Claude and Louise sit in the shady, quiet living room reading magazines. They are at Warner and Elizabeth’s house in Michigan. This is uncomfortable for Claude.
He has not seen Louise for over a month. He flew into Michigan this morning and will stay for the weekend. Warner had met him at baggage claim while Louise waited in the car. They are trying to make it work.
She had looked worse than he expected. Slumped over in the passenger seat. Sunglasses on, one lens taped over. Only half her face smiling to greet him. He immediately wished he hadn’t come. He sat in the backseat. She reached back to hold his hand. They held hands the whole drive, and he’d cried to himself, a mess of emotions, the whole thing a mess.
As they sit now, in the living room, Claude on the couch, Louise in her wheelchair, she is reaching for his hand again. All day she has been wanting to touch him, to hold on to his sleeve or stroke his hair. Claude wants to comfort her, but knows he needs to prepare her. That’s why he did not go to the clinic for her surgeries, why he did not send her flowers. Why he cut all of their phone conversations short. He cannot see how it will work now. Will they have to build a ramp up to their third-floor apartment? Can you rent ramps? He doesn’t see how it would happen.
But he can’t break up with her with a bandage still on her head. He can’t be the guy who ended it like this. He will have to wait until she is better.
What he tries not to think: She will be like this forever.
•
Louise has called all of her closest friends that still live in town and invited them to drop by the house to meet Claude. The girls, teachers and hairstylists, all blonde and pretty, sit around Louise and coo at her. They stroke her partly shaved head. They tell her she looks great, like the model with the tattoo on her scalp. They seem to be showing Claude how he should act. He shuts his eyes and pretends to be somewhere else, on a boat outside Santa Barbara, looking at the waves.
While they get ready for bed, Louise tries to kiss him. Her mouth feels strange. One side moves, the other side doesn’t. She smells like disinfectant spray. He can see red dots on the insides of her elbows and wrists where needles have been. Her hip bones stick out when she leans against the bedroom wall to show him her new underwear. It is pink and triangular. She wants to have sex. Begs him. He tells her sex would be dangerous. He says he is sorry. He misses her body, the fit of their limbs. He is worried she will try to climb on him while he sleeps.
He lies awake the whole night, trying not to think, trying not to remember her tanned body on the beach in California, her energy, how she used to take him with her on errands Saturday mornings that would turn into whole days that felt like a vacation, full of foods bought at street stands and impulse purchases like a kite, or lingerie. He tries to push it out of his mind, how she used to look at him, how he thought she would always look at him, her bright blue eyes holding him, giving him courage, making him feel completely wanted.
•
At dinner the next night they have flank steak Warner has cooked, and Louise has trouble with her knife and fork. She makes a fist and grasps onto the knife and saws like she’s cutting through wood, and holds her fork as if stamping a library book. Claude doesn’t know whether he should help her, or pretend he doesn’t see.
“Here, let me help you,” Warner says. He takes her plate and starts cutting small bites. Louise holds up her right hand and flops it around. “Not good for much more than looks these days,” she says, and everyone laughs. Claude wants to tell her to treat her hand with more respect, but Warner is staring at him. He is sawing her meat in quick jerks with a look that seems to say, This is how it works, buddy. This is what you do. Claude examines his fork as if seeing it for the first time, turning it over in his hand like a precious rock.