The Friends We Keep

So far that wasn’t happening. Last weekend Rob had primed their bedroom. Over the past few days she’d painted the trim. Only about twenty or thirty minutes at a time. She rested when she got tired. But as much as she hated to admit it, her energy was coming back and doing something productive felt good.

She would be returning to work next week. She’d wanted to go back sooner, but Steven had insisted she take extra time. Despite the emptiness inside her every second of every day, she could appreciate that he’d been traumatized by what had happened to her. She’d nearly bled out in front of him. Worse, the bleeding had been from her vagina, so it wasn’t as if he’d been comfortable applying pressure.

The thought of her tall, strong boss wringing his hands as he waited for paramedics was almost funny, she thought with a smile. Then the smile faded because the results had left her half a woman.

Better to be dead.

She waited for that truth to settle in her. It had, at first. When she’d opened her eyes in the hospital, she’d felt that down to her bones. Now she was less sure. Because as much as she wanted to stay where she was—lost in her grief—her mind was moving on, too. Betrayal came in so many forms.

She heard Rob’s keys in the front door and walked out to meet him. He smiled as he stepped into the house.

“Hi,” he said as he loosened his tie. “How are you feeling?”

He always asked the same question, every night. The worry had faded over the past week or so, but he still asked. She wondered how long he would feel compelled to voice the question and if he would ever be able to completely relax about her body. Because while he hadn’t seen her lying on the floor bleeding, he’d been the one who’d been told she might not make it. That the first night was going to let them know how it was all going to end.

“I’m good,” she said. “I finished the trim.”

His smile faded. “Hayley, I said I’d do that this weekend.”

“I know, but I have to do something. I can’t watch daytime TV and I’m already reading nearly a book a day. Besides, Dr. Pearce said for me to start moving around.”

“I don’t think she meant you should be painting.”

“I’m careful.”

He followed her into the kitchen. She’d been marinating chicken all day. Now she pulled it out of the refrigerator, along with the salad she’d made and a bottle of white wine. Rob opened the wine while she got glasses.

In the past few nights, they’d started having a glass of wine before dinner. She wasn’t on any meds—she’d gone off all her hormones a long time ago. As for her postsurgery pain meds—she was done with those, as well. Over-the-counter ibuprofen handled any pain she still had.

They carried their glasses outside and to their small patio. The sun was still above the horizon, but trees and the neighbor’s two-story house provided shade.

She sat on the old, stained plastic chair she’d bought at the Goodwill. The yard wasn’t huge, but it could be pretty. Now that they weren’t having a baby, they had savings. They could do everything Rob had suggested to fix up the house.

As she thought the words, she waited for the pain to slash through her, to cut her into tiny pieces and leave the chunks to blow away in the wind. Only that didn’t happen. There was pain—plenty of it. Loss. Anger, even. She was moving too quickly through the stages of mourning. Sadly, she’d never had the chance to linger in denial. Having her uterus ripped out of her body had a way of doing that to a person. As for having a child, she was beginning to think she’d been on a fool’s errand. Maybe that had never been her destiny.

She turned to her husband. Rob was such a handsome guy, she thought, smiling when he pushed up his glasses with that automatic gesture she’d always liked. He’d taken a week off work to stay home with her and had only been back at the company a few days. He called every couple of hours, made sure she had plenty of food in the refrigerator. He took care of her.

Now he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. She studied his profile, the strength in his jaw.

They still weren’t sleeping in the same room, let alone the same bed. Most nights she tossed and turned—her restless sleep broken by dreams of children she would never know. But sometimes she longed for the comfort of his warmth next to her. His arm around her, as he pulled her close.

She missed him, she thought sadly. Missed what they had been to each other. The road back seemed rocky and hard to navigate. She was angry that he’d left her. He was angry that she’d been willing to sacrifice her life and their marriage for a baby. An impasse—one she wasn’t sure they could breach.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Good. Busy.” He picked up his wine, then glanced at her. “The usual.”

There was just enough hesitation for her to know something was wrong, but that he didn’t want to mention it, didn’t want to stress her. He was careful these days. Careful to ask about her health, to lightly touch her forehead to see if she had a fever. Cautious about holding her, in case he might hurt her still healing body.