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Definitely more distant than usual.
Before we had our little fight about my rights as a paraplegic who also happens to be married, he would at least hold my hand or stroke my hair. Now, it seems like he hardly wants to speak to me at all.
The worst thing about it all is that even though I didn’t particularlylikehaving him touching me all the time, the human contact was not the worst thing that ever happened to me, and it helped me feel like he was really there for me because hewantedto be and not just because I’m his injured wife.
Whenever I think about what our life together must have been like before the accident, I want to weep for him. I can’t imagine being in his position, especially having so much hope when I recovered only to have no memory of him whatsoever. That must have felt like the ultimate cosmic fuck-you.
In a strange way, it seems to prove that no matter how much money someone has, tragedies can still happen to you. No matter how well you’re set up in life, something can still swipe you clean off your track and put you right on your ass, completely confused about how to proceed.
Periodically, I glance down at my wedding ring, saddened and hurt that I can’t even remember huge milestones like our first date, engagement, or even our wedding. I would love to see what my wedding vows were, whether or not I wrote them myself.
I’ve cried at night as the thoughts play back in my head, thoughts of always feeling so far away from the person I used to call my best friend, my partner.
Moving around the house helps me clear my head, so I decide to wander throughout the hallways to see if I can get myself out of this tangled mess of emotions. It’s not nearly as fulfilling as walking or running would be, I’m sure. But driving myself around the house in my wheelchair is the closest thing I’ll have to freedom until I learn to love my husband again.
Coincidentally, I find him on my first lap around the first floor. At first, I smell the distinct, cloying scent of cigar smoke drifting through the air, pointing me toward the front patio. He’s sitting out there, alone and clearly deep in thought, as I try to find the place where his gaze is set.
I struggle to open the heavy wooden door on my own, but I do succeed, smiling at my newfound ability.
He doesn’t turn to look at me when he hears the door open. Instead, he continues staring off into space, which I can now deduce is the sight of a young man in the driveway who is attentively cleaning his black Rolls Royce.
“Hey, I feel like I haven’t seen a lot of you lately,” I say apologetically. “I just wanted to make sure everything is alright.”
He glances at me out of his peripheral vision, choosing again to avoid looking directly at me. Why? I’m not sure. I figure it must be a power thing. Whatever. I’m doing the best I can.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he replies, his words short and concise as if he’s on the phone with his most annoying elderly relative.
“Um, I just wanted to ask you a few questions about what things were like before I was hurt,” I say, feeling the tension in the air as he silently tries to push me back.
He puffs on his cigar, and it takes everything in me not to cough hysterically as the draft carries the smoke into my face. “Questions like what?”
I’m already feeling defeated by how uninvolved and dismissive he’s being, but I know I have to try harder than that. If he needs me toreallywork hard to prove to him that I’m here with him, I will. I’ll play games with him. I don’t care.
“Tell me your favorite memory of us from before we were married,” I ask. I feel like I’m interviewing him, and in a way, I guess I am. Would it have been ridiculous of me to bring a notebook and a pen with me? I could always blame it on the head trauma.
I can blame a lot on the head trauma, it would seem.
He’s silent at first, and for a solid thirty seconds, I’m positive that I won’t get an answer out of him at all.
“We were at my cousin’s wedding, and it was your first time meeting my family,” he begins.
My stomach does a flip; I’m finally getting through to him.
“What happened? Which cousin?” I ask, trying hard not to sound too eager and failing miserably.
Another long silence proceeds my question. It’s annoying for sure, but this could just be a trick to see how easily engaged I am. I’ll hang on his every word if that’s what he needs.
“It was my cousin Rurik. You were never a big drinker before then, and you certainly were never an alcoholic, but you knew how to have a good time,” he continues, pausing yet again for emphasis.
“Go on.”
He puffs on his cigar again. “It was at the reception. People were giving speeches during dinner. You’d had just a little too much champagne, and to be fair, it was good champagne.”
Now I’m getting nervous. What on earth did I do?
“Did I dance on a table or something? You’re absolutely killing me with the suspense,” I reply, trying my best to sound invested instead of annoyed with him.
“No, no. But you did give a really long speech about how beautiful the couple was, about how you wished that everyone could have that kind of love. Even though you had seen them for a total of one hour in your life, it was still very moving. It showed me who you were in your heart, and that’s when I really fell in love.”
