Neither of us slept particularly well in the hospital, and I’m happy to be back in our king bed with our nice sheets and my favorite pillow. I don’t close my eyes; I just watch him, grateful that he’s okay enough to be lying next to me.
It’s in this moment that I realize the only future I want is one with him in it. My fears about doing something stupid at our wedding can be managed. This job I cling to isn’t nearly as important as he is. Nothing is. And that’s a scary thing to come to terms with, because all of this could have gone so much differently.
I could’ve lost him.
I decide that the next time the wedding is mentioned, we’ll pick a date. And we can start to plan. I don’t want my fear getting in the way of my future.
-&-
Eventually I must stop staring at Alex’s profile and fall asleep, because I have nightmares about the trip to the hospital. I’m running, but I can never seem to get close enough to touch him, and all my screams are silent.
I’m woken by gentle shaking. “Violet, honey?”
I pry my eyes open. Light pours in through a slight gap in the curtains. Alex is lying beside me, lines creasing his forehead, jaw clenched. His tension never leaves him, even in sleep.
I roll over to find Daisy smiling sadly at me. “I think you were having a bad dream.”
My face feels damp. I lift a hand and skim my cheek. It’s wet.
“Would you like me to let you go back to sleep?” She sweeps wet hairs away from my face. “I know you must be exhausted.”
I check the clock. It’s four in the afternoon. Even though I’m not going to work tomorrow, if I keep sleeping, I’ll be up all night.
I shake my head and crawl out from under the covers. Daisy’s eyes go wide. Which is when I remember I got into bed naked. I scramble to pull the covers back over me.
“I’ll meet you downstairs.” Poor Daisy’s cheeks are red as she scurries out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Shit. I flashed my mother-in-law. She saw my naked beaver. I’m embarrassed, but it’s not really all that huge a surprise, considering my propensity for self-humiliation. I’m careful not to jostle Alex as I get up again, creep over to my dresser, and throw on some leggings, a sports bra, and a sweatshirt.
When I get downstairs, Daisy’s in the kitchen, busy chopping fresh vegetables. She’s found the only apron I own, which features a picture of Alex’s hot body in a pair of boxers. I wonder if she knows she’s wearing her son’s torso.
She looks up from the head of broccoli she’s started on and gives me a bright smile, like I didn’t flash her my beaver moments ago. “We’ll let Alex sleep until dinner?”
“Sure.” I stand in the middle of Alex’s kitchen, which is also my kitchen, at a loss. “Can I help?”
“I bought a few bottles of wine. The whites are in the fridge. Why don’t you pick one and pour us each a glass?”
“Okay.” I open the fridge and find Daisy’s stocked us with serious groceries. It’s loaded with fresh fruit and vegetables and the wholegrain bread Alex likes—the stuff with all the seeds and nuts in it, like someone dumped in a box of granola and messed up perfectly good food. Daisy’s also picked up a loaf of enriched white Wonder bread and a brick of lactose-free cheese. For me. Three bottles of white wine line the middle shelf, all my favorites.
I’m overwhelmed with emotion. Which has kind of been the way of things for the past few days. Daisy always tries to be helpful. And she also likes to be heavily involved in her children’s lives, which sometimes means she gets a little meddle-y. But that doesn’t seem to be her intent.
Her ability to keep it together makes me worry about exactly how fail I’ll probably be as a wife. I can’t cook—at least not good food. Sure, I can manage Kraft mac ‘n’ cheese or putting a pizza in the oven, but other than opening a can or heating something from the freezer, I’m fairly unskilled.
I couldn’t even hack Christmas dinner, and that’s just turkey and potatoes and some veggies. Or at least that’s what I thought. Turns out it’s a huge production. Daisy was here to help me manage that. In actuality, she usurped my kitchen, and I was mostly a bystander, taking orders.
I don’t even have to clean this house. Not that I’d want to clean four thousand square feet of living space, but I can leave my underwear in a pile in the middle of our bedroom, and they’ll disappear once a week and reappear, clean, in my drawer every Friday.
But I can give a mean blow job. And I have a great rack. So there’s that.
I can’t decide whether I feel grateful or useless. I decide it’s probably a combination of the two. Stupid tears fall as I take the Niagara Riesling out of the fridge and retrieve two glasses. I choke back an annoying sob.
Daisy sets down her chopping knife. “Violet? Are you okay?”
I wave the bottle and the glasses around in the air and nearly hit myself in the face. “I’m fine.” It comes out all high-pitched and unconvincing.
She takes the bottle and the glasses, likely so I don’t maim one of us with them, and places them gently on the counter. Then she pulls me into a hug. I turn my head in time to avoid her helmet of hair and rest my cheek on her shoulder pad.
She pats my back while I cry. I’m such a mess. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I sniffle.
“It’s been a difficult few days.”
I nod into her shoulder. It makes a crinkly sound. It feels like it’s filled with foam.