath?”
She nodded, then lifted her gaze to his and scrunched a clump of her hair.
“You want to wash your hair.”
She sniffed. Nodded.
“I can do it in the sink if you want.”
She closed her eyes.
He felt like a beggar and it set his teeth on edge. An Oliver Twist figure in their relationship—please sir, may I have some more?—grateful for whatever crumbs she tossed his way.
He didn’t resent wanting to do things for her. But he did resent feeling like he had to ask permission to do anything. And if he didn’t ask permission, and then guessed wrong about what she wanted or needed him to do, the predictable chastising made the deed not worth the effort. Which resulted in Rick not doing many things he wanted to do, things for Julie that would make him happy.
Like wash her hair when she couldn’t.
“Julie. Do you want me to wash your hair?”
She opened her eyes, gulped and nodded.
With one hand, he pulled back the shower curtain and placed both her shampoo and conditioner on the counter by the sink. He turned the faucets, testing the water temperature with his fingertips as he braced her against his side. His heart spasmed. Giving to someone you love, helping her, shouldn’t be this difficult.
He released her, leaving only to grab two more towels. He draped one over the front of the counter and spread the other on the floor, motioning her to the sink. She inched forward, avoiding his gaze, clutching her towel to herself like her last cherished possession.
***
“Bend over slowly,” her husband said. “So you won’t get dizzy.”
The caregiver was back—the Rick Julie hadn’t seen for so long before her accident, the one she wished would stay even if she weren’t ill.
Julie obeyed, arms to her chest. Out of the corner of one eye, she saw him reach for cotton balls.
“They’ll keep the water out of your ears.” He gently put them in place.
She tried lowering her torso while keeping herself covered with the towel. But gravity was her enemy, and with only one working arm, she had no choice but to clutch the towel to her sides with her elbows, hoping it wouldn’t slide below her waist. She bent forward.
The warm water on her head, Rick’s hands in her hair, were heaven. She breathed deep, and water ran in her upside-down nose. She had to abandon the towel to pinch her nostrils; it slid to the floor. A heated blush spread all the way to her toes, then a chill raced across her skin.
His hands stilled. “Do you want it back?”
She turned her head away from the faucet, raised her good hand and made a knocking motion. Yes.
Rick sighed and with both hands, draped the towel over her exposed back and hips. He took another long breath, waited.
Julie cringed. Could this be any worse? Her bruised and battered face, ghoulish wires protruding from distorted lips, a blown out body. Her appearance must repulse him. Rick was still so handsome, so virile. She ached to look good enough to be his wife. To be someone he’d be proud to claim as his when in public.
To enjoy being claimed as his, in private. Surely he regretted marrying her.
She ducked back under the running water. He took his time, working the lather through her hair as if he were massaging away a headache, then patiently rinsed the thick waves. He wrung out excess water and applied her conditioner, and gently patted droplets from her shoulders and upper arms while they waited to rinse.
He kissed her shoulder blade and held his lips there, whispering against her skin the same way he had on her first night home from the hospital.
Had he meant that prayer? And did he really know her that well, well enough to realize her ability to sing was as crucial to her as her ability to breathe?
She reached over her shoulder and rested her hand on his hair. If only he’d stay this mindful of her, this gentle with her.
He turned his head and kissed her fingertips. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s rinse out the conditioner. I’ll bring in a chair. You can sit while I dry your hair.”
Julie raised her head, the towel shifted. She strained to hold it in place with the fingertips of her uninjured arm. In the mirror’s reflection, Rick stared at the shower, refusing to meet her gaze. Finally, he looked at her.
She felt exactly the way she had during the swallow test. Sitting in the chair, with a tube running down her nose, trying to swallow without choking, knowing her future would be determined by someone else’s assessment of her condition. She was scared to death. And if she read her husband’s expression correctly, he might be, too.
Neither knew where they stood with the other. Both expected rejection.
But she absolutely could not face her uncertain future alone.
She gave a weak, lopsided smile, and let the towel fall. Then she bent for Rick to rinse her hair, and for the first time in years let herself relax under his touch, her tears disappearing down the drain.
CHAPTER NINE
Rachel Matthews, Mrs. Tate’s third period English class:
Sunday, May 18:
Dad took us to church this morning. During the drive, Grandma asked several times if we should turn around and take her back home, so she could be there in case Mom needed anything. Which meant Grandma really didn’t want to go to church.
Dad kept rubbing his palm against his chin and assuring Grandma that Mom would be fine, and didn’t Grandma want to go to church? Which meant he knew Mom did not want to be alone with Grandma.
Mom and Dad are somehow happier. They have been spending a lot of time in their room. More than once I’ve heard Dad laugh when taking Mom a milkshake or smoothie for her meal. They even hold hands and take walks around our farm.
Mom really can’t talk. At all. It’s fantastic—or it will be while it lasts. She can’t yell at me about my chores or nag me about my schoolwork.
