He Hid Himself in Every Room So I Could Survive Him

I stared at him.

He went on.

“They come home after everybody leaves. There’s ham in the fridge from six different casseroles. Flowers dying in the sink. One shoe under the chair where the preacher sat. And then the toilet runs, or the porch light goes out, or the bank asks a question in a language made by the devil, and that’s the thing that finishes them.”

I started crying again.

Not loud.

Just leaking all over the place.

He wasn’t done.

“I can’t fix dying,” he said. “I tried. Turns out that’s one of the few things in this world that won’t take a wrench. But I can fix what comes after it a little.”

I covered my mouth.

He looked away then.

Toward the hallway.

Toward all the places he’d tucked himself.

“Or I can try,” he said.

I moved to kneel beside his chair.

My knees hated it, but they could hate it later.

I put my hands over his.

They felt thinner than they had a month ago.

Too light.

Like somebody had been quietly taking the weight out of him while we slept.

“I found the freezer notes,” I whispered.

“I figured.”

“And the breaker box.”

He nodded.

“And the glove compartment.”

That one surprised him.

A little spark in his eyes.

“You checked the glove box?”

“There was a registration sticker in there. I’m not blind.”

He huffed a laugh that turned into a cough.

A long one.

The kind that starts in the chest and seems to leave with pieces attached.

I waited it out.

Rubbed his back.

Got him water.

Held the glass while he drank because his hands were shaking too much.

When he finished, he leaned back and closed his eyes.

Then, very softly, he said, “There’s one in the blue cookie tin too.”

I stared at him.

“The one on top of the fridge?”

“Mm-hm.”

“What is wrong with you?”

He smiled with his eyes still closed.

“A lot, apparently.”

I should not have laughed.

But I did.

Then he opened his eyes again and looked straight at me.

“You can tell me to stop.”

The room went quiet.

Not the nice kind.

The kind where the real thing finally arrives and sits down.

I thought about the notes.

All those pieces of him.

All that care hidden in tape and paper and blocky handwriting.

Then I thought about what it would mean to say, yes, stop.

It would mean asking him to sit in the middle of his own ending with nothing useful left to do.