Inside

He called and asked if he could come over.  He’d gotten a diagnosis, and I felt sorry for him and said he could.  It had been awhile, but I was still weary of his voice and listening to the way he thought about things.  He always had that jittery, wheels-turning look, something about to burst forth out of him.  I could hear his voice churning in my head, and I cringed at the sound of his knock and as I opened the door.

You look good, he said.

That’s what he almost always said when he saw me.  Did he know that?  I had no idea, but I knew I looked like hell.  My hair was dirty for one thing, but I didn’t want to jump in the shower for him.  What ideas would have gotten in his head if I’d come to the door all freshened up?  I hadn’t let him in yet, and he made a motion inside with his arm.  I let him pass and motioned farther inside.  He headed for a chair and I sat on the couch, across from him.

I’m sorry about your news, I said.

After I got my bad news he came to the hospital to see me.  I was drowsy, so he didn’t do much talking.  He just held my hand as I lay there.  He held it too tight, but I didn’t want to correct him.

I have choices, he said, none of them good.  You don’t know this stuff is there, but it’s growing inside you.

He looked beat.  We sat quietly.  I liked him better this way.

Do you want a drink?

I quit, he said.  I’m too full of shit when I drink.

I held back a nod.

Water?

No, thanks.

I could say you’ll get used to being sick, but maybe you won’t.  Not an encouraging thing to mention, but true.

My eyes seemed to embarrass him.

I was pretty bad, wasn’t I? he said.

Not the worst.  You want to come over here?

An impulse question.  I wasn’t on board with the idea, but how could I sit there and not try to help him?  He’d given my ex-husband the evil eye a couple of times and that was in his favor.

He sat next to me.  I hugged him and rubbed the back of his head.  He let me relax him, tension easing out of his breath.  Still, I had an urge to push him away.  An image of him sleeping in my guest room came to me.  Coffee and breakfast in the morning, a limited intimacy taking shape?  What images could he be dreaming up?

I released him, leaned away and faced ahead. He sighed, and the pain in it made me regret that I didn’t want to give him more and that regret made me wonder what I was doing on the couch with him and why I’d said he could come here in the first place.  Was I as needy and alone as he was?

You want to think that whatever you’ve done leads you somewhere, he said.  And it seems this is where it has led.  What does it all add up to?  Does it add up to anything?

I’d never heard this kind of thinking out of him before.  I didn’t have an answer for him.  I again imagined him in the guest room, coffee in the morning.  What did it add up to?

You don’t seem at ease, he said.

I’m not.

You want me to leave?

I didn’t answer.

I bring my problems to you.  It’s not fair to expect you to listen.

You may need a lot more than I want to give.

I don’t want to be alone, he admitted, but I know you don’t want me staying here.

I didn’t like it that he brought up the idea of staying here, even though he said he knew I didn’t want it.  Was he hoping I’d deny it was true?

You’re right, I said.  I don’t want you to stay here.

It would help me if I could stay one night, in the other bedroom.

I wouldn’t be able to sleep.  I’m sorry, but that’s how I feel.

Why wouldn’t you sleep?  I know I was hard to get rid of before, but I think I’ve changed.

I don’t want this conversation, I said.

We sat without speaking, but his wheels were turning.  I heard him swallow, and the sound hurt my throat.

He drew himself up from his seat, which surprised me, and I stood and walked to the door.  He followed and stopped in front of me.  I looked him in the eye.  I could see something on the verge of coming out of his mouth.

I opened the door, but he didn’t move.  Was he hoping I’d change my mind?  What would his parting words have been?  I shut the door and held him.