Three Nights Under His Window

Christmas

I had said it. She was not lying about that.

Last Christmas, at the home place, with the whole family around Arlene’s table and the ham on the good platter, she had started in on me about the kids. Caleb’s hair was too long. Emma was on her phone too much. I let them get away with things Rick would never have gotten away with.

And then she said, “Richard, you used to have more backbone before you got married.”

Rick laughed it off. That was how Rick handled his mother. He laughed it off for nineteen years and kept the peace and went out to check cattle that did not need checking.

But I had been tired that day, and I had worked the whole week before Christmas at the dealership, and I had made three pies. And I put my fork down.

“Arlene,” I said, in front of everyone, “he’s my husband now, not your little boy. Sooner or later you’re going to have to let him go.”

The table went dead quiet. Arlene set down her own fork very carefully, folded her napkin, and went into the kitchen. She did not come back out until we were leaving.

I meant every word of it. But I did not have to say it like that, at her table, on Christmas. I knew it when I said it, and I knew it all the way home in the truck while Rick drove without talking.

I had never told her I was sorry. And now here she was, telling the ICU nurses I was a danger to her son.

Saturday night

The second night was colder. A front came through in the afternoon and the wind picked up and rocked the van on its springs.

Deb drove up that evening with a casserole dish of hotdish and a thermos and a pillow. She had left the kids with Jeff, who had promised Caleb they would finish the north quarter on Sunday if it stayed dry.

She sat in the passenger seat and ate with me out of the dish with two forks.

“You want me to go up there?” Deb asked. “I’ll go up there. I’ve known Arlene Strand for thirty years. I’ll tell that charge nurse who’s lying.”

“They won’t let you back either,” I said. “You’re not family.”

“I could call Pastor Neil.”

“I called him,” I said. “He’s praying. He said if it isn’t sorted Monday, he’ll drive up himself.”

Deb looked up at the window. “Tammy. Why don’t you just call a lawyer?”

I had thought about it. I had lain there half the night thinking about it.

“Because it’s Saturday,” I said. “And because I don’t want my husband to wake up to his wife and his mother at war over his bed. I want him to wake up. That’s all I want right now.”

“Arlene sat in this same hospital when Walt died,” she said finally. “Did you know that? Eleven years ago. Same unit, I think.”

I had known Walt died here. I had been at the funeral. But I had not thought about it once since Friday, not once. I had been too busy being wronged.

Deb left around nine. I watched her taillights go down the hill, and I counted the floors again, and the light was still on.