Page 160 of Faultlines

Recovery is frustrating. Doctors come and go without pattern, their faces already half-forgotten before they’ve cleared the doorway. Nurses wake me at unreasonable hours. Physical therapists seem determined to prove that smiling people can still be cruel.

Yet, through it all, Claire remains.

Sometimes she sits beside the bed working on crossword puzzles. Sometimes she answers emails on her laptop. Sometimes she flips through magazines. Every time I wake up, she’s there.

By the third day, I’m finally cleared to go home.

The word “home,” usually a comfort, creates an unexpected feeling of anxiety. I honestly don’t know what that means anymore. The answer arrives while Claire helps gather discharge paperwork. “I’m coming home with you.”

“What?”

She doesn’t look up from the stack of papers in her hands. “Ellie and I are moving back home for a while.”

Surely, I heard that wrong.

“You can’t drive or lift anything. You can’t even put on a shirt without assistance. Someone has to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

I look back and forth between her and a nodding Ellie, who is perched on the edge of a plastic chair.

“You don’t have to do that. But if you do,” I say, the words tasting unfamiliar, “I want us to set rules. I don’t want you moving back because I got hurt and every boundary disappears.”

“What kind of rules?”

“You stay in the master bedroom,” I say, my voice firm. “That will be your private space. If I need help, I ask instead of assuming. If you say no, I don’t punish you with guilt or wounded looks.” I manage a weak smile. “Or at least, I become less obvious about the wounded looks.”

“And counseling continues,” she says.

“Counseling continues,” I agree. “Even if things feel better. Especially if things feel better.”

“Okay.”

An hour later, we pull into the driveway together.

Ellie begins carrying bags upstairs, while Claire heads for the kitchen as though she never left. Within an hour, there is food in the refrigerator, a medication schedule sitting neatly on the counter, discharge instructions taped to the refrigerator, and enough supplies to survive a minor natural disaster.

I’m beginning to suspect the stabbing activated some sort of military commander hidden deep inside my wife.

When I wake from a nap, I hear Claire before I see her. I start to lift my shirt, but my hands freeze. “Do you mind help me?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

“I do.”

The bandage change hurts, but I remain still. “Thank you.”

One evening, I go downstairs for water and find Claire asleep on the couch, a book resting on her chest. I watch her before quietly retreating. But I must make a sound because she stirs.

When her eyes open and find me, a faint frown creases her brow. “You should be in bed.” Her voice is thick with sleep.

We find a new rhythm. Claire makes breakfast most mornings. Ellie makes a daily habit of listing all the things I’m no longer allowed to do, a task she enjoys immensely. We eat dinner together, and though the silences are sometimes heavy, the quiet clink of forks against plates begins to feel normal.

“I can tell you’re really trying,” she says one evening.

My chest aches in a place the knife never touched. “Yes.”

“And I’m trying not to punish you. I’m really scared though.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE