Chapter 2 - Hands on My Sleeve
His fingers were still around my forearm when the hallway light shifted.
I felt it before I saw it, that change in the blue coming from the doorway. Someone large had stepped into it and blocked part of it. The sconce over the bookshelf buzzed faintly. My sleeve was damp and sticking to my skin where the tear had opened, and his thumb was pressed just below it, not hard enough to stop anything, just holding on.
The boys hadn't moved. The older one had his knee jammed against my hip. The younger one's back was against my good side, his whole weight leaning in, and I could feel the quick lift of his ribs through my sweater. He still had the little train in his fist. Choo-choo. The word was still hanging somewhere behind us, small and out of place.
"Mr. Hale?" A man's voice from the doorway. Low, careful. "Status?"
I didn't look straight at him. I kept my eyes on my husband's face because the boys were watching me to see where to look. In my peripheral I could make out two shapes in the hall, dark jackets, one with his hand near his waist where a radio sat. The light from the table lamp caught the edge of a boot just over the threshold. They weren't coming in, not yet. They were waiting for him to tell them what this was.
My husband didn't turn around. He didn't let go of my arm either. His breathing was still fast from running through the house, and I could see the sweat at his temple, the way his shirt hung open at the collar.
"Hold position," he said. His voice was quiet and flat. Not a shout. A command that didn't need to be louder to work. "Stay in the hall. Nobody comes in."
There was a beat of silence. The younger boy inhaled sharply through his nose, too fast, and then let it out in a shudder.
"Copy," the first voice said. "Do you need medical?"
My husband's jaw tightened. He glanced down at my sleeve, at the blood darkening the cream knit, then back up at my face. "Not yet," he said. "Just hold."
I heard a soft shift of weight, rubber soles on hardwood out in the hall. They backed half a step. They didn't leave. The blue night light filled back in around their legs. Now I could see them more clearly if I turned, so I didn't turn. I kept my chin level, like this was ordinary, like I sat on the floor in the play corner every night with blood on my sleeve.
That was when I saw the carpet.
It wasn't a lot at first glance. A dark spot no bigger than a quarter, just off to the side where my elbow had been before I'd shifted. But as the ceiling light hit it, I realized it had spread. The fibers were soaked flat in the center and damp outward in an uneven circle, and a thin line had trailed where I'd moved my arm when he grabbed it. My stomach turned. Not from the sight of it. From the thought of it being there tomorrow morning when the boys came back with their trains.
I'm sorry. The words were already in my mouth again. For what? The carpet. It had sounded almost funny when he said it, but it wasn't funny now with the spot getting wider while security stood in our hallway.
The younger boy whimpered. It wasn't crying, not really. It was that caught breath kids get when they've been scared and are trying not to make noise about it. His shoulders hitched up toward his ears. I felt his fingers clutch at my pants.
I shifted my good hand slowly so the men in the doorway wouldn't read it as panic. I laid it flat on his back, between his shoulder blades, and pressed just enough that he could feel the weight of it.
"Breathe with me," I whispered. I kept my voice low, the way I did when he had a fever last winter and wouldn't settle. "In. That's it."
He didn't follow at first. His breath came in two short pulls. I waited, kept my hand there, and breathed audibly myself so he could hear the pace. In through my nose, out slow. The lamp ticked as it heated. Somewhere in the house the heat kicked on.
"In," I said again, barely moving my lips.
This time he tried. His back rose under my palm, uneven, then fell too fast.
"Good," I murmured. "Again. Slow out."
My husband watched me do it. His grip eased a fraction, his fingers sliding just enough that I felt the blood tacky between his skin and my sweater. His eyes went from my face to the boy leaning on me and back again. The guilt was right there, undisguised. He'd run in expecting something else, someone else, and found this instead.
The older boy leaned forward, peering past me at the doorway. I felt his arm tense.
"Are they staying?" he whispered.
I didn't want to lie to him, and I didn't want to look at the men to answer. I glanced up at my husband, a quick check, asking him to handle it without making it bigger than it already was.
"We're staying right here," my husband said to him, still quiet. He didn't look away from the boy. "You're good where you are. They're just waiting out there, okay? Nobody's coming in."
The older boy nodded once, but he pressed closer, his shoulder now against my knee. I could feel both of them anchoring themselves to me, one on each side, like if they held still enough the night would go back to normal around us.
Behind them the white bookshelf loomed, books pushed crooked on the second shelf where the corner had tipped. The little wooden toy on top had slid to the edge. Scattered trains and blocks made a half-circle on the carpet around us, too close to step through without kicking something. The table lamp threw our shadows large against the wall.
"Mr. Hale," the voice came again from the hall, lower this time. "Let us know—"
"I will," my husband cut in. Still not loud. Final. "Just wait."
Another pause. Then, "Copy. We're in the hall."
They didn't move again. I could hear one of them breathing, could hear the faint crackle of a radio turned down low. They were giving us the room but not giving us privacy. I understood the job. I hated the job right then, with my back aching from the floor and my arm throbbing under his hand and both boys using me as a wall.
The younger boy's breathing had slowed. Not calm, but slower. His head tipped back against my ribs. I kept my hand on his back and felt each rise even out a little more. My sweater sleeve pulled when I shifted, and a fresh sting ran up my forearm. I didn't flinch. I didn't want him to feel it through me.
My husband noticed anyway. His eyes dropped to where his hand held me. The blood had seeped to the edge of his thumb.
"You're still bleeding," he said under his breath, only for me.
May you like
I looked down too. The spot on the carpet glistened. It was bigger than a quarter now. I pressed my lips together and nodded once, just enough for him to see.
He didn't let go. He didn't get up. He stayed kneeling beside me in the mess of toys, his knee grinding into the carpet, his other hand braced on the floor for balance, and kept himself between us and the doorway while the men waited in the blue light of the hall.
