Page 93 of The Lost Husband
Voices move around me, some with words that make no sense, and others that I wish made no sense.
“That one isn’t going to last much longer. Let her be.”
“I was thinking the same.”
* * *
A cool tin touches my lips, water trickling into my mouth. I swallow just once before it comes back up, bitter and spoiled, spilling out of the sides of my mouth and down my chin and neck. I don’t bother to wipe it away. The thought of disappearing into the straw mattress only lasts long enough until I drift. Out of my mind. Out of my body.
Then I return. The faces around me are back. The bucket is empty and shoved back against my legs and I clench my fists by my side, willing my body to stop expelling air. I try to think of something else. Something away from here. A distraction from fearing the next use of the bucket.
Noah’s hands, warmth. His arms around me. Lips on my neck. The way he spoke my name, as if I were a rare flower he’d waited his life to see. I mattered. I felt how much I mattered to him. My heart was full. So full. The memory never lasts. It flickers like the end of a candle’s wick before turning into a string of smoke.
Heaven is one long memory. I should stop wondering if I’ll die, but how much longer it will take.
* * *
My eyes flash open, focusing on the bucket by my legs. How long since I’ve touched it? I can’t remember. I try to reach for it out of habit, but my arms refuse to move.
Footsteps approach. Not heavy boots, or the clunks of a block elder making their presence known. Someone not in a rush, someone doing a job they’ve done hundreds of times before. The splat of a mop follows then the slosh of water moving back and forth.
Then the bucket nudges against my legs, gentle enough not to disturb me. The slosh of more water hits the floor, followed by the mop’s splat. A breath catches. But not mine. As if someone is choking.
I try to open my eyes, but the heaviness is like a glare of sun my body knows to avoid. Something brushes against my wrist—a sensation so faint I can only imagine a feather.
“No,” a voice cries through a whisper.
The word pinches into silence.
Again, I try to force my eyes open, even if just to squint. The little bit of light around me burns and blurs my vision, but I try to blink against the weakness and ache. I see a striped sleeve, dirt-covered, folded squarely at the thin forearm that floats between the opening.
“Celina,” he whispers.
The sound of my name could be mistaken for a gust of wind, and floats over me so quickly I’m not sure it was a sound at all. I wouldn’t hear it even if someone did speak it. I no longer have a name, just a number.
His other hand lifts, unsteady, shaking as if saying a prayer over my body. Except his touch rests against my stomach. A cry scrapes against his throat as his hands steady. His breathstutters, like an engine that won’t start, and a tremor works through his hands and fingers.
“I’m here,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against my shoulder, then cups his hands around mine. “I’m here, my love.”
My love. The cadence in the word, the emphasis on love—clings to something inside of me. My fingers twitch within his hold. And he doesn’t move. He doesn’t let go. He continues holding on as if I’m already gone.
“I’m going to get you out,” he whispers, his breath barely grasping onto air. “I will. I don’t care what it takes… I won’t leave you here.” He sniffles. “Never again.”
Never again.It’s as if those words have defined us.
I try to see his face, but he won’t lift it from my shoulder.
I try to speak, but I can’t find a way to make a sound.
A fever never relinquishes control.
“I promise you,” he says, his word scratching over a hushed sound. “You’re going to live. You must hear me. I won’t break this promise.”
I need my voice to work, or air to move through my throat.
But it won’t.
Within the darkness of my mind, I focus on the warmth of his hand. I know this hand. Why does this feel so much like him? A hand I’ve held so many times before. The grip—it makes my hand stop shivering for the first time in days.
