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“Yes, please,” she mumbled into the pillow as she got comfortable on her side. I tucked the covers in around her body and closed the blinds so she could rest.
“What about some Tylenol or something?” I asked from the doorway. “What hurts?”
“Carmen, I’m fine. You’ve done more than enough,” she replied from the nest of blankets. “I’ll be good to go after a little nap. I’m sure of it.”
By the time I came back with the water, she was softly snoring in the middle of our bed. So I left the glass and two pain relievers on the nightstand, grabbed her dress and bra, and headed to the spare bedroom to hang it up.
I should’ve never even opened that door. It looked like we had been burglarized while we were gone, because the room was ransacked. I thought it was bad the night we went out to dinner, but this was next level.
All but two of the hangers in the closet were empty. The ones that remained on the bar were turned in every possible direction, and a few on the floor were actually tangled together.
One by one, I took my time rehanging her clothes. She didn’t have a ton, but while strewn about the room, it looked like there was enough to fill the women’s department at Saks. I lined up her shoes along the bottom of the closet. The pairs that no longer had a box, I paired together and put there too.
An audible groan escaped when I saw the en suite bathroom. Like the other night, products were strewn about the countertop. One of the doors to the cabinet beneath the sink was wedged open by the cord to her curling iron, but at least the damn thing wasn’t left on. After wrapping the cord around the barrel, I bent down to put it beneath the sink.
“What’s this?” I asked aloud and pulled a half-empty bottle of nighttime cold medicine from the cupboard. My suspicions were confirmed when I poured a little into the sticky measuring cup that rested on top. The same green color I couldn’t shake from my memory of my wife’s vomit, and the same hideous smell I thought I detected on her breath. I set the bottle on the countertop and finished putting all her shit away.
I had to broach the subject with her. Maybe not right when she woke up, but I refused to let this go on. I’d check her ass into rehab myself if it meant saving her from self-destructing. That bottle was untouched before this morning. I remembered buying it after the last time I was sick to replace the one I’d emptied. That way it would be on hand next time I was under the weather.
That meant she downed half the bottle this morning. For recreation. Christ, no wonder she threw up the way she had. Even her body was trying to tell her to chill out. The more I thought about it, the angrier I grew. Why would she do something so foolish? She had to know guzzling that stuff was dangerous. How many assemblies did we all sit through in junior high that beat that message into our brains?
She slept most of the day. While I considered waking her several times to ensure she was drinking enough and didn’t end up feeling worse from dehydration, I never went through with the notion. Every time I went into the room to check on her, I lost another half hour simply watching her sleep.
The woman was so beautiful, it hurt inside my chest. She’d spent a lot of time on her hair before church this morning, so it cascaded over the pillow like a silky veil. The urge to run my fingers through it—or better yet, bury my nose in it—was almost too much to resist.
Agatha was a restless sleeper, even when exhausted. Her brows went from furrowed to raised to drawn together, as if she were deep in concentration or maybe participating in a spirited conversation. She mumbled and sighed and flip-flopped from one side to the other. Watching all the activities her body engaged in while it was supposed to be recharging explained a lot about her daily low energy.
I also understood the situation better now because my own sleep quality had sharply declined since she’d moved in. The number of times we’d been wide awake through the night was ridiculous. If I weren’t so stubborn, I could admit that fact alone would be enough for me to break up with any other person.
But Agatha Christine Farsey had some sort of magic spell cast over me. When I thought about her following through with her threat from earlier—her packing her things and moving out after she rested a bit—a wave of panic washed over me.
In the short time we’d been together, she’d brought more excitement to my daily grind than anything or anyone else. When I was at the office, I’d count the hours until I’d be home. When I was at home, I wanted to follow her around the apartment like a pesky little puppy demanding attention.
There was no way I would return her journal, either. This morning I was pretty sure that was the only thing keeping her from leaving me. She had to know by now that I hadn’t read the thing. If she gave that fact the props it deserved, she would realize I could be trusted and genuinely cared for her.
In the wildest fantasy in my mind, she’d come to me and ask for help ditching the drinking habit, and her goals would become our goals, and we’d get through it together.
Maybe if I articulated those same sentiments and caught her in a receptive mood, we’d really make some progress. Inside my pocket, my cell phone vibrated, so I hustled out of the bedroom to take the call and not disturb my peaceful storm.
I put the phone to my ear once I was in the kitchen. “Hello?”
The display told me it was my sister, and for the most part, I welcomed the call. I just wasn’t up for the ribbing and prying into my life I would have to endure. After the way I spoke to my mother this morning, I was probably lucky any of my blood relatives were speaking to me.
“Hey, Carmen. Just calling to make sure you’re okay,” Gray said casually.
“Yeah, I’m good. How was mass?” I asked. Might as well just rip the Band-Aid off instead of tap dancing around what she really wanted to know.
“Oh, you know, same gospel, different Sunday.”
“Ha! Good one,” I said dryly. “Seriously, how’s Mom?”
“She’ll get over it. Not after milking it for every bit of attention she can first. But yeah…she’ll get over it.”
“I’ll apologize in a day or two. I just felt like so many things were falling apart all at once, and I guess I panicked. Doesn’t give me the right to be disrespectful,” I told my sister, sounding more mature and responsible than I felt about the situation.
My sister’s voice was gentle when she responded. “Hey, listen. You don’t have to do that for me. You know that. I know firsthand what a bitch that woman can be. I wouldn’t judge you for anything you said to her.”
“I appreciate that, Gray. I really do.”
