***
The trips to the doctor were silent. The rides home from the doctor were even more so, if that was possible and, it was. She could tell you that the levels of silence were as varied and subtle as the shades of blue on the cards in the paint department at the Home Depot. She knew them all and learned a new one every day. At the doctor, she waited while he sat behind a closed door and did... She had no idea what. After fifty minutes, he would come out. Some days, he’d shake the doctor’s hand, thank him. Some days he’d walk out, walk by her, out the door, into the parking lot and she would find him, sitting in the back seat of the car, his eyes forward, dark and hollow. The doctor always took a few minutes to speak to her, to ask how he was at home.
She had begun to spout a litany of he’s: fine, good, even, cold, distant, better, closer, farther, silent, still. Still silent. Silent still. He would nod, pretend to understand, but not really. He would understand the condition, the outward manifestation but he had no understanding of the effect the silence, the stillness, had on her. On her insides. On her head. On her mind. On her heart. He would coach her to hang in there, to stay strong, to have hope and trust that the process took time, but it was working.
She smiled because she had no more tears to cry. She agreed that the process was working, because she had learned to swallow whole and pull nourishment out of the empty words of others. He would ask if she needed anything, perhaps a prescription to help her through. She thought about it once. She thought of saying yes, give me something, and then we can be two intermittent zombies bumping around in the velvet silence brought on by drugs and horror. That sounds just delightful. But, she didn’t.
She assured him she was fine, assured him she was feeling, crying, dealing, moving. He called her brave, said her husband was lucky to have her. She used to think she was lucky to have him. Lucky that someone like him saw her, loved her, wanted her. Now, she didn’t know what lucky was.
“Try to make things at home as normal as possible,” the doctor said. “To live the way you did…before.”
Good advice, she said, thanked him and walked slowly to the car. Good advice she thought only, before, she didn’t drive him to the doctor three times a week. Before he didn’t avoid her touch, sleep in the guest bedroom, stare into his hands, into pots of sauce, out windows and look at her like she was a stranger passing him in an airport. Before he didn’t sit in the back seat of the car. He sat in the front seat and drove the car, with the window open and the radio loud and his voice, off-key and silly, singing along with the songs. Before, she didn’t have to suppress her needs and her desires and her wants because her husband could explode like a mine, bits and pieces of his lovely self flying all over the place. Before was simply that: before. Now, she had to deal with, live in, and find peace somehow in…after.
He sat in the front seat this time. She got in, put the key in the ignition, turned it, took the car out of park, pulled out of the parking lot, pointed the car down the highway and drove. She went down the usual list of questions. Comfortable enough, warm enough, cool enough. Radio maybe? Music? Sports? He would sometimes mumble answers, sometimes say nothing, sometimes take charge, find a station, and talk about the session. She never knew. Next time, she told herself, she would ask the doctor if, instead of drugs, he could give her a chart, a decoder ring. Something that would help her read him. This time, he was silent for three and a half miles.
“Do you want to leave me,” he asked from his distance. She almost lost control of the car. “Have you had enough of this? I mean, I have but, have you?”
Gently, easy, she told herself. Calmly, casual as she could be. She told him, off-handed and easy, that she had never once thought about leaving him. She mingled in questions about needing seeds or something for the garden. No worries about her leaving. She loved him. She was proud of what he had done, his service, his sacrifice. What kind of person would she be if she left him because he was having a little struggle?
“A normal person,” he said and she bit her lip to stifle a cry. “A person who wants to live life like a normal person.”
She said nothing. He was looking out the window. They were living a normal life, she told him. She felt normal. She felt fine. She was happy. She was sure the doctor, the work they were doing, was working. She was sure he would be fine. She had no worries. “You have never lied to me before,” he said, still looking out the window, “so please don’t start now.”
“Okay,” she said.
“What do you need,” he asked. She said she needed some things from the store, but she would drop him home first. He asked again, “What do you need?”
Nothing, she assured him, she needed nothing, just him, and she had him, so she had need for nothing else. She stopped in front of the house, and he got out, walked slowly up the driveway and disappeared into the house. She drove to the market and sat in the car—weeping, screaming, pounding the steering wheel—for twenty minutes.
After she had calmed herself, dried her eyes, reapplied her lipstick and convinced herself she looked presentable, she went into the market and bought—she had no idea what. Things, stuff, anything to make her claim that she needed things at the store seem real and not an escape. Then back in the car, a breath, a smile practiced in the rearview mirror, and she was homeward bound.
She walks into the house, calls his name, no response and it begins. The search, the panic, the wondering if she’ll find him on the floor, hanging from a door, in the tub bathing in unstoppable blood. She checks the yard, the bathroom, the basement, the kitchen, the garage. She climbs the stairs, calling his name softly, masking the fear, masking the desire to scream his name, tell him to give her some idea of where are you?!
