I’d only seen my wife cry two times since we’d been together: one time when she’d learned she was pregnant seven months ago, and another when some bad news came in four days ago.
“Shouldn’t you straighten your hair?” I asked.
“I’m not straightening my hair today.”
“You always straighten your hair.”
“I haven’t straightened my hair in four days.” She frowned, but I didn’t make a comment about her disappointment. I didn’t want to deal with her emotions that afternoon. For the past four days, she’d been a wreck, the opposite of the woman I married, and I wasn’t one to deal with people’s emotions.
What Jane needed to do was pull herself together.
I went back to staring at my computer screen, and my fingers started moving quickly once more.
“Graham,” she grumbled, waddling over to me with her very pregnant stomach. “We have to get going.”
“I have to finish my manuscript.”
“You haven’t stopped writing for the past four days. You hardly make it to bed before three in the morning, and then you’re up by six. You need a break. Plus, we can’t be late.”
I cleared my throat and kept typing. “I decided I’m going to have to miss out on this silly engagement. Sorry, Jane.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her jaw slacken. “Silly engagement? Graham…it’s your father’s funeral.”
“You say that as if it should mean something to me.”
“It does mean something to you.”
“Don’t tell me what does and doesn’t mean something to me. It’s belittling.”
“You’re tired,” she said.
There you go again, telling me about myself. “I’ll sleep when I’m eighty, or when I’m my father. I’m sure he’s sleeping well tonight.”
She cringed. I didn’t care.
“You’ve been drinking?” she asked, concerned.
“In all the years of us being together, when have you ever known me to drink?”
She studied the bottles of alcohol surrounding me and let out a small breath. “I know, sorry. It’s just…you added more bottles to your desk.”
“It’s a tribute to my dear father. May he rot in hell.”
“Don’t speak so ill of the dead,” Jane said before hiccupping and placing her hands on her stomach. “God, I hate that feeling.” She took my hands away from my keyboard and placed them on her stomach. “It’s like she’s kicking me in every internal organ I have. I cannot stand it.”
“How motherly of you,” I mocked, my hands still on her.
“I never wanted children.” She breathed out, hiccupping once more. “Ever.”
“And yet, here we are,” I replied. I wasn’t certain Jane had fully come to terms with the fact that in two short months, she’d be giving birth to an actual human being who would need her love and attention twenty-four hours a day.
If there was anyone who gave love less than I did, it was my wife.
“God,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “It just feels weird today.”
“Maybe we should go to the hospital,” I offered.
“Nice try. You’re going to your father’s funeral.”