Living

“Happy St. Patty’s Day!” Jonah sang strolling in the door. He stooped, kissed my forehead and handed me a stack of brochures. It had been a week since my accident: stitches removed, sling shucked, and pills flushed.

“What’s this?”

“We’re riding horses tomorrow.”

“Jonah, you know I’m scared of horses.”

“Isn’t it time to get over it? Why are you scared?”

“They’re really big, they could hurt me. Are you feeling well enough?”

“We’re going.”

Jonah’s watch chirped. I waited on the couch for him to go into the kitchen and begin the day’s first round of medication. He ignored the chirping, snatched a brochure from my hand, and read it aloud. “Enjoy riding in over 100 acres of Iowa woodland. Horses are available for all levels of experience. Even if you have never ridden before! Guided trail rides are available for ages 10 and over.”

“Jonah…”

“Look at this horse,” he said indicating a picture of a beautiful chestnut horse. “Her name’s Sugar.”

“Jonah, what the fuck’s going on?”

“What ever do you mean?”

“I know you didn’t take your meds this morning. You have to take them everyday.”

“I’m quitting.”

“You’re what?”

“I don’t want to take them anymore.”

I moved across the room toward him without even realizing I’d stood. I wanted to shake him, to beat him. I stopped just out of reach, bawling. “Why are you giving up? You can’t quit now.”

“Brig, I’m dying.”

It was the first time he’s said this aloud. I turned and sprinted from the room. Too much truth. I lived with the realization he was one day going to be called to the Lord. Yet, hearing him voice it was too much. If he could give up, what hope was there? How could he give up on me … on us?

I stumbled into the small kitchen, knocking a glass of cranberry juice off the counter. The spreading red stain on the beige carpet mesmerized me like blood blossoming from my breaking heart. It knocked something loose in my head. Before I knew it, I was at the kitchen cabinets grabbing every glass, plate, or bowl I could reach. I smashed them all, screaming, shrieking.

“Brigid … Brigid …” Jonah called over and over.

“Alexandra!” he yelled, snapping me from my episode. He hadn’t called me by my given name since the day we met.

He cowered in the doorway like he half expected me to start chucking plates at him. I saw his fear. This untied another knot inside me. I fell. I crumbled to my knees on the broken glass and sobbed watching my blood, my healthy blood, pool around the colourful shards of Fiestaware.

Lifting my limp, shaking body off the kitchen floor, he whispered, “I want to live.” He carried me into bathroom and perched me on the toilet. He knelt before me. “I want to live. I don’t want to be chained to this fucking watch.” Jonah took it off and threw it into the other room. He drew a bath. “I want to live. I don’t want to spend my days in bed because the cocktail made me sick.”

He pulled off my sweater. With so much glass imbedded in my knees he had to cut off my jeans. His hands were strong and methodical. The scissors were the same I used to cut his hair. His hands shook. He removed his own shirt and lifted me in his arms again.

“I want to spend the rest of my life enjoying each day with you.”

With this, he lowered me into the bathtub. He removed the glass from my knees with a pair of tweezers. In silence, he bathed me.