I creep through the house and almost trip over our dog in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, girl.” I bend and scratch Artie’s ears. Her fur has gotten wiry in her old age, white around her muzzle and eyes. She stares at me now, almost in accusation, because I’m coming home so late and disturbing her sleep. “I’m sorry,” I tell her again, as though she understands. She lays her head back down and watches me until I disappear into the master suite.
I brush my teeth, but that’s all I do. I strip off my germy scrubs, release what’s left of my bun and climb into bed naked, like I do every night. Jude stirs, sits halfway up and peers at the clock.
“Well, technically, you did make it home today,” he says, his voice husky with sleep, and the clock says eleven fifty-eight, so he’s right.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
He’s oblivious to my nudity, and I to his, and he lies back down. Before long, he’s snoring lightly, and even that doesn’t keep me awake. I fall into sleep, and I stay there for hours.
2
Now
Jude
I wake with a start.
My eyes open, and I search the dim room for what woke me.
I skim over the familiar objects in my bedroom. The furniture, the walls, the bold abstract art, before my gaze falls upon my phone.
That was the noise. It vibrated with a text against the wood of my nightstand. I blink the sleep away and reach for it.
I miss you. I hate this place.
My wife.
My head falls back on the pillows, my hand grazing the empty side of the bed. The sheets there are cold. Corinne should be there next to me, her breath even and strong, her hair splayed out on the pillow, her warmth leaching into my body.
But she’s not.
I don’t know how she got access to her phone.
I miss you, too, babe, I answer. Um. How do you have your phone? Isn’t that against the rules?
They aren’t supposed to use their cell phones at Reflections, since the devices are considered a distraction from treatment. As a therapist myself, I can’t say I disagree with that theory.
I had a bad night, so the day nurse is giving me 5 min to chat with you.
My gut contracts at that, at the notion that she has to get “permission” to talk with me, and once again I wonder if we’re doing the right thing. If I’m doing the right thing. I pushed hard for her to admit herself so that I wouldn’t have to do it against her will.
But the idea of Corinne in a mental hospital kills me.
Are you ok now? I ask.
Her answer is immediate. Not really. I’m ready to come home.
She adds a smiley face, but I know she’s not feeling smiley. No one in her situation would.
It’ll be ok, I assure her again, as I have four thousand other times this week. I promise.
I’ll take your word for it, she replies, and if I concentrate, I can almost see the wry expression on her face as she types. Her blue eyes will be wide, her brow furrowed. I smile. I love you, Ju.
I love you, too.
I gotta go, she tells me. My five minutes are up. See you Saturday?
Yes! I answer. I’ll be there.
Who would’ve ever thought I’d have to schedule a visit to my wife within a two-hour visiting window? Not me. Not her. In fact, not anyone who knows us.
But it’s our reality.
I burrow my head under my pillow, as though if I tunnel far enough into my bed, this new reality will escape me. It doesn’t, though. The image of finding my wife the way I did, in a pool of blood and insanity, will stay with me for the rest of my life.
I’ll never be able to unsee it.
My dog whines two minutes later, saving me from the memory, her bladder having shrunk with her old age.
“Just a minute, girl,” I mumble. “Give me a few minutes.”
She can’t wait, though, and I eventually haul myself out of bed, trudging out into the October cold, opening the back door.
Artie ambles out and relieves herself, taking her time. She sniffs at this and that, and I know she can’t see what she’s doing. Her eyes are cloudy with cataracts, and she can’t hear a thing.
“Come on, girl,” I call to her, loudly, shivering. “Get in here. It’s cold.”
When she’s good and ready, she returns to the house, and after I feed her breakfast, I throw some clothes on. I go running every morning. It used to be for fitness reasons only, but now it is also to relieve stress.
Lord knows, these days I’ve got an excess amount of that.
I run my normal route, through the running trails at the park, through the trees. I can see my breath and my shoes crunch through the dead leaves drifted into piles on the ground. One foot in front of the other, pounding down the path, because this is something I can control. I can run and run and run, until all thoughts evade me, pushed out of my brain by the simple and basal need for oxygen. The need to breathe.
The human body is interesting in that way. It will allow your mind to play its games, right up to the point where the basic need to live overtakes all else. My lungs burn more and more. I ignore it as long as I can.
It’s only when they feel about to burst that I finally stop, my hands on my knees as I pull air into my lungs. It takes several long minutes of thinking about nothing but breathing before I come back to the present.
Back to reality.
The Chicago traffic hums in the distance, as people race to work, but I’m removed from it here. This park is secluded and quiet, tranquil and removed. It’s a nature reserve, and if you close your eyes, you truly feel like you’re alone in the middle of nowhere.
Until a twig behind me snaps.
Startled, I whirl around.
I scan the tree line and the moving limbs, and there’s not another human soul here. The wind blows and bites at my face, and there’s nothing out there but the sun rising in the distance.
I’m alone, as I always am on this trail at this hour.
No one is here, and Corinne’s paranoia has affected me.
I wasn’t alone, Jude! she’d told me, babbling until she lost consciousness in the ambulance. I wasn’t alone.
But everyone knows she was. The alarm hadn’t been tripped. No one had broken in. It’s understandable why she’s paranoid, after living through what she did so long ago, but the fact remains, she has grown paranoid.
She had been alone that night.
Just as I’m alone now.
Jesus, Jude, I mutter to myself, and I take long steps, jogging toward home, even now fighting the urge to glance over my shoulder. I’m being a dumbass. I take the porch steps two at a time.
My house is a mausoleum without my wife, enormous and quiet, and I hate it. I didn’t get married for this.
I’m resentful of my own thoughts as I shower and shave, the fog steaming up the bathroom mirrors. Corinne isn’t here to remind me to turn on the exhaust fan, so I don’t.
With her gone, I do everything as I always would. Something in my head tells me not to change anything, because to change things while she’s gone might set her back.
I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m not going to chance it.
I let the bathroom steam up.
None of this is Corinne’s fault. The very fleeting resentful thought that I had just means I’m a selfish bastard. I’m in a beautiful home in the suburbs, and my wife is in a psych ward. Even worse, I pray every day that she won’t remember everything that put her there.
Because I’m a prick.
I feel like even more of a prick when my phone dings a second later and the woman who sent the text is not my wife.
You doing ok? I miss you.
Guilt billows through me like storm clouds, through my gut into my chest. So much of this is her fault, this woman who isn’t my wife, and while I should stay far far away from her, I can’t. For so many complicated reasons, I can’t.
I sigh as I head out the door to start my day.
3
Thirteen days until Halloween
Jude
My house is silent when I get home from work, and Corinne is nowhere to be found. I check my phone. Nothing. Like always, she has gotten distracted at work and forgotten to text.
The clocks tick, mocking me, as I pace around.
I’m alone. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go.
Fuck.
Seven p.m.
Seven-oh-one.
Seven-oh-two.