His other hand was holding mine, and it was as steady and solid as I was used to when it came to Jesse. He had my hand gathered in his without a trace of that anxiety he had so bottled up inside it was about to explode all over the place. Like his hand holding mine, his leg skimming my leg was still and sure. The half of Jesse closest to me gave no indication that the man inside was falling apart, but the other half, the one farthest from me, looked as if it had staged war on him.
It was a phenomenon I’d gotten used to over the past few months. Ever since I’d flashed those pink lines in his face and he’d looked as though I’d pointed at my obituary in the newspaper instead. That pregnancy stick had been like a death sentence in Jesse’s eyes, and each day that followed only brought me closer to my date with the hereafter. He’d never said that in so many words, but he didn’t have to. His whole body said it. Or at least the half of his body that was just out of my reach.
“Hey, Jesse?” I gave his hand a little squeeze while I snagged the sandwich bag nestled inside my purse. “Maybe you should have some of this before we get called back there.”
Jesse’s eyes flitted to the door where the nurses called us back as if behind that door was a portal of no return. I had to wave the sandwich in front of his face before his stare could be broken.
“You made me a sandwich?” he said in a voice I’d gotten used to. It still sounded the same, but Jesse’s clear, smooth tone had been roughed up by stress and sleepless nights. His words came out sounding like they’d been rolled in gravel now. “You’re the one who’s pregnant, and you made me a sandwich?” When a sigh slipped out, it gave an indication of just how exhausted he was. That sigh made it sound like he hadn’t slept in months . . . which might not have been a stretch. “I should be the one making you sandwiches. Not the other way around. Why didn’t I think of that?”
Since the sandwich was still hanging in front of his face, I pulled out one of the halves and had to curl his hand around it. “Hmmm, I don’t know. Maybe because you were busy thinking about getting the truck loaded with all of our luggage, and worrying about every facial expression I made after eating too many pancakes and mistaking indigestion with sudden onslaught death?” When his head whipped in my direction, all I did was arch an eyebrow. His expression led me to the conclusion he wasn’t thrilled with my word choice. “Or maybe because you’ve been busy hovering over me, trying to predict my every need and want, along with trying to keep up with work while keeping our condo so clean and tidy dust and debris don’t dare think to cover one of the surfaces in Unit 212.”
I was looking into his eyes, but it was everything around them I was really noticing. Shadows had been under his eyes for weeks now, for so long it was as if those dark hollows had become permanent fixtures. Even his skin color had faded a shade or two. The hint of bronze that even a couple of long Seattle gray-skied winters couldn’t touch had been erased by a few months of his wife’s pregnancy. He still shaved every morning, but the small nicks and cuts he left behind told the story of a man going through the motions while his mind was weighed down with worry. The corners of his eyes were perhaps what I noticed most. Even when I woke up in the middle of the night to pee for the one hundredth time and he looked as close to asleep as Jesse got these days, the corners of those eyes were still creased. Three little lines stemmed from the corners of his eyes and stretched out to touch his temples.
It was clear he was worried about me.
I was just as worried about him.
“You eat it.” Jesse nodded at the sandwich still hanging in front of his face. “You need it more than I do. I’m not hungry anyway.”
I kept half-waving the sandwich in front of his face. “You haven’t been hungry since you know when, so if you’d been following your eat-when-I’m-hungry compass, you’d be a runway model in cowboy boots right now.”
He eyed the sandwich but wasn’t taking the nutrition bait. I wasn’t exaggerating that I’d all but force-fed him for three months. If I didn’t set something in front of him or remind him or, on some days, order him to eat, it would have slipped his mind entirely. That was how distracted he’d been.
“Come on, I’ll eat the other half if you eat this half,” I said.
Sometimes a compromise was the only way I got through to him. They said compromise was the key to any successful relationship . . . I just never imagined that meant divvying up an organic peanut butter and all-fruit spread sandwich in a gynecologist’s waiting room so my husband wouldn’t pass out from lack of sustenance.
Jesse took the sandwich half and nodded. “Deal.” He waited to dive in until I’d freed my half from the baggie and had sunk my teeth into it.
I wasn’t hungry. My stomach was still swimming with pancake, but if that was the only way to get him to eat, I could suck it up. He’d barely managed to get down one pancake that morning, and I hadn’t pushed him on it because I knew how nervous these appointments made him. The only reason I was pushing the PB&J issue was because I was worried he’d go into hypoglycemic shock or something if he didn’t get something in his system. All of that stress and the way it manifested in bouncy legs and twitchy hands had a way of eating into a person’s energy reserves.
We nibbled at the corners of our sandwiches in silence. That was something else that had taken some getting used to—the silence. Not just any kind of silence, but the kind I was acutely aware of. Jesse and I had been comfortable in the quiet places from the start of our relationship and had never felt the urge to fill a peaceful moment with mindless chatter, but this silence was different. Not exactly awkward, but noticeable. I preferred our shared silences to pass so naturally I didn’t even realize they were happening. Our quiet moments together didn’t pass effortlessly anymore.