A Terrible Mistake

by Antonios Maltezos

 

"She rolled off the bed and almost hit her head on the nightstand," he said, his eyes still closed in sleep, speaking in whispers as if she were lying next to him and not at her mother's house, safe from his outbursts.

He told me she'd asked for it, showed me how he closed the book he was reading by bringing his hands together in prayer, how he set the book down on his chest before lashing out at her.

"You were so angry," I said, caressing him the way she had done, desperate to calm his nerves.

"I didn't hit her," he swore, his body tense. "She only thought I would."

"Shhh," I hushed, trying my best during his time of need. "You're asleep, now. Let's sleep."

***

She wasn't going to be there for breakfast, busily doing her crossword and eating toast, her Post-its already spread out in the kitchen as he plodded down the stairs, the sleep still in his eyes. She wasn't going to call him at lunch, ask him how his day was going, keeping him connected to the rest of the world. And she certainly wasn't going to finish preparing the supper he was late on getting started. But he didn't know that. He dreamt they were on one of their rides in the country, a day off, the car fortified. There was good music playing on the radio, driving music-American Woman. She was in a happy place because he had helped make the sandwiches. Her head was bouncing to the tune and her hair was blowing in the wind.

***

He was going to awake with a start, just as the last of these dreams fizzled out. I wouldn't know what to say to him then—

Life goes on…
We can do better than her…
I'm sure you can fix it…

—he'll not know what to do. He'll stop eating. His pain will cause him stress, and then cancer. I can feel it already, along with my own heavy heart, my guilt for not stepping in sooner.

***

In another dream, they were naked in bed, huddling under a sheet as if it were a tent, her skin darker than usual, hot to the touch, and he couldn't tell if any of it was real, or just a memory from long ago, so he started to cry, still sleeping, but crying like a baby in a night terror.

I would have pulled her close rather than curl up into the fetal position. I would have forced her to rub her bone against mine.

"I love you," we whispered with one voice, the tongue loose in his mouth.

In the early years, I could feel her when he held her in his arms. I could kiss her face, her eyes, her cheek… her lips. You're safe with me, I'd sooth.

"I can't even remember why I was so angry…" he said, opening his eyes suddenly, blinding me with his revelation.

"Then why did you have to hit her?" I shot back, saddened for myself because there was no love between him and I, and she was gone for good—safe at last.

© 2006 Antonios Maltezos