Chapter 15 - No More Sorry for That Night
The lamps were on again when we went back to that corner.
It was evening, not late yet. The ceiling light threw the same warm circle over the carpet, and the table lamp by the doorway buzzed faintly like it always had. The wall sconce over the bookshelf made a soft cone against the white paint. Through the windows the blue was just starting to come in. I stood in the doorway for a second with my good hand on the frame and listened to it. The house sounded like itself.
The boys were already there. They'd carried their track over piece by piece that afternoon and laid it out in a wide loop around the bookshelf legs. Not too close. They'd learned that distance on their own. The little wooden choo-choo sat at the station they'd made out of a block. When they heard me they both looked up, then went right back to clicking the rails together. Calm work. Their shoulders weren't up around their ears anymore.
My arm was in a clean bandage under a long sleeve. It itched. The clinic nurse had said that was good. Healing, she'd said, and I'd believed her because she said it like she'd said it a thousand times in a small exam room with dinosaur stickers on the cabinets.
He was crouched by the bookshelf when I came in. My husband. Black T-shirt now, sleeves pushed up, his watch catching the sconce light. He had his hand flat against the side panel and he gave it a hard push. It didn't move. He pushed again from the other side, put his shoulder into it the way he'd shown me that morning after he'd anchored it to the stud. Solid. The books were back in, the small wooden toy back on the second shelf where the boys could see it but had to ask to touch it.
"Check it," he said, and moved aside so I could.
I put my good hand on the edge and pushed. Nothing gave. The bracket didn't creak. The toys on the carpet didn't rattle. I nodded, and he nodded back. That was the whole inspection. It felt like enough.
I lowered myself to the floor by the end of the shelf. Slower than I used to, favoring my left side. The carpet under my knees was clean except for one place. If you didn't know to look, you'd miss it. A faint mark, gray-brown, about the size of a quarter, right where I had sat that night. I'd scrubbed it. He'd scrubbed it. Some things just set.
I looked at it too long. I felt the old sentence come up my throat out of habit, the same one I'd said on the floor with blood on my sleeve while the boys stared.
"Sorry about the—" I started.
And stopped myself.
He looked over. He knew exactly what I'd been about to say. He didn't sigh or wave it off like it was nothing. He just reached over and laid his hand over my good hand where it rested on my knee. His palm was warm and rough from the drill and the sandpaper. He pressed down once, steady. Held it there.
That was his answer. No more sorry for that night.
The boys noticed the quiet and came in closer, like they always did now. One tucked under my good arm, one leaned against his dad's side and then slid across into the space between us. We shifted without talking about it. He moved his legs out to make a backrest. I moved my bad arm up onto a pillow we'd brought from the couch. They climbed into the shared lap space they'd claimed since the first night, knees and elbows and warm weight, and settled.
"Run it," he said to them, nodding at the track.
The older one picked up the choo-choo and set it on the rails. He pushed it slow around the loop, making the soft click sound in his throat. Around the bookshelf leg, past the block station, around again. The younger one held a crossing piece in place with two fingers so it wouldn't lift. They'd gotten careful about the corners. When the train made it all the way around without tipping, they both looked at us to make sure we'd seen.
"We saw," I said. "Nice driving."
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My husband kept his hand over mine while they ran it again. I could feel his thumb move once against my knuckles. The sconce hummed. The window blue deepened, but the room stayed warm. The shelf stood still behind us. The mark stayed faint on the carpet. My arm ached a little under the bandage, dull and ordinary, the kind of ache that meant it was getting better.
We didn't get up right away. There was nowhere else we needed to be. The train went around and around, safe on its track, and we stayed together in that corner until the lights were the brightest thing in the house.
