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My wife rolled her eyes. “But it shouldn’t excuse it.”
“I never said that.”
Wit
h a heavy sigh, she clicked off the lamp. I settled under the covers, feeling the weight of the day beginning to subside. When minutes had gone by and she hadn’t offered a rebuttal, I moved toward her, in the dark. I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her close. I was aware of the outcome. But that never stopped me from trying. There were good reasons for the effort, and only one of them was the fact that she occasionally gave in.
“Are you kidding me?” she hissed as my hand trailed north. “After the day I’ve had? Seriously? Not a chance in hell.”
I should have stopped there. But I didn’t. There’s something that needs to be understood about my wife. You’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t. I pulled her closer and pressed my face into her neck, inhaling deeply. “Thank you for dinner.”
I felt her pulling away, eager to resume her normal position, moving swiftly to the other side of the bed. “If you think blanketed niceties are going to get you laid, you have another thing coming.”
“I hadn’t thought that,” I said. “But I could try harder, if it might help.”
“That’s your problem, Max,” Nina told me, the bitterness of her words filling the room like an inky mist. “You don’t know how to quit while you’re ahead.”
Chapter Ten
Laurel Dunaway
Journal Entry
James and I fought last night. A proper knock-down, drag-out fight. It wasn’t about normal everyday stuff. We hardly ever fight about that. This time it was about Leo, his prized cat.
I’d been in a hurry that morning, I’ll admit. I was distracted by my plan, and I must have left the back door ajar. After a thorough search of the house, it became clear the cat must have wandered out. I could have sworn that I’d closed the door, but as my husband so bluntly put it, who else could it have been?
It hadn’t helped that I’d called him over lunch about Dad. He hates to be disturbed at work. If I’d known the cat was missing, I would have kept my best sales job for a better time. Timing is very important. I know because the conversation was brief, and we agreed to leave it for later that evening. Which we did.
The gist of it is this: I want to bring Dad home to die. And by home, I mean to ours. I know it sounds crazy. My husband told me as much.
Actually, he was more succinct. He said I was out of my fucking mind.
He said he never signed up for this.
He said “over his dead body.”
Maybe he’s right. Still, bringing my dad here seems like the humane thing to do. And to be frank, the easiest thing for all involved. I can’t very well keep an eye on things if I have to spend four to six hours out of my day at the care home. That doesn’t even include travel.
In retrospect, the answer was right under my nose the entire time, by way of our spare bedroom. So, I checked with hospice. Dad could get the same care in our home, or very close to it, that they give him at Caring Hands.
It’s not like we don’t have the space, I explained to James. It would be easier. I wouldn’t be spread so thin, between home and Caring Hands—and the office, if I ever get back there.
My husband did not—does not—see it that way. He wasn’t the least bit intrigued. He was livid. To put it mildly. He accused me of betraying him, of going behind his back, of making decisions about our life without consulting him. I wasn’t trying to do any of that. I assured him of this in every way I could. In the end, I wasn’t very convincing.
Clearly.
When I went to let the dog out into the backyard, James shoved me out with him. “This,” he said, twisting the lock, “is how you properly close a door.”
At first, I just stood there with my mouth hanging open. Eventually, he closed the blinds so he didn’t have to look at me. I knocked for a good ten minutes, apologizing, pleading, until my sorrow turned to rage. Nothing happened, so eventually I gave up and sat on one of the lawn chairs by the pool. Freezing, I drew my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. I considered my options.
Why hadn’t we hid a spare key just in case, I wondered. But then I realized we aren’t those kind of people. We don’t prepare for the worst. We hope for the best and let the cards fall where they will.
Which meant I’d just have to wait him out. I know James like the back of my hand. Or at least I think I do. He couldn’t leave me out there forever. Problem was…I’d only been wearing shorts and a tank top, hardly what I’d need to stay warm in forty-degree temperatures. Minutes passed. And then surely, an hour. The blinds remained closed, and the door remained shut. The colder I got, the more I considered going to the neighbors. I concocted an easy story, demurely confessing that I’d locked myself out. People get off on being the hero, my neighbors more than anyone. They liked the chance to put us in our place and asking for a favor would be a good way to let them do it.
I could show my husband I wasn’t kidding. There were only two problems with this strategy: his car was in the driveway, and I’d been crying. Not only did I not want to cause a scene, it was past nine p.m. It wouldn’t be fair to inconvenience anyone, as much as I might like to. I have my standards. Nor did I need the complication of witnesses. I did not want to make my husband any more upset with me than he already was.
I just had to wait him out. I am a pro at that. Thankfully. It helps if I don’t have to contend with the elements, but as they say, what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.
