Speaker phone

"Let me get you off speaker phone. She just got home. Hold on a sec."

I set the grocery bags down and slide off my shoes. I don't know why I take my shoes off. Force of habit? Optimism? Ever present hope to lead by example? If everyone sees the mat by the front door, sees the heap of off-cast shoes, wouldn't they assume that shoes need to be removed upon entering our home? Maybe they just don't want cat hair stuck to their socks.

Maybe if the floors were cleaner, people would take their damn shoes off? Maybe the floors would be cleaner if everyone took their frickin' shoes off. I am lost in these thoughts as I hear my brother-in-law's voice coming from my husband's sanctuary confirming that he will wait until the phone is off speaker mode.

"Can you come help me a sec?"

Of course I can come help you. I am just now walking in the door after working a ten hour day, then grocery shopping, and have bags in the car yet to bring in, the unpacking of the groceries, and dinner to make. But sure, I would love to help you out for a sec. If my eyes roll any further up into my head I will be dizzy for the remainder of the day. What do you need, I ask.

"Could you put my glasses on me? Oh, and give me a lifesaver. Put another one here on my lap."

My lips force a thin smile and try to unclench my jaw. Asking him to tell his brother hello from me is pointless. None of my in-laws have spoken or interacted with me in years. It's as if I have fallen off the face of the planet, or at least fallen from the family tree. I didn't think I was a bad apple. Not shiny and perfect, yet not rotten either. But I suppose these things happen after major accidents. Families fall apart. At least this is what I've been told. Repeatedly.

The loss of a child causes divorces in 16% of marriages. Almost 21% chance of divorce after a cancer diagnosis. Five percent for deployed soldiers. Add on two more percent for a spouse with a disability. Marriages in general have almost a 50% divorce rate. If I am doing my math right, which is not likely, we have a six percent chance of staying married. The odds are not ever in our favor.

Gone are the days when everyone thought we were so cute together. We were inseparable. Our families would joke that we were practically one in the same person. We were able to read each other across a room. We completed each other's thoughts and sentences more often than not. We were completely in sync. Flowers were a constant reminder that he was in love with me and wanted me surrounded by beauty. Little love notes I would tuck into his wallet and pockets. Long drives that went nowhere but gave us time to connect and not talk.

Now we don't talk either. But this silence is not the same thing at all. We dance around polite exchanges of how are you today; I'm fine thank yous.

"Just one more thing, could you check my bag for me?"

There is always one more thing. The one second is rarely less than thirty minutes. I take a deep breath and try to keep my face neutral. He is helpless, afterall. He has been waiting for me to get home. The gap between when the aide leaves and I arrive can feel infinitesimal to him. I get it, but I am exhausted.

"When you go, could you draw the curtains closed?"

He seems to think the curtains are sound barriers. His phone is still on speaker. His fingers fail him and he forgets that even if he was able switch modes, he would be unable to hold the phone up to his ear. His arms are just as useless as the rest of his body. Useless sounds like a cruel word, even if the thought is only in my own mind. Not useless, just paralyzed. Paralyzed like those rocks. Not rocks...what am I even trying to say? Like petrified wood. That's it. We are petrified. Stiff, growing ever more stiff, and scared stiff all at the same time.

I am dismissed from the room with his eyes. I close the curtains and pick up the bags of food from the door. The rest of the bags can be forgotten out in the car. I will get them later, or tomorrow. Was there anything that needs refrigeration? I start to review the list in my head as I head to the kitchen. Maybe it is cold enough out there to stay out there. I wish to be out there.

I ask Alexa to play some country music. Loudly. I don't want to hear the conversation playing out in the other room. I've heard too many snippets before.

"The house hunting is slow going. There's not much out there."

"No, I didn't go outside today. No one was here to get me out."

"They want me to give them an answer, but I don't know if I am ready to retire yet."

"I have to find someone to drive me to work."

"I have to start looking for someone."

"If I retire, I'm gonna do some traveling. I can't just sit around here all day."

"No, I don't know where. I'd have to look into it."

"I'm waiting on that new wheelchair. It's supposed to be ready next year."

It's the house hunting that gets me. He has told me dozens of times that he is leaving over the course of our thirty year marriage. Yet every time produces anxiety and pain. The hurt it causes my heart makes my stomach ache. How are these two organs related? It doesn't feel like they should be, so why am I feeling like this?

In the last few years, he has started telling his family and friends that he is leaving. He is looking for a house or land to build a house. He has asked his aide to go looking with him behind my back. Or is it right in front of my face and I don't see it? She knows more than I do, and this hurts me more than almost anything else. It feels like a deception. I feel abandoned. Why is he confiding things to her? How do I even fit into his life anymore?

When I ask him why "we" are looking for a new house, he sidesteps the topic. When I ask him where "we" are looking, he is vague. I still purposefully use the word "we" in conversations. As in, "we are still a couple" - a couple of what, I am not sure. If only I hadn't heard any talk of house hunting...but then again, do I want to continue to live my life with my eyes shut? Shouldn't we be on the same page about a subject as huge as looking at a house?

Only, he isn't looking for a house for the two of us. He is looking for a house for himself. This isn't a vacation home he is trying to find for us to live in when we can both retire. This isn't the happily ever after that we always talked about once upon a time.

Without conscious thought I prepare his plate of food. On auto pilot the broccoli had been steamed, the pasta boiled, cream sauce made. I know I won't be hungry, but he will be. I bring his plate into his room.

"Okay, it's been great talking with you. She's in here now with my dinner. Talk with you later!" He shuts down the conversation. And, like a candle being blown out, the smoke rises in a heavy stench into the air. The flame is gone, and all that is left is the ashes.

I know I shouldn't ask, but I can't help myself. "How's your brother?"

"He's fine."

Everything is fine. Nothing is fine.

I sigh and turn away. If I roll my eyes hard enough, the tears won't come out.