to Patrick.
I march into the bedroom. He’s dead asleep.
I take his shoulder and shake him. There’s no response.
“Patrick?”
I shake him again, a lot less gently this time.
“Patrick, wake up.”
I shake him a third time. His eyes flash open and his arm flies up and smacks my hand away, bats it so hard it hurts.
“Go away!”
I stand there, stunned.
This is not my Patrick. My Patrick would never do this. My Patrick would never dismiss me like some huge annoyance and certainly he’d never hit me. The Patrick I know and love is the gentlest man I’ve ever met. After eight years of marriage he still wants to hold my hand in public or drape his arm over my shoulder or around my waist. He still wants that one last kiss before we sleep.
His eyes are closed again, his breathing regular. I watch him. Not for long but I watch him. And once again I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Because already he’s fled consciousness. He’s not faking. He’s sound asleep.
This isn’t right. It’s not normal.
There’s something wrong with him. There’s something wrong with both of us.
It’s warm in the bedroom but I’m trembling. I very much need to calm down. I’m thinking that maybe that coffee might help after all, so I go back into the kitchen and spoon the French roast into the paper filter, pour the water, turn the machine on and wait.
Waiting’s hard.
A shower would help too. I know it would. I should clean myself up inside.
And I definitely need to shave.
The sheer fact that I need to shave boggles the mind. Hair doesn’t grow like this overnight.
Overnight. Good god. What day’s today?
I could turn on the television to find out but the television’s in the living room and there’s all that glass.
The computer. That’s in the study.
I sit down at our desk and boot it up and then I’m waiting again, for Microsoft to do its thing. I type in our password and wait for Windows. Finally there’s our desktop. I run the cursor over to the lower right-hand corner and get the time and then the date.
It’s 6:46. The date is May 29 th .
It can’t be.
Yesterday was Friday, May 11 th . I worked all day at the Tulsa ME’s office, mostly on a fat drunken Dutchman who’d slammed his car into a tree and a farmer who died of a heart attack in an enormous pile of turkey shit. I came home, and Patrick and I showered and fucked, had leftovers and wine for dinner and then we fucked again. And that last one was pretty wonderful.
May 11 th to May 29 th . How the hell can that be? Short of coma, how is that possible? If it were coma I’d have awakened in a hospital, not in my husband‘s bed.
I’ve lost eighteen days somehow. Two and a half weeks!
I’m glad I’m sitting down.
I can hear the buzzer from the Krups machine in the kitchen. The coffee’s ready. But I don’t want the coffee anymore. I feel like anything I put in my stomach would come right back up again. I need to know what’s happened to me.
Doc Richardson. John. He’d know I think -- if anybody would. He’s been our doctor forever. He qualifies as a friend by now. And I’ve got to tell him about Patrick too.
It’s much too early to call, but I can try him in an hour or so. Meantime I’ll have that shower. I’ve been sweating. I stink.
On the way to bathroom I look in on Patrick again. I think he may be dreaming. He hasn’t moved. His mouth is open slightly and his brow is knit and his eyes are restless beneath the lids.
He’s hiding in sleep. How well he’s hiding isn’t clear.
The shower feels wonderful. Our water pressure’s fine and I turn it on full blast, standing with my back to the shower-head so that the warm sting of it pounds away at my neck and shoulders and creates a sort of white noise in my head.
I don’t have to listen to myself think anymore.
I wash and condition my hair. I soap my armpits and shave away those tufts of fur. I shave
I march into the bedroom. He’s dead asleep.
I take his shoulder and shake him. There’s no response.
“Patrick?”
I shake him again, a lot less gently this time.
“Patrick, wake up.”
I shake him a third time. His eyes flash open and his arm flies up and smacks my hand away, bats it so hard it hurts.
“Go away!”
I stand there, stunned.
This is not my Patrick. My Patrick would never do this. My Patrick would never dismiss me like some huge annoyance and certainly he’d never hit me. The Patrick I know and love is the gentlest man I’ve ever met. After eight years of marriage he still wants to hold my hand in public or drape his arm over my shoulder or around my waist. He still wants that one last kiss before we sleep.
His eyes are closed again, his breathing regular. I watch him. Not for long but I watch him. And once again I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Because already he’s fled consciousness. He’s not faking. He’s sound asleep.
This isn’t right. It’s not normal.
There’s something wrong with him. There’s something wrong with both of us.
It’s warm in the bedroom but I’m trembling. I very much need to calm down. I’m thinking that maybe that coffee might help after all, so I go back into the kitchen and spoon the French roast into the paper filter, pour the water, turn the machine on and wait.
Waiting’s hard.
A shower would help too. I know it would. I should clean myself up inside.
And I definitely need to shave.
The sheer fact that I need to shave boggles the mind. Hair doesn’t grow like this overnight.
Overnight. Good god. What day’s today?
I could turn on the television to find out but the television’s in the living room and there’s all that glass.
The computer. That’s in the study.
I sit down at our desk and boot it up and then I’m waiting again, for Microsoft to do its thing. I type in our password and wait for Windows. Finally there’s our desktop. I run the cursor over to the lower right-hand corner and get the time and then the date.
It’s 6:46. The date is May 29 th .
It can’t be.
Yesterday was Friday, May 11 th . I worked all day at the Tulsa ME’s office, mostly on a fat drunken Dutchman who’d slammed his car into a tree and a farmer who died of a heart attack in an enormous pile of turkey shit. I came home, and Patrick and I showered and fucked, had leftovers and wine for dinner and then we fucked again. And that last one was pretty wonderful.
May 11 th to May 29 th . How the hell can that be? Short of coma, how is that possible? If it were coma I’d have awakened in a hospital, not in my husband‘s bed.
I’ve lost eighteen days somehow. Two and a half weeks!
I’m glad I’m sitting down.
I can hear the buzzer from the Krups machine in the kitchen. The coffee’s ready. But I don’t want the coffee anymore. I feel like anything I put in my stomach would come right back up again. I need to know what’s happened to me.
Doc Richardson. John. He’d know I think -- if anybody would. He’s been our doctor forever. He qualifies as a friend by now. And I’ve got to tell him about Patrick too.
It’s much too early to call, but I can try him in an hour or so. Meantime I’ll have that shower. I’ve been sweating. I stink.
On the way to bathroom I look in on Patrick again. I think he may be dreaming. He hasn’t moved. His mouth is open slightly and his brow is knit and his eyes are restless beneath the lids.
He’s hiding in sleep. How well he’s hiding isn’t clear.
The shower feels wonderful. Our water pressure’s fine and I turn it on full blast, standing with my back to the shower-head so that the warm sting of it pounds away at my neck and shoulders and creates a sort of white noise in my head.
I don’t have to listen to myself think anymore.
I wash and condition my hair. I soap my armpits and shave away those tufts of fur. I shave
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