Chapter 8: The Wrapped Hand

We put Eric in the downstairs den, on the pull-out couch, so he would not have to take the stairs on his cast.

I set up the room myself.

Melanie stood in the doorway and watched me tuck the blanket around his good leg.

"Read to me, Dad," Eric said.

"Which book?"

"The one with the bear."

I found it on the shelf.

I sat on the left side of the bed.

After a moment Melanie crossed the room and sat on the right, and he fell asleep between us before I reached the third page.

Neither of us moved.

We sat there for a full chapter with the lamp on, and the only sound was the page turning.

I thought: this is what it looks like from outside.

A mother and father on either side of their sleeping boy.

I closed the book at nine-thirty and went to the kitchen.

I opened the fridge and stared into it without taking anything.

Behind me the tap ran.

Melanie had followed me in and started washing the dinner dishes, her back to me, her sleeves pushed up.

She had not eaten.

She had pushed a plate of pasta around for twenty minutes and said nothing.

"You don't have to do that," I said.

"I want something to do with my hands."

I closed the fridge.

There was a sharp ringing sound, and then a very short silence.

"Melanie?"

"It's fine."

She had dropped a glass in the sink, and it had broken, and she had put her hand in after it.

When she turned around, she was holding her right palm up.

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