CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Finished with his morning shift, Bill walks into the sunlit but chilly living room, leaving the door to the den wide-open. Cuddled under a blanket on the couch and draining the last still-hot sip of her second cup of coffee, Karina is distracted by this, bothered even, as if she’d witnessed someone leave a bed unmade or the cap off a tube of toothpaste, nagging her like an aggressive itch she can’t yet scratch. She doesn’t keep the den door wide-open. She can’t shut it entirely as she would prefer, as Richard would be trapped inside, but there needs to be some physical, visible barrier between them. She keeps the den door positioned open only a crack, creating at least a semblance of separation and privacy. She feels safer that way. Not wanting to reveal this probably diagnosable compulsion to Bill, she’ll close the den door to an inch shy of shut after he goes. Then she’ll finally take a shower.
Karina anticipates their daily good-bye as Bill checks a text on his phone. Done, he looks up at her, but instead of offering his usual cheery hug and a kiss on the cheek, he stands there with his arms crossed, studying Karina as if she were a math problem he can’t quite figure out or a piece of art that sort of offends him but he’s not sure why.
“Okay, girlfriend, my one-thirty just canceled. Kensia will be here with Richard then. You’re meeting me for coffee.”
“I can put on a pot here if you want some coffee.”
“No. You’re getting out of this house, and we need to chat.”
“About what?”
“About you,” he says, assertive and concerned.
“Me?” She’s suddenly self-conscious about her bedhead and sweatpants, that she’s not wearing a bra under her T-shirt or any makeup, and that she doesn’t smell so good. “I’m fine.”
“You are so not fine. Ryan Gosling in The Notebook is fine. You’re Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler.”
Mortified, she wants to pull the blanket she’s wrapped in up and over her head.
“I’m just tellin’ it like I see it.”
“I haven’t showered yet,” she confesses, as if this weren’t obvious. “And I’ve already had two cups of coffee and can’t have any more caffeine or I won’t sleep at all tonight.”
“You can order decaf.”
“Honestly, I’m okay, Bill.”
“Decaf coffee at one thirty, or we’re going for martinis after I get off work tonight at six thirty. And don’t throw any more excuses at me ’cause I have a really big bat, and I’ll just keep hitting ’em back at ya.”
“I’m good.”
“You’re bad.”
“I can’t leave at six thirty. Kevin’s only here until six.”
Bill squints at her through his black-rimmed glasses as if he were contemplating his next move in a game of chess. “You’re driving me nuts.” He checks his phone again. “Okay, my next visit lives nearby, so let’s do this now. Come.”
He marches into the kitchen, a man on a mission, and not knowing what else to do, Karina follows him. They sit opposite each other at the square breakfast table. He looks into her eyes and says nothing, taking her in, and she feels so utterly exposed and yet safely held in his gaze that she finds herself working hard not to cry.
“Okay, honey, tell me what is going on. I need to know more about this situation.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean about the two of you. Not for nothing, but the tension in this house is killing me.”
Karina sits back in her chair, blinking, stunned. She thought she’d been nothing but perfectly civil, polite, and dutiful around Richard, especially in front of Bill, whom she adores and admires and wants to impress. She can feel the razor-sharp point of every edge between Richard and her, but she assumed their animosity was traveling on a private, restricted highway. She didn’t think Bill or anyone else visiting or tending to Richard could possibly pick up on it.
“Really?”
“You both do anything to avoid making eye contact with each other. Seriously, if you’re in the same room, your eyes dart around so much I practically have to sit down I’m so dizzy.”
“Well, you know we’re divorced,” she says in a hushed voice, not wanting Richard to hear her through the wide-open den door, wondering what details he’s already shared with Bill.
“Are you ever going to talk about your whole history?”
“To you?”
“To Richard.”
She pauses. She didn’t see that coming. She picks at a flake of skin on her chapped bottom lip with her thumb, smelling her coffee breath on her hand as she does. The skin peels too far without letting go, and a quick pinch stops her from continuing. She licks her lip, tasting blood.
Bill waits, watching her.
“Part of the reason we’re divorced is because we don’t know how to talk to each other.”
“Look, I don’t walk in your shoes, but I see what I see, and I’ve been through a lot. I’ve lost people close to me, and in the end, it’s all about peace of mind and closure. You’ve gotta get to forgiveness.”
She has taken Richard in. She pulls down his underpants so he can pee, she wipes his urine off the toilet seat and the floor when he’s done, she suctions mucus out of his mouth all day, she reseals that damn mask onto his face all night, she pushes liquid food and water through a syringe into his stomach, she makes sure the den door is cracked open instead of shut so he can come and go. And a thousand other things. Now she’s supposed to forgive him, too? She wants to do the right thing, and she wants to please Bill, but she’s maxed out. Totally tapped.
“I can’t do any more than what I’m already doing for Richard.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“Sweetheart, forgiving Richard is for you. Not for him.”
She softens her stance, surprised to be considering this perspective. Forgiving Richard would be for me Could that really be true? She tries it on, but instead of feeling true like the sky is blue, it feels more like the sky is infinite space extending through more than one hundred billion galaxies. It could be true, but she can’t comprehend it.
“I don’t know if you’ve fully grasped this, but he’s probably not going to live to be ninety.”
“I know.”
“I wouldn’t wait too long then. You might just miss your chance.”
Bill looks her straight in the eye, making sure his words landed, and her heart beats faster as if it’s been warned or dared or threatened. She nods but has no idea yet what she’s agreeing to.
“I gotta run. But also, honey, please. You gotta take care of yourself. I’ve seen too many caregivers burn out. You gotta get out of this house and have time that’s just for you.”
“I walk with Elise every week.”
“That’s not enough. What about meeting someone?”
“Like a man?”
“Yes, a man. Or a woman if you’re into it. Whichever. A date.”
“No.” She shakes her head for emphasis, dismissing the suggestion.
“Look at you. You’re beautiful. Or, you would be after a long shower and some makeup and maybe a trip to the mall.”
“The last thing I need is another man to take care of, thank you.”
“I’m not telling you to marry him, for God’s sake. I’m talking someone to wine and dine you. And getting laid wouldn’t hurt either, girl. I’m just sayin’. You know I love you.”
“Thanks. I just . . . I’m good.”
“Okay.” Bill stands, not believing her, but satisfied enough for now, needing to go. “But find something outside of this that’s just for you. ALS is going to take Richard down. Don’t let it take you, too.”
He kisses the top of her head and leaves the kitchen. She stays in her seat, listening to the squeaky sound of his rubber-soled footsteps on the hardwood floor of the living room and then the front foyer, the rising chord progression of his coat zipper, the questioning intonation of the front door as it creaks open, and the satisfying thump of it closing all the way shut.