The Dead Husband by Carter Wilson (guided reading books .TXT) 📕

What. The. Fuck.

His verbal attacks have worsened since Riley’s death—understandable—but he has never said this to me before, and as patient as I am, and as much as I love him with all that’s left of my soul, his words stab as if I were being knifed by a back-alley assailant. And I respond in kind.

I hit him.

In his life, I’ve never laid a hand on my boy. My beautiful son.

But now, when he says what he does, staring directly in my face and only a foot away, I react. I’m not even aware I’m doing it. I’m watching from above as this crazy woman reaches out and open-palm slaps Max’s face so hard he falls to the floor. Falls to the floor. He catches himself, catlike, landing on his hands and knees, and the thunking of his bony kneecaps against the hardwood is gut-twisting.

I immediately crouch next to him on the floor, touch his shoulder. Max looks up to me with wide eyes that narrow after a second.

He doesn’t cry.

I think that’s the worst part.

Max is a crier, always has been. Always held his emotions on his sleeve. But in this moment, as he looks up at me from the floor, his face tells me nothing. No anger, no fear, no sadness. Just like Tasha Collins earlier today, just an emotionless stare, an assessment. He’s judging me in an entirely new light, as if suddenly realizing he’s been raised by a monster.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” I say, wanting to cry the tears he doesn’t. “I didn’t mean that. It just happened. But what you said. Max, you can’t talk to me like that. I can’t hit you, and you can’t talk to me like that. Ever. Okay?”

He says nothing, and now it’s scaring me a little, as if I’ve knocked him into some kind of new reality. I sit on the floor and pull him in toward me. He doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t hug back. Limp as a puppet.

“Are you listening to me?” I whisper, and the first tear falls down my cheek. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes,” he says.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m so sorry. You know that, right?”

“I know.” His voice is robotic.

“Look at me,” I say. I pull back and he makes eye contact. It usually takes me asking him a few times before he does, but not now. A faint red glow blossoms on his left cheek, deepening my shame.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He nods, keeping his gaze fixed.

“Did you mean it?” I say. “What you said. Did you really mean that?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s somewhere else now, far distant, but inches away.

“Sometimes our anger gets the best of us,” I say. “We say or do things we don’t really mean, and then it’s too late to take it back. We’re both wrong here. All we can do is promise to be better with each other and move on.”

Max remains silent, gaze both at and beyond me.

The housekeeper, Abril, walks into the room and looks over to us on the floor. I forgot she was even in the house and wonder what she’s heard.

“Oh, hello, Miss Rose.”

“Hi, Abril.”

Max moves his gaze from me to the floor.

“I’m leaving for the evening,” she says. “Anything else you need?”

So many things, I think.

“No, thank you. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

She swishes out of the room, and I run my hand through Max’s hair. “What just happened was awful,” I say. “For both of us. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

Now he speaks. “I’ve been through worse.”

That one hurts.

“I know you have.”

Then he turns to me, and there’s a bit of fresh life in his face. His eyes glisten enough to show me some emotion, which is a relief.

“It’s not supposed to be this way,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just us now. We can be whatever we want. But I don’t like how we are.”

“Me neither,” I say. “We just have to keep on being there for each other. Working with each other, not against.” I give him another squeeze, let go, then stand.

“I just want us to be okay,” Max says, his voice squeaking. He shouldn’t have to say such a thing, and it guts me that he does. I reply with a mantra I’ve used before during meditation, one that calms me, assures me, instills me with a confidence that doesn’t usually last long but comforts me in the moment. When I say this mantra to my son, I change it from the singular to plural, making it encompass us as a family.

“Our lives belong to us.”

He swallows, looks at me, so desperately wanting to believe those five words. Then he nods. “Okay.”

“If you want,” I say, “you can postpone your math homework. You still have to do those five problems, but not until tomorrow, okay?”

Max stands and walks over to the table where his homework binder rests closed. “I’ll do them now.” He then causally opens the binder, picks up his pencil, and starts doing exactly that.

This produces a mixture of emotions. Pride that we got through this horrible moment and he’s taking responsibility. Anger that we had to go through all that just for five stupid math problems. For the millionth time, I project my son into the future and wonder how he’ll cope as an adult with real responsibility and real problems.

I push the conflict away. He’s working through the present the best he can. The future can wait.

I leave the room and head into the kitchen, nerves still raw. I pour a glass of Chianti and do the one thing I’ve been needing to do all afternoon.

I text Cora.

We need to talk, I write.

Seconds later, a ding.

About what?

You know, I reply.

It takes a few minutes, long enough that I think she’s not going to respond at all. Then she does, encapsulating everything she needs to convey in a single word.

Woof.

Forty-Two

It’s just after 8:00 p.m. and I’m sitting in my car, ignition running, the only