“And just like that, we’re never having sex again.”
“Like that’s gonna happen…” I mumble to myself, amused by his empty threat. He must have heard it because he shakes his head as he takes the eggs out of the fridge.
Four weeks isn’t that much. We’ve had longer dry spells. And in the meantime, I get to watch my dutifulhusbandtake care of me, which isn’t such a bad alternative.
Though the strategy in coming here was centered on our safety, it turns out there are other advantages to it. The quiet tranquility of this place allows Andrea to rest as much as she needs to for her recovery. And then some.
A routine quickly settles between us, where we have breakfast together in the morning, she lies down to read a book or watch TV while I handle some work and ensure our tracks are covered. At noon, she sits with me in the kitchen, coaching me as I prepare our lunch. In the afternoon, she often naps while I exercise for a moment, and by the end of the day, we sit down with one of the board games that came with the house. She can’t have alcohol yet, but I always let her have a sip of my wine or margarita—which I’m getting better and better at. Then, a movie while we snuggle on the couch.
I’ve been a good nurse, helping her shower and changing her bandage every day. Even though she feels well enough to do it herself after the first week, she allows me to keep the ritual alive. It’s like a small penance, nothing compared to what she deserves for saving my life, but it’s something.
When the second week arrives, things take a bit of a turn as I help her with her motion therapy—and insist on it despite her reluctance. We go slow, making sure she doesn’t injure herself, but we do what must be done every morning and evening. Then, I earn her forgiveness by running her baths, lighting up a few candles, and helping her shampooher hair. She can’t fully soak in it until her wound is healed, but she still appreciates the relaxing moment it offers.
Everything is going rather perfectly, I would say, if it weren’t for her vivid nightmares. On our fourth night in Canada, she woke up with a scream, tears welling up in her eyes. It has happened nearly every night since, which doesn’t fail to worry me. Back at home, Michelle has made herself available to talk about her apprehensions and fears, so the two of them have been having video calls every other day. There has been no improvement yet, but Shelly insists it’s normal and some traumas take longer to heal than others.
In the meantime, this has become part of our routine. Waking up with her in the middle of the night after every nightmare to comfort and hold her, whispering words of reassurance into her ear until she stops shaking and slowly falls asleep again.
It’s almost alarming how used to it I’ve become. But by the tenth time it happens, waking up to find her hyperventilating and struggling to self-regulate, I know exactly what to do.
“Another one?” I ask softly, moving to kiss her shoulder. She nods, eyes lost in the darkness above us. “Was it the same as usual?” she nods again. “You or me?”
“It was you. He shot you. And I woke up as he pulled the trigger on me.”
I pass a soothing hand over her back, drawing slow circles over the T-shirt she’s wearing. “It was just a nightmare, Andrea. We’re safe here.”
“I know, but it felt so real. It always feels so real…”
I press my lips on her shoulder once more and gently encourage her to lie down. I guide her to her side, her wounded shoulder up, and press myself onto her back, holding her in a way that won’t hurt her. “We’re safe,” I whisper. “No one’s coming for us here.”
She relaxes more with every word, her breathing slowing down to return to normal. Even as words become superfluous, I keep her in my embrace, as close as we can be given the circumstances.
“I should have seen him,” I say after a moment of silence. “I should have seen that man waiting outside. Everything would have been so different.”
“Baby, as attentive and astute as you are, you can’t see and anticipateeverything. I’m not blaming you for not seeing him. I’m only glad I saw him in time to save your life.”
“You almost died because I wasn’t paying enough attention.”
“That’s not technically true.Youalmost died because you weren’t paying attention. I almost died because I was.”
I let her logic run a couple of laps in my head, absorbing the nuances. “Does it help?” she wonders in a small voice.
“So, in a way, I endangered my own life rather than yours. Is it weird that it does help?”
“It just means you love me more than life itself. Which is quite flattering.”
I tighten my arm around her middle. “It’s an odd feeling.”
“What is?”
“To care for someone so much. To value the life of another person more than your own. It feels very selfless, but at the same time, I’m selfish in my love for you.”
“How so?”
“I never want to let go of you. I almost lost you, and I want you all to myself all the time.”
“So, I guess being here works quite well for you.”
“It does. That’s why I’m being selfish. We’d stay here for the rest of our lives if it were my call. But I realize you need to be around your family, your friends, and people other than me.”
