The skin beneath the gauze was numb. Nothing there at all.
I kept thinking about yesterday morning—standing in front of the bathroom mirror, holding that ultrasound report. A tiny dot on the printout. The doctor had said it was a gestational sac, about six weeks along.
I'd smiled at my reflection, thinking I would tell Cliff that evening.
How would he react?
I spent a long time trying to picture it and still couldn't decide whether he'd smile or just go blank. Three years of marriage, and he had never shown me a single strong emotion. I'd told myself that was simply who he was. Reserved. Restrained. Not the type for pretty words.
I'd told myself that what we had might lack passion, but at least it had feeling.
I was wrong.
He wasn't without feeling. He'd just saved all of it for someone else.
On the third day in the hospital, Cliff came.
He pushed open the door wearing a black overcoat, a fruit basket in one hand. His color was bad, dark shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes, like he hadn't slept properly in days.
He set the basket on the nightstand, pulled a chair to the bedside, and sat down.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“The doctor said the surgery went well.”
“Mm.”
Silence.
He looked out the window. I looked at the ceiling.
“That day……” He trailed off before he really started.
I waited for him to go on.
“Phyllis had just flown back. I was giving her a ride from the airport. I didn't expect anything to happen.”
“Mm.”
“The truck driver was fully at fault. Insurance will cover it.”
“Mm.”
Another stretch of silence.
“Your leg. The doctor says if it heals well, it won't affect your walking.”
“Mm.”
He finally turned to look at me, a crease forming between his brows.
“Can you say something other than 'mm'?”
I turned my head toward him.
“What do you want me to say?”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
I looked at him and felt suddenly exhausted. Not a body kind of tired—the kind that leaks out from somewhere deep in your bones, the kind no amount of rest will ever fix.
“Cliff,” I said. “Why didn't you save me first that day?”
His expression shifted. Briefly, but I caught it.
“It was chaotic. I——”
“She had a scrape.”
“I didn't know that at the time.”
“You didn't know? You crouched in front of her for five minutes. And you didn't know it was just a scrape?”
He went quiet.
“Or maybe,” I said slowly, “you didn't care how badly I was hurt? You just instinctively chose to save her first?”
“No.”
“Then tell me why.”
He was silent for a long time.
Long enough that I thought he wasn't going to answer.
“She's afraid of pain,” he said.
I stared at him.
“She's been that way since we were kids. A single shot could make her cry for half the day. When I saw the blood on her leg, my first reaction was——”
“Your first reaction was to save her. Because she's afraid of pain.”
I finished the sentence for him.
He didn't deny it.
I laughed.
Laughed until the tears slid from the corners of my eyes and soaked into the pillow.
“I'm not afraid of pain, right?”
“That's not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“What I meant was……” He pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Everything was happening at once. I couldn't—I admit my first reaction was to go to her. But that wasn't because……”
“Because what? Because you love her?”
“Christine.”
“Because you never got over her?”
“Enough.”
“Because you only married me because she left the country, and you couldn't find anyone better?”
