“Then you’ll make it up as you go.”
I looked away.
“That’s a terrible plan.”
“It’s the only honest one I’ve got.”
I hated that answer.
“Then you’ll make it up as you go.”
***
By my eighth month, Mark had gotten weaker much faster than we’d expected.
One morning, I found him standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fighting with the buttons on his shirt.
“Give me that.”
“I’ve got it, Sally.”
“You’ve put the third button into the fourth hole.”
He looked down.
“Give me that.”
“Fashion.”
“You look like a confused accordion.”
That pulled a tired laugh out of him.
I stepped closer and fixed the buttons.
His hands had started shaking more often.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said.
“You look like a confused accordion.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re memorizing me.”
I stopped.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
I finished the last button and smoothed his collar.
“Like you’re memorizing me.”
“I want to remember everything so I can tell our daughter who you really were.”
His expression changed, but before either of us could say more, he caught my wrist.
“My mom asked about the donation again.”
Violet had always been warm with me.
When morning sickness flattened me, she showed up with groceries and tiny yellow socks because, according to her, “That baby is going to drown in pink.”
“My mom asked about the donation again.”
“I’ll talk to her,” I said to my husband.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she’ll listen to you.”
I frowned.
“That’s usually a good thing.”
“Not this time.”
