They think I’m depressed for refusing to leave this bed. I’m not. I put the tray on the table next to me. They want me to eat; I don’t need food. The birds chirp in the tree outside the window. If I stare out long enough, the voices around me will fade into background noise. They’ll stop eventually and leave. I won’t leave. I tuck a greasy strand of hair behind my ear. They say I’m depressed. I scoff. The only thing keeping me here is hope. Depression is when you have nothing to live for. That’s not me.
The car flipped six times, they said. I got a broken arm, bruised ribs, and a few scratches. I’m lucky, they said, which I am. Aren’t I?
I lean back in my chair when it hurts to breathe. The cast is heavy on my lap. I can’t lift my arm to squeeze my husband’s hand like I want to, like I’ve been doing for a few hours without a response. Sometimes I imagine it twitching. Maybe it did twitch.
If only he’d reach for my hand like he used to when driving. Maybe he’ll tell me that I’m lucky. And maybe I’ll believe him.
I don’t want you to die. Wake up. Open your eyes. Wake up.
His eyes stay sealed like the lid of that pickle jar I fumble with every night at 2 a.m. and fail to open until he reaches around me and pops it with a flick of his wrist. And I lean on him then, and I lean on him as we stare at the nursery that stays unfinished no matter how many times we change the theme.
Hope is feeling like he’s about to wake up, and if I turn my head, I’ll miss it. Hope is an addiction to the warmth lingering on his skin against the coldness of his wedding band. Five years are not enough, and yet too much time was wasted. So wake up.
His broken body stays motionless. This isn’t like him to deny me something I want.
A bandage is wrapped around his head, hiding his lustrous hair. Did they shave it? The savages. Don’t they know how much he likes his brown locks? It’s my favorite feature too, one of my favorites. I love everything about him. Except this silence.
He has stitches on his upper lip and at the side of his right eye. He has bright green eyes, closed bright green eyes.
“Silent treatment is a form of emotional abuse, you know.” I sniffle. Crying is pointless when we still have a whole life ahead of us. “What would it take to convince you to fight? I’ll let you have your man-cave. What do you want? A pet. A chipmunk like you always wanted, you weirdo. But I’ll name it Chirpy Chip.” A wobbly smile stretches across my lips, but still a smile. “Let’s quit our jobs and go on a vacation. We’ve drifted away lately, but we don’t have to. I promise. Come back.”
The door opens again. Voices I don’t have ears for clutter the room. The nurse squeezes my shoulder, walks around the bed, and pulls the white sheet over his face, which doesn’t make sense. He won’t be able to breathe. A single tear falls, and I look away.
The birds chirp by the window while the branches sway to the rhythm of the breeze.
Hope is cruel.
