‘Thanks for the pictures.’ She spoke into the cordless phone cradled between her neck and shoulder. She stepped into her bedroom and closed the door for privacy.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied.
‘I wish I was there with you.’ Monica went to her computer and scrolled through the digital photos Thomas had e-mailed her that afternoon. Her favorite was a picture of him standing on a rocky outcrop overlooking the impressive expanse of a valley far below. Thomas was turned at an oblique angle to the camera, such that half of his face was highlighted by the light of the setting sun, while the other hemisphere was lost in shadows. The rocky landscape had taken on a deep ruddy crimson complexion, and the soft orange sky hovered in the background like an artist who chooses to add a few remaining strokes to a work he knows is already finished, simply because he cannot bear to pull himself away. She touched the photo with her thumb, stroking the side of his face. ‘When do you come home?’
‘Three days. You think you can wait until then?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well, you’ll have to go find some other guy then.’
She smiled. ‘I don’t want another guy. I want you.’
He was quiet for a moment, and Monica crossed the room, sitting down on the side of her bed. She ran her fingers across the sheets, thinking about the day they had lain here together, his deeply tanned arms wrapped protectively around her while the afternoon unfolded splendidly around them.
‘What’ve you been doing since I’ve been gone?’ he asked.
‘Nothing exciting,’ she said. ‘Schoolwork and physical therapy, mostly. They’ve got me jogging on a treadmill now. Three days a week for thirty minutes.’ She grimaced. ‘I hate running.’
‘You shouldn’t. You’re good at it.’
‘How would you know?’ she said, a reflexive note of challenge in her voice. ‘You’ve never seen me run.’
There was a slight pause. ‘No, but you’re good at everything,’ he told her. ‘I’ll bet you’re fast as hell when you want to be.’
She had a brief image of herself hurtling through the woods, her breath coming in ragged, terrified sobs – and then it was gone.
‘Not fast enough,’ she said, standing up and walking to the window. She pressed her fingers up against the glass. The front yard was still blanketed in heavy drifts. Tree branches spread their naked fingers toward the sky.
‘Listen, I’ve gotta go,’ he said. ‘Hang in there. I’ll be home in a few days.’
Don’t go yet, she felt like saying. We can talk for a little while longer, can’t we? She pressed her lips together and remained silent.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he promised. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay,’ she replied, her voice faltering a bit on the last syllable.
She listened to the receiver until the connection was lost, until the mechanical voice on the other end told her that if she would like to make a call she could hang up and try again. She thumbed the off button and placed the phone on the desktop beside her, but remained standing at the window for a long time, looking out at the bleak afternoon. Except for a few parked cars, the street outside was vacant, devoid of the children who so frequently played there. These days everyone was being careful. Her eyes wandered across the stillness of front yards and driveways, overturned sleds lying lifeless and abandoned in the snow. From her vantage point behind the protective pane of glass, the scene suddenly struck her as offensive, almost obscene – as if she’d unexpectedly come across a dirty magazine sitting on the dresser in her parents’ bedroom. She had the urge to turn away, to pretend she hadn’t noticed.
‘It’ll be okay,’ she told herself, but she wondered now if it ever really would be – for any of them.
These days she wondered about that a lot.