Chapter 4 - The Carpet Can Wait
He didn't ask if I was okay again. He just moved.
He pulled his shirttail free and then stopped himself, like he realized it wasn't clean enough, and reached instead for the small folded quilt on the lower shelf. The one with the dinosaurs on it that the boys used for forts. He folded it into a thick square and pressed it against my upper arm, right where the blood was coming through the tear.
His hand was steady. Mine wasn't.
"Hold here," he said quietly. "Press with me."
I put my left hand over his and we held it together. The pressure burned at first, then dulled into something heavy and warm. I could feel his silver watch cold against the back of my wrist. He glanced down at it once, then back at my face.
"When did it start bleeding?" he asked.
"A couple minutes ago," I said. "Right after it tipped."
He nodded and checked the watch again. He was counting. I knew that look from when the boys had fevers and he timed medicine in his head without saying it out loud.
Behind us, the older one whispered, "Is that our blanket?"
"Yeah, buddy," my husband said without looking away from me. "I need to borrow it for Mom for a minute. You're doing good staying right there."
The younger one still had the little train clutched in his fist. He wasn't making the choo-choo sound anymore. He just stared at the square of fabric turning dark under my husband's palm.
The pain made my ears ring a little. I tried to breathe through it the way I'd told myself to, slow in through the nose. The room smelled like carpet dust and the lemon wipe I'd used that afternoon and now blood, metallic and close.
"You feel dizzy?" he asked.
"No," I lied.
He held my eyes. "Hey."
I swallowed. "A little dizzy."
"Okay," he said. "That's okay. Keep looking at me."
He shifted his knees on the carpet to get closer. I could feel the heat coming off him from running through the house. His shirt hung open at the neck and his hair was damp at the temples. He kept the pressure constant. He didn't fidget. He lifted the edge of the quilt just enough to check, then pressed it back down.
"Still going," he murmured, more to himself than to me. "But slower."
I looked down past his arm. The small spot on the carpet had spread into the shape of a hand. Dark red soaking into the beige fibers. I thought about the rental deposit years ago, then about this house being ours and how stupid it was that my brain went first to cleaning instructions instead of the cut in my arm.
My throat got tight.
"I'm sorry about the carpet," I whispered.
He didn't look down.
"Stop," he said.
I blinked. "I just —"
"No," he said, low and even. "Don't do that. The carpet can wait."
His eyes didn't leave mine. Brown, bloodshot a little from lack of sleep. He wasn't angry. That was what made it harder. If he'd been angry I could have argued back. Instead he just kept holding the pressure and holding my look until my breathing slowed to match his.
"Can you feel your fingers?" he asked.
I wiggled them under the quilt. "Yeah. Tingling, but yeah."
"Good. Squeeze my hand."
I did with my left hand. He squeezed back.
"You with me?" he said.
"I'm here," I said.
He glanced over his shoulder at the boys. They'd inched forward on their knees, close enough that their socks were touching my leg. He softened his voice.
"Come here," he told them. "Sit on this side where I can see you. Right by Mom's legs. That's it."
They shuffled over, careful around the blood like they'd been told without words not to step in it. The older one put his hand on my knee. The weight of it grounded me more than the pressure on my arm.
My husband checked his watch a third time. Maybe a minute had passed. Maybe two. The bleeding under the quilt had slowed to a seep instead of a pulse. But my whole sleeve was soaked now, the cream knit gone dark and stuck to my skin.
He saw me looking at it and shook his head once.
"Don't worry about the sweater," he said.
"It's ruined," I said before I could stop myself.
"I don't care."
His voice cracked a little on that. He cleared his throat and pressed the quilt a fraction firmer.
"We can't do the rest here," he said. "I need to clean it right and I can't see the edge with this light. Bathroom's brighter. I can sit you on the edge of the tub."
Just saying it made my stomach drop. Standing meant moving, and moving meant the room would tilt. It also meant leaving this corner where the boys felt safe.
As if he read it, he looked at them again. "You two stick to Mom like glue, okay? When we get up, you hold the train and you hold my shirt. Nobody stays in here alone."
The younger one nodded hard. The older one whispered, "Okay, Dad."
My husband turned back to me. He eased the pressure for a second to test it, then reapplied when a fresh line of red worked through.
"Can you stand if I help you?" he asked.
May you like
I nodded, though my arm throbbed with my heartbeat and my face felt too warm. He didn't move yet. He waited until I met his eyes again.
"We go slow," he said. "I've got you."
