The Wall

Orry started to cry and I settled into the old cane chair lined with furs and a ratty quilt to feed him.

As I fed Orry, Joseph busied himself around the house. I heard him shaking out sheets and making the bed. The snap of the cloth sent shivers down my spine. The air felt charged, nervousness and anticipation drumming out a rhythm in front of my eyes. In my mind, I was imagining doing things I had never done before and it both scared and charmed me with its possibilities.

The truth was, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do and I probably should have decided that first, instead of waiting to see how I felt as things progressed.

I heard the fridge door open and shut behind me. “They’ve made us some food,” I heard him mumble uncomfortably.

Pots clanged, drawers were opened and closed. I wondered whether he had really cooked before. It seemed like a lot of noise for reheating food. For all his strength and confidence, I could tell his nervousness was making him clumsy. This was beyond weird, for both of us. This was the first time we had truly been alone, without a baby between us, the threat of someone waking around the fire, or a doctor or nurse barging in on us.

I wrapped Orry up and put him in the capsule, resolving to make him a cot first thing tomorrow.

This peaceful calm of domestic life was really only an idea; it was an abstract thought that had no place in reality. But I let it fool me. I let myself think about being with Joseph, sleeping with him, and everything that went with it. But it was not that simple. I wish I’d known that.

After a di

I stared at my face in the mirror. It was a conflicted image. I looked like a child. A mother. I’m not sure woman was a good description for me yet.

Woman. Is that what I would be after? It seemed a little too easy for things to click into place just because of that. I shook my hair out and tried to make it look less clumpy. They’d left towels, toothbrushes, soap, but no hairbrush. Ru

I changed into the pajamas I’d found on the bed and opened the door.

Joseph was standing there, leaning against a kitchen chair. Head down like he was counting while someone went to hide. He looked up at me and bit his bottom lip, his eyes bright, and kind of dazzling.

“Are you tired?” he stuttered.

“I guess.” I wasn’t. At all.

He walked over to me and took my hand, leading me to the bedroom, the bed he’d carefully made. But something was dragging me back. Those ghost balloons, those puffs of air, suddenly had so much weight to them I was struggling to keep my feet. I was dragging lead bricks behind me, scratching across the floor. Wait, they whispered. I ignored them.

We sat on the bed. The wood frame creaked gently. The candlelight pooled around both of us, pulling the warmth from the timber out to dance in our eyes. We were bathed in glowing light. He pulled my face towards his own and stared into my eyes. Could he see the terrified girl inside? He turned his head at an angle and smiled sweetly.

“Are you ok?” he whispered.

I nodded gingerly. I put my hands in his hair and dipped his head down. Just kiss him, I thought. The feelings will go away. Maybe you can forget about things for a while. Your grief doesn’t have to guide everything you do.

I pressed my lips to his and we were gone. Kisses were long and then small bursts of short pecks followed. He kissed my neck; I followed his jawline and worked my way to his ear. His strong arms lifted me up and I swung my leg over and sat in his lap.

Back arched, I leaned down and hastily unbuttoned his shirt. It was all very fast. Rushed. Yes, it was rushed. He slid his hands under my shirt and pulled it over my head. It floated to the ground. Then he stopped. He took my body in. The way he looked at me… I didn’t feel shy or exposed. His face was calm, although his breathing was fast. I could barely look at his chest; it was a little too much, too beautiful. How could someone look that good? I just watched his eyes roaming over my body, the gaze touching me with warmth.

He put his hands on my shoulders and let them glide slowly down my arms.

“I love you,” he said, face flushed pink, his eyes golden, shining brighter than before.

I realized something, or at least I was starting to. “I love you too,” I whispered and then I paused. “Damn it! I really love you.”

I covered myself with my arms and jumped off his lap. I wasn’t enough for him just yet. There were some things missing that I had to find before I would be ready for this.

He looked so confused and completely dashed. His brows pulled back. He swiped his forehead with his hand and tried to catch my eyes. “You love me, damn it?” he said. “What does that mean?”

I didn’t really know what to say. I knew I was hurting him. That he probably felt rejected. I grabbed my shirt and shrugged into it, feeling awful. Like I had slapped him, even if I knew, somehow it was best for both of us.

“I’m sorry,” I said, insufficiently. “I’m not sure what to say. Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

I kissed him, wholly, intensely, feeling the fire of molten gold washing over us both. I wrapped that feeling up, let it cool, and hung it like a chain around my neck. The feeling was not gone, just postponed.

I could feel his restlessness; I knew he wanted to press me for answers. But he knew me. He knew he would have to wait.

We curled up under the covers. He reached out his hand and placed it on my hip, then lifted it tentatively. “Can I?”

“Of course.”

I flipped over and snuggled into the crook of his arm, laying my head across his bare chest, exhaling slowly. It would be easier if I could just let it all go, but I couldn’t. And I knew the truth of the matter was—if I loved him, there was no rush. It deserved more than we were giving it.

As I let sleep grab me with its wispy, white fingers, my mind wandered to my friends, friends I sorely missed. Rash would have been able to make light of this. And as I pictured him, his dark eyebrows raised, absolute mischief in his eyes, I knew he wasn’t a ghost, and maybe that’s why I couldn’t let him go. I didn’t know what happened to him.

Clara. Clara was gone. And I carried her memory around with me, holding it close to my chest, stitching it in there. She would have offered some consolation, some wisdom, to make me see the sense of my decision.

I cursed their absence. Then I cursed my selfishness, my undeserving luck at being the one who survived, who got away.

I turned my head and started to weep. A pathetic, self-pitying noise that I was ashamed emanated from my lips.

Joseph’s hand cupped the tip of my shoulder. “Rosa,” he whispered tentatively, “was it something I did?” His words were so sincere, so full of worry. Was I always to be a source of worry for him? How could I tell him, in this moment, that I missed Rash?

I couldn’t.

He pulled my body back towards his chest. It curled away from him, curled around a feeling I couldn’t quite name, but that was tied up with missing, aching, unfinished business and somewhere in there, anger.