stayed in her office, dozing on the window seat, waking to a cacophony of thoughts. Once
she ventured down to the kitchen for aspirin and herbal tea, but the fact that the kitchen looked so normal, when nothing was normal at all, upset her. She returned to her office, wrapped herself in an afghan, and shivered.
If she caught three hours' sleep, that was pushing it.
Nonetheless, she was in the kitchen the next morning when Zoe and Jon came down and saw them off with a promise to pick Zoe up after school. Yes, she would drive to the hospital, she had decided. She loved Michael--who was just the same, the nurse told her--too much not to go. Whether she would be able to talk to Teke was something she would face at the time.
Sam came down dressed for work, just as the children were leaving. Not knowing what to say to him, she went up to shower. The bathroom was filled with steam by the time she turned the water off. She was reaching for the towel draped over the door when she saw his tall, gray-garbed figure.
"Yes?" she asked in alarm, and covered herself with the towel.
"Can we talk a minute?" he asked.
"I'm not dressed."
"Come on, Annie."
She knew he was thinking that she was his wife, that he'd seen her undressed thousands of times, that he knew every inch of her body. But what he had done had made him a stranger. She felt self conscious. She didn't move. She didn't speak. She simply stared at his blurred form until he got the message. As soon as he left, she toweled herself off and put on a robe. Then she opened the bathroom door. "Yes?" He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his
elbows on his knees. His suit looked formal against the rumple of the sheets, not so formal against the other side of the bed, the neat, unslept-in side. Either way he looked handsome. She resented that tremendously.
"What are your plans for the day?" he asked with due humility.
"I don't know."
"You'll be at school?"
"For a while."
"Are you going to the hospital?"
"I'll take Zoe and Jana there after school. Jon will drive in with Leigh after practice."
Sam looked at his hands. "Can we meet for coffee?"
"I won't be staying that long."
He looked up. "Then an early dinner? In town? Here?" She shook her head. Her insides ached every which way around her heart. "I can't, Sam," she said.
"Won't."
"Can't. There's a war going on inside. I'm bleeding in places I haven't found and won't be able to find until the dust settles a little."
He considered that. After a minute he pushed himself up and stood, so straight and resignedly Sam that Annie was tempted to throw herself at him and beg his forgiveness. Only she wasn't the one to be begging forgiveness. She hadn't done anything wrong. At least she didn't think she had.
She was so confused.
She watched him go, thinking she should wish him good luck in his press conference but refusing to speak, thinking that she should be pleased at having turned him down for dinner but feeling no pleasure at all. Lest she start crying again, she
busied herself getting dressed, but by the time she was done she knew that she couldn't go to school. She couldn't stand before two hundred freshmen and discuss D. H. Lawrence.
D. H. Lawrence. Right there in the syllabus. Sons and Lovers. One man and two women, one earthy, one introspective. She couldn't possibly talk about that.
Cursing fate, she called in sick. Then she changed from her suit into a pair of jeans, threw on sneakers and a sweater, and climbed into the car. Thirty minutes later she was in Rockport, at the small, timeworn cottage she had called home for the first twenty-one years of her life.
The drive was rutted, not so much from the weather as from neglect. Peter Muggins couldn't be bothered with things like repairing pavement, mowing lawns, or maintaining picket fences. He was an artist. He let things flow. With a small, sweet, sheepish smile, he gave nature its run of the place.
Annie parked behind his rusted old station wagon and let
she ventured down to the kitchen for aspirin and herbal tea, but the fact that the kitchen looked so normal, when nothing was normal at all, upset her. She returned to her office, wrapped herself in an afghan, and shivered.
If she caught three hours' sleep, that was pushing it.
Nonetheless, she was in the kitchen the next morning when Zoe and Jon came down and saw them off with a promise to pick Zoe up after school. Yes, she would drive to the hospital, she had decided. She loved Michael--who was just the same, the nurse told her--too much not to go. Whether she would be able to talk to Teke was something she would face at the time.
Sam came down dressed for work, just as the children were leaving. Not knowing what to say to him, she went up to shower. The bathroom was filled with steam by the time she turned the water off. She was reaching for the towel draped over the door when she saw his tall, gray-garbed figure.
"Yes?" she asked in alarm, and covered herself with the towel.
"Can we talk a minute?" he asked.
"I'm not dressed."
"Come on, Annie."
She knew he was thinking that she was his wife, that he'd seen her undressed thousands of times, that he knew every inch of her body. But what he had done had made him a stranger. She felt self conscious. She didn't move. She didn't speak. She simply stared at his blurred form until he got the message. As soon as he left, she toweled herself off and put on a robe. Then she opened the bathroom door. "Yes?" He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his
elbows on his knees. His suit looked formal against the rumple of the sheets, not so formal against the other side of the bed, the neat, unslept-in side. Either way he looked handsome. She resented that tremendously.
"What are your plans for the day?" he asked with due humility.
"I don't know."
"You'll be at school?"
"For a while."
"Are you going to the hospital?"
"I'll take Zoe and Jana there after school. Jon will drive in with Leigh after practice."
Sam looked at his hands. "Can we meet for coffee?"
"I won't be staying that long."
He looked up. "Then an early dinner? In town? Here?" She shook her head. Her insides ached every which way around her heart. "I can't, Sam," she said.
"Won't."
"Can't. There's a war going on inside. I'm bleeding in places I haven't found and won't be able to find until the dust settles a little."
He considered that. After a minute he pushed himself up and stood, so straight and resignedly Sam that Annie was tempted to throw herself at him and beg his forgiveness. Only she wasn't the one to be begging forgiveness. She hadn't done anything wrong. At least she didn't think she had.
She was so confused.
She watched him go, thinking she should wish him good luck in his press conference but refusing to speak, thinking that she should be pleased at having turned him down for dinner but feeling no pleasure at all. Lest she start crying again, she
busied herself getting dressed, but by the time she was done she knew that she couldn't go to school. She couldn't stand before two hundred freshmen and discuss D. H. Lawrence.
D. H. Lawrence. Right there in the syllabus. Sons and Lovers. One man and two women, one earthy, one introspective. She couldn't possibly talk about that.
Cursing fate, she called in sick. Then she changed from her suit into a pair of jeans, threw on sneakers and a sweater, and climbed into the car. Thirty minutes later she was in Rockport, at the small, timeworn cottage she had called home for the first twenty-one years of her life.
The drive was rutted, not so much from the weather as from neglect. Peter Muggins couldn't be bothered with things like repairing pavement, mowing lawns, or maintaining picket fences. He was an artist. He let things flow. With a small, sweet, sheepish smile, he gave nature its run of the place.
Annie parked behind his rusted old station wagon and let
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