“You don’t have to know yet.”
“What if I never do?”
He was quiet for a long time.
“Then you’ll figure it out one day at a time.”
I looked out at the dark yard so he wouldn’t see my face.
“That’s a terrible plan.”
“It’s the only honest one I have.”
I hated that answer. I hated even more that he was right.
Part Three: What He Wouldn’t Tell Me
By my eighth month, Daniel was fading faster than anyone had warned us.
One morning I found him in front of the bedroom mirror, fighting a losing battle with his shirt buttons.
“Let me.”
“I’ve got it, Nora.”
“You’ve put the third button through the fourth hole.”
He glanced down.
“It’s a look.”
“You look like a folding chair someone gave up on.”
That earned me a tired laugh, the kind that cost him something.
I stepped in close and fixed the buttons one by one.
His hands had started trembling more often. I pretended not to notice. He pretended not to notice me noticing.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to memorize me.”
My fingers stilled.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
I finished the last button and smoothed his collar flat.
“I want to remember everything. So I can tell her who you really were. Not the hospital version. You.”
