“You shouldn’t have been out. Period. You promised to stay home! You even left a pot on the stove!” I hadn’t forgotten about the pot on the stove—I was only leaving for a short time and knew it would be safe, simmering on low. I often leave the house with a pot on the stove. But I don’t say that, Tom wouldn’t understand.
“I’d planned to stay home. I meant to. But then I heard her.”
“How could you even think it was Rosie?”
“Tom, believe me. Itwasher. The bark was hers. You would have thought it was Rosie, too, if you’d heard what I heard.” I want to appear firm and strong and clearheaded, but I’m holding back tears. I don’t want Tom to take my bandaged hand gently in his, to speak softly tome, to be kind, because the tears will spill over. They do, and I swipe at them impatiently.
“Whether you did or didn’t hear Rosie is beside the point. You shouldn’t have been out, wandering around.”Like a dog off its leash, you mean, I want to say.Like a child toddling into the street.I look in Tom’s concerned face and see a trace of smug confirmation: that he’s been right all along, that his errant wife needs to be scolded and confined.
“I took Tom Junior’s hunting knife with me,” I blurt. “I had it in my pocket. I’ve been carrying it—in my purse.” I want to impress him, but his eyes widen. He wipes a hand down his face and shakes his head.
“You think you’ll be able to reach for it and unfold it in time, with this guy coming after you?” His flushed cheeks are worrying; I need to calm him down. I’ve been so lost in my own drama lately that I haven’t considered Tom’s health enough. Tom, who should be resting when he isn’t at work, tinkering in the backyard or reading a magazine. Not patching up the neighbor’s window his wife crashed through in search of their impossibly reanimated dog.
Ididhear it, though. I did.
“I’m sorry, Tom. I convinced myself it was her—somehow. I thinkhedid it, to lure me farther than I wanted to go. Maybe he has a dog…I mean a dog with a bark like Rosie’s, and he…” I trail off as Tom stares at me.
“How would he do that, Judith? How would that even be possible?”
“I don’t know. He often does impossible things. But I’m certain I heard her voice. Her bark. I wasn’t mistaken. You don’t have to believe me, but I wish you would.”
Tom doesn’t answer but nods his head in a wobbly, broken way and eventually looks at me with brimming eyes.
“I can’t lose you, Judy. You have to take care of yourself.” I said the same words—or almost the same words—to Tom when he finally came to after his episode. We were in his hospital room. He was attached to monitors and an IV, and he looked so forlorn, so frail, not my usualsturdy Tom. I don’t know if he’s using the same phrasing on purpose or not, but I know I can’t deny him. I don’t want to.
“I will, Tom. I promise,” I tell him, because I can’t add,as long as the man lets me. “And I’m sorry about today. I don’t—know what happened.” I hear the sound of breaking glass all over again and can’t quite attach it to my own actions. Did I reallybreak a window? I have to look down at my hands to convince myself I did.Concrete evidence, like Denby and Christenson demand. I give a little laugh, and Tom looks at me.
“Maybe we should go to the station now and show them my hands. Tell themhedid this to me. Do you think they’d finally do something then?” I watch Tom closely—his cheek twitches first, and then he laughs. For a moment, my whole body relaxes. I reach my wounded hands to his face and bring it tomine.
37.
Dinner is a calm and soothing affair. It hurts to hold my spoon, but the stew I’ve made warms me, Tom’s quiet presence warms me, the glow of our dining room table in the yellow light warms me. I’m safe now, and the memory of that ravaged face looming in the window seems remote, insubstantial, unreal. I can understand that it happened, but I can no longer feel it. The intense sting of it. The hell of the unkempt house and running home with that fake Rosie barking after me. The humiliation of hiding my torn hands behind my back as Patty stared. All past now, all gone. It happened to the old Judith, because I am the new one, the one basking and serene here, spooning up wholesome food with my bandaged hands. I take a deep breath over my steaming soup, and savor the food and the peacefulness of being with Tom. My love. My steady one. His eyes crinkle at me over his bowl.
“Delicious, Judy.”
“Thankyou.”
38.
It feels like several months, not two weeks, have passed since I last entered the lecture hall. Paul isn’t here yet, and I’m relieved. But I’m anxious—and terrified—to see him. What will he do when he sees me? Nothing? Or a noticeablesomething—a dismissal, or a distant, friendly acknowledgment? Walking to my seat, I note my classmates’ interested glances—and then Charlie’s friendly smile and wave. It helps, to see Charlie. I exhale and sit down, farther back than I usually do. I wait tensely for Paul.
It was hard convincing Tom that I needed to resume this sliver of my routine, that the days at home since the false Rosie incident had begun to make me hopelessly claustrophobic. When he agreed—on the condition that he would drive me here and pick me up—I felt triumphant. Euphoric.Back to Paul’s class.A burst of activity to light the current gloom. But I hadn’t dwelled on what it would actually be like. How I would hear my classmates whispering and feel the weight of their gazes returning me to that tense gallery scene, when Paul and I argued, when I fled.
I keep my eyes trained forward, reaching for the envelope of prints I’ve brought. So foolish, to bring them at all. To think Paul will want to see anything of mine anymore—and to have gone back into the darkroom in the first place. But they tugged at me, those undeveloped film rolls from the city. I kept seeing flashes of the images I’d captured;I knew they would print well. Theydeservedto be processed and printed.It would be a crime, I told myself, channeling Paul,to neglect them. So I blocked out the bad, the very bad, from the day in the city and spent a mostly blissful time in the darkroom. Later, when I saw the familiar figure marring the background of every self-portrait, it made me hurt, but I cropped it out and told myself the result would be well worth the biting discomfort.
The result of having finished pictures in hand, of course, but the result of having Paul see them and extol their virtues, too. If I could bring myself to show him.
Sitting here in class with the envelope shivering in my hand, I doubt I can do it. I can make an excuse, tell him I haven’t had time.
But why should I even expect his interest, after all that’s passed between us?
Paul finally walks through the door, an uncharacteristic five minutes late. He seems frazzled, unprepared. As if he didn’t mean to walk into the room, didn’t mean to stand under these stark lights, blinking up at us. Despite everything that’s happened, the sight of him thrills me. I forgive him at once for sayinga fucking waste, for making me feel small. He said it in the heat of the moment; I shouldn’t have run away like a frightened child. I clutch my envelope now and think I really might do it: go down after class and try to show him. But what if he shrugs and turns away?
When Paul finally spots me, I can see he’s both regretful and relieved. He’s noticed my absence and hates that he might have caused it. I see it all in his eyes.Paul forgives me and I forgive Paul, I think.Iwillshow him my pictures.
39.
Paul announces that he isn’t feeling well. After lecturing half-heartedly for thirty minutes, he ends class an hour early. Students around me glance at their wristwatches, shrug, start to close their notebooks and rise. I can see signs of sickness in Paul’s pale, drawn face but I’m still deeply disappointed; I needed the full ninety minutes. After a few students wish him well, they swarm up the stairs and through the doors, eager for their extra fifty-plus minutes of freedom. I’ve turned to follow them, my heart sinking, when Paul calls me down.