She opens the door to their bedroom, which he hasn’t slept in since the first night home, when he laid curled on his side and shook the bed with his sobs. She opens the bedroom door and there he is, sitting in a chair in the corner. Hands folded in front of himself, leaning on his knees, head down. He could be praying. If he was a black and white photograph she would admire it, applaud it, frame it and hang it in the den. But it is flesh and blood. His flesh. His blood. His pain. His silence. Hers for the asking.
“There you are,” she says, forcing her voice to sound breezy. He doesn’t look up. She waits, then turns to leave.
“What do you need,” he asks. She stops, turns, breathes, wishes, reaches, misses, falls, stands, runs, returns, waits, wants, pleads, begs, dies, is reborn and waits some more. All in the length of a heartbeat.
“Nothing,” she says. “I got some things for stuffed peppers at the store.” He looks up at her.
“You’ve never lied to me before,” he says again, his eyes are asking as well as his voice. “What do you need?”
She closes the door and leans against it. They hold each other’s eyes, and the silence starts to seep in under the door. She stomps her foot, and he jumps, and the silence retreats. He sits up now, hands on knees, and she can see his heart pound against his shirt. She pushes off from the door and walks across the room. She tells him she doesn’t need anything. She tells him she needed him to come home to her, and he did. She tells him she needed him to be safe and to make her proud, and he did. She tells him that she has all that she needs. She cannot, will not, ask for anything more. He listens, hears, nods and waits.
“What then,” he asks.
“It’s not what I need,” she says, putting words to thoughts, to feelings, to wishes, to dreams, “as it is so much what I want.” And she takes one small, careful step closer.
“What do you want,” he asks and she sees the fear in his eyes. She wonders at it and then, she understands. He fears her leaving. He fears her giving up. He fears her going away, and him having to deal with it all alone.
“This,” she says and reaches out her hand, places it on his head, runs it through his hair. Moves it down his face, pulling his face up, making him look at her. He tries to turn, but she doesn’t let him. She knows this can be bad, that anyt
hing that makes him feel unsafe can make him feel like he has to fight. “You're safe,” she says and he gives in, lets his face be held.
She pulls off her shirt and tosses it on the floor. She takes his hand and places it on her hip. At first, no response, and then, his fingers move around to the small of her back. She nods. He responds and then, he tries to pull it away, but she stops him, holds tight, and crushes his hand with her own.
He looks at her. She smiles, says yes. His hands discover her again. Remembers that there is safety in her warmth, in her body. Their eyes often meet, and she encourages him with smiles and nods. He touches her.
His mouth finds hers, and she holds his head tightly. His hands, finding confidence, find her. She undresses for him, slowly. He watches her as if it is happening to someone else and not him. She steps back and looks at him. He still looks at her as if she is not real. She steps closer to him, wraps herself around him, and he kisses her neck.
“This is what I want,” she whispers to him and he lifts her gently and places her on the bed. He stands over her and feasts on her with hungry eyes. She smiles. He leans down pulls her up, and they kiss for a long moment.
“I think,” he says, “I need this.” She nods, kisses him again and they slowly, carefully make love. He screams. He cries. He curls into her like a child and sleeps. She lays in the dark, listening to his breathing, feeling his body against hers again at long last. She drifts off to sleep.
***
In the morning, when she wakes, he is not in the bed. She gets up, puts on a robe, stands still and listens. She hears sounds from the kitchen, smells the coffee and...bacon. She walks into the kitchen, and he is there, barefoot, khakis, a T-shirt, working at the stove, cooking eggs and bacon. She watches for a moment and then approaches him. He turns, sees her, smiles. He leaves the stove and pours her coffee.
She sits on a stool opposite, watching him work. They say few words to each other, but the silence is comfortable. He puts plates on the table, and they sit and eat. She remarks on how good the eggs are. He says he learned a thing or two from a cook in his unit. He goes silent, and she sighs, thankful for the time she had, for the night before, for the morning. She begins to rise, to remove the dishes, to deal with the silence. Her reaches out and grabs her hand. He pulls her down, back into her chair. He keeps her hand in his.
“Can I tell you,” he asks.
“Yes,” she says. He nods. Thinks. Waits.
“I didn’t know I was capable of the things I had to do,” he began, “so when I am silent, I’m...” He stopped and looked down at his plate. She waited. “I’m trying,” he whispered.
“I know,” she tells him, “I see. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” He looks at her. He pulls her chair close to his.
“I’m very, very scared,” he says and she pulls him close, holds him tight and feels his body shake as he weeps into her chest. She kisses the top of his head, lets him cry and holds him with all that she has.
***
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