Before service started, Laurie Crane, our pastor’s wife (she’s one of the few, truly sweet people in this world) asked Dad if she could visit Mom this week. Dad scratched his chin again, said he’d have to talk to Mom about that, and suggested Laurie text Mom later this week. Then he introduced Grandma, who looked like she’d rather have her head shaved and eat goat liver than be in a church.
I have to admit, the choir didn’t sound nearly as good without Mom. It’s pretty weird that she doesn’t like to spend time with Dad in our stables, but gets psyched about singing to strangers every Sunday in a renovated barn.
There was no solo today. Unless you count Deacon Floyd, this really tall black man, who prays like he’s having an everyday conversation with God over peach cobbler at the Downtown Diner. He’s very loud, especially when we sing “Amazing Grace.”
At least the deacon can carry a
tune, unlike Mr. Clyde Newman. He and his wife, Millie, usually sit behind us. Millie always tells me how nice I look even though I’m Amazon-sized compared to every other girl my age, and Mr. Newman winks at me. I sometimes wonder if God will put Clyde on the back row in heaven. Millie doesn’t seem to mind his croaky voice; maybe because he says such sweet things to her she doesn’t care how he sounds.
But Clyde really nailed us today, while everyone stood for the last song, “How Great Thou Art.” Ben elbowed me, then the little twerp turned down his hearing aid. I nudged Grandma, whose eyes widened with each rising key change. I suffered through, along with Dad and Grandma, who nearly lost her balance and fell off her bright yellow high heels. Dad told me later he noticed Grandma swaying, and was very glad she didn’t keel over, because there isn’t a modest way to pick up a woman wearing a dress that’s “painted on.”
***
It was almost like before Ben was born.
Rick took a clockwise survey of his family around the kitchen table. Sean, his oldest telling a corny joke. Rachel, nudging her brother and laughing. On the opposite end sat his wife. Though they’d been taking walks together, once and sometimes twice daily, this was the first time she’d joined them at dinner since the accident three weeks ago.
She actually met his gaze and smiled at him like she was happy. With him. With her life.
To her left, the unexpected yet delightful Ben stirred ketchup into his mashed potatoes until they mimicked a sickly pink glob. The empty spot on Rick’s right was meant for Trudey, but his mother-in-law stood with her back to them several feet away at the counter. She’d insisted Rick sit and eat before the Kentucky Fried Chicken grew cold.
Trudey, who brought home dinner and a brand new cappuccino machine because the nearest Starbucks was too far away, was trying her hand at making Julie a smoothie in the blender. She pressed the button, pulverizing ice and fruit. “This won’t take but a minute,” she shouted over the monotonous, horribly-loud grinding.
Rick looked at Julie, twirled an invisible lasso in the air, flung it in Trudey’s direction. His wife stifled a silent laugh and shook her head, then smiled at him again. For another fantastic moment, childlike joy shone on her face and the corners of her mouth twitched up.
He pretended to reel Trudey in. Julie’s eyes rounded and she wagged a finger at him. He blew her a kiss.
Her eyes flashed with surprise and delight. She raised a hand to her bruised cheek, her eyes darted away, then finally settled on the ketchup bottle teetering on the table’s edge. She rescued it and sat it safely beside Ben.
Rick reached with his fork and tapped Ben’s plate, motioned to his son’s hearing aid, and pointed to the condiment bottle.
Ben recognized the prompt. “Thanks, Mom. I didn’t mean to knock it over.”
Under Julie’s bruises, Rick thought he saw the remnants of a tender blush. Then she jerked back as Trudey placed a tall glass in front of her.
“Now. I used non-fat yogurt so, well, you know. And no peanut butter this time, there’s too much fat in that. Instead there’s protein powder and lots of blueberries. They’re chock full of antioxidants. Can’t be too careful when you’re carrying extra weight. Higher risk for elevated cholesterol, diabetes, even cancer.”
All the chatter and clanging at the table ceased. All eyes except Trudey’s went to Julie, as Trudey clicked her way to her seat on ridiculous silver heels. Julie took the first sip of her drink, Rick stared at her until she finally raised her eyes again.
You are perfect, he mouthed.
His wife blinked rapidly. She raised straight fingers to her lips, drew them away from her mouth and toward him. Thank you.
Rick cleared his throat and addressed his children. “Eat up, you guys.”
They proceeded with the meal. Julie finished her smoothie, but didn’t leave the table.
Sean speared the last chicken breast. “Dad?”
“Split it with you.” Rick breathed an inward sigh of relief. Dinner was nearly over, almost without incident. He raised the last bite of chicken to his mouth.
Trudey slapped her hand on the table. “Pineapple! I forgot to put some in your smoothie. Eating pineapple is supposed to limit bruising after surgery. This girl at the gym was talking about it.” She cupped her hands over Ben’s ears. “Boob job.”
