You know, I remember, when I was a child, how some mornings my mother would pull up the shade as she was waking me for chores, and I’d turn and see the light so bright that I had turn back to face the wall. And other times, when it was pig-slaughtering season, I’d watch them string up the hog, but once they slashed it open I’d grimace and look at my father instead. And this was one of those things. When I woke up one morning and found my sheet thick with blood, my heart couldn’t bear to look upon it. Instead I just pictured Lucia, sitting there filled up with her son and all her sanctimony, telling me why I didn’t deserve to bring down another soul from heaven, or to give a second chance to the one I’d lost the first time. Why my family wasn’t good enough for Eve.
A lot of women might pat my hand over that, and say, oh, Leela, those are the thoughts of a grieving mother. You’ll be forgiven of all that anger. But if you want to know the truth of it, I don’t want that forgiveness so much as I want an answer to my question. If the Lord wants to grant us our righteous desires, then I want to know why he kept taking her back from me. Because you can’t fault a woman for the man she married. God knows we go in with the best of intentions. I think Lucia was wrong about that, and if she wasn’t, well, the Lord and I have some things we need to work over. I can take on the burdens of my children’s failings, but not those of my man. It’s too much to ask, and I don’t say that too often.
Chapter 17
Jill
My due date was three weeks away. I could hardly eat a thing anymore, with my stomach crowded out by the baby; also, I got winded easily, and my bladder had been shoved aside to make room for somebody’s head. I got up two or three times every night to pee, and that might not have been so bad except that the August heat—tolerable during the day, this being New Hampshire—seemed to settle over our bedroom at night. This made falling back to sleep an arduous task. We slept with our door closed, for privacy, and our windows open, for circulation, but it did little good.
And so, after using the bathroom one night, I trekked down the stairs to sleep on the sofa, where the air was cooler and Cade’s warm body would not be beside me. As I arranged the pillows I noticed an unusual sight over in the addition: Elias was awake, sitting in his old chair just the way he used to. I walked over to where he sat and said, “Hey. You all right?”
He grunted a yes and didn’t look away from the television.
“Haven’t seen you up at night in a long time.”
“No.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke and glanced at me. “I didn’t take my meds today.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” He seemed to toy with leaving that as his only answer, then spoke again. “I’ve been taking more than I’m supposed to.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I’m an idiot. When my leg starts to hurt I always pile on the Tylenol, you know—like, ‘kill it with fire,’ and it takes the edge off in no time. That doesn’t work so great with Xanax. And then you run low, and guess what? You got two weeks before you’re allowed to refill.” He sighed deeply and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I ought to know better.”
My heart ached for him, but I knew he would be ashamed for me to make a show of it. I nodded. “I’ll make you another appointment, okay? I’ll see what I can do to get a sooner one this time. They must have some way to fast-track them.”
A dullness descended over his gaze. “No. I don’t need people making special exceptions for me like I’m a friggin’ invalid. I’ll work it out. I’ll probably take one in an hour or two so I can get some sleep. Right now I’m just trying to remind my body who’s boss.”
I hesitated, but then reached out and stroked his forehead. It was beaded with sweat. “I’m sorry, Elias,” I said.
“Fuck, don’t be sorry for me. Jesus, Jill. You know that’s the last thing I want to