She released the little boy. “I bought cans of it today. Forgot it when I brought in the chicken. Julie, you have to have some every time you eat. Or those awful-looking bruises might stay until Sean’s party.”
Rick swallowed, looking at Julie. She was staring at the table in front of her. From four feet away he could feel her straining to keep her composure.
“Trudey. That’s a nice thought. It truly is.”
His wife’s eyes lifted to meet his. They were dull, flat, exactly like they’d been during the traumatic swallow test.
“But Julie doesn’t like pineapple.” Rick held Julie’s gaze. “According to her doctor, the bruises are healing normally. And those invited to Sean’s party are friends who know she’s recuperating from a serious injury. Folks here won’t think twice about her bruises. They’re glad she’s going to be okay.” He lowered his voice. “We all are.”
Life returned to Julie’s eyes like a steady moonrise over a pine forest. She gulped, and again signed thank you.
Beside Rick, Trudey puffed up. “Well, of course, we’re all glad she’s okay.” She pushed back her chair and turned her attention to Julie. “You know, it’s really too late to pursue your ridiculous childhood dream. I told Rick I’d help him sell the piano, it just collects dust and takes up the whole living room.”
His mother-in-law rose from the table, walked to the sink. “And all your talk about God. Your accident and losing your voice might be a sign it’s time you gave up singing and focused on a goal that means something.”
Julie jerked like she’d been slapped. She stood slowly, signed I love you to the children, then goodnight, and walked to the master bedroom.
Rick tossed his napkin on the table, looked at his children who sat silent. “Sean. Horses are in, they’ve been fed. Check the barn and lock up for the night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rachel and Ben. Dishes. Kitchen. It’s Friday, so you can stay up and watch a movie if you want. I’m going to take care of your mother.”
He walked past the bar. “Goodnight. Trudey.”
His mother-in-law didn’t answer. Rick didn’t care. He’d never known of anyone getting through to her.
He found his wife fully clothed, sitting on the edge of their Jacuzzi tub. After the last couple of weeks he knew what that meant. Still, the sheer joy of asking what she wanted, getting an answer, and giving it to her made their new ritual all the more fun.
“You want to soak?”
She nodded.
“Bubbles or salts?”
She lifted two fingers.
“Bath salt.” He started the water. While it ran, he helped her undress. “Lavender or vanilla?”
She grinned shyly and pointed at him. “Oh, I get to pick this time.” The game made him return the grin like a lovesick teenager. “Vanilla. And I get to wash your back.”
She nestled against him. Reached for his hand with her good one and squeezed, then raised it between them. I love you she pressed into his palm.
His heart skipped a beat. “I love you, too,” he said. “And your mother doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
CHAPTER TEN
The next day, late spring heat bore down on Julie as she and Rick finished their morning walk and made their way to the barn.
“You’re sure you want to spend a Saturday morning in here?”
Julie nodded. Want to be with you, she signed.
They stopped at the tack room door. “And dodge your mother until she leaves to take the kids to the movies?”
She nodded again and stifled a noiseless laugh.
“Can’t blame ya there. Especially after dinner last night.” Rick
opened the lock, smiled back at her over his shoulder. “I have a surprise for you.”
She cocked her head. He opened the door with a flourish, flicked on the overhead light and the radio permanently set to Rick’s favorite country music station. Phil Vassar sang about the last day of his life.
Her breath caught. The large room was spotless, the kitchenette immaculate. Beside Rick’s desk sat Sean’s old desk topped with her new computer—she’d thought it was still in the box, forgotten by Rick. In the far window, a portable air conditioner hummed, cooling the room.
“Come look.” He motioned for her to sit in a chair while he braced a hip on the desk and leaned toward the screen. He turned on the computer. “I took it back to the store, had them load your accounting programs.”
Julie’s eyes welled with tears. She looked up at his face, that rugged, handsome face he liked to shade with his favorite black Stetson.
Did you find your hat? she signed.
“It’s hanging behind you.” He jerked his chin. “Why?”
He looked at her as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with her, nothing repulsive about her appearance. She remembered that look from their first date, their first kiss, from before she’d gotten pregnant with Ben. She raised a hand to his jaw.
“I would never sell your piano, baby. And you should never give up your dreams.”
He’d been thinking of her when he’d fixed up this space. For the first time in a very long time, he’d thought of her, planned ahead, followed through and done something for her.
She raised a hand in a classic hold-on-a-second gesture. She clicked the mouse, brought up a word processing program, and clumsily typed with one hand.
You don’t know how much that means to me.
“Yes, I do.”
What I mean is—
He slid off the desk, grabbed his hat, and turned for the door.
“There’s just no convincing you, is there? If you don’t believe me by now ...” He shook his head and donned his hat. “Fine. I don’t know how much you want to sing. Look in the desk drawer, your ear buds and the CDs you like just happen to be in there.”
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