Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“You expect me to use that?” He kept talking, ignoring the fact that he had dropped the f-bomb in front of our daughter and was acting like a jerk.
I remained calm. “If you want to get upstairs, you will.”
“This is what you’ve been wasting your time on? Never mind the cost,” he snarled. “I bet I got taken for a ride on this little endeavor.”
I gaped at him. He was worried about money? In all of this, that was the last thing he needed to be worried about. He had greater issues to focus on. Gracie interrupted my reply.
“I wanna go in elebator!”
“No,” snarled Richard.
“Why?” she asked. “I go wif you.”
I bent low to Gracie. “I have to show Daddy how it works. We’ll race you up the stairs, okay? I’ll even give you a head start. You can ride down after.” I winked. “Then we can have the cookies we made for Daddy.”
She clapped her hands, heading for the stairs. “Yay!”
I pushed Richard inside the elevator, not giving him a chance to refuse. I pushed the button hard in anger. “It’s simple to use.”
“Good thing since I’m simple these days,” he snarled. “My brain and body don’t work right anymore.”
Before I could retort, the doors opened, Gracie waiting outside with a bright face.
“Me beat you!”
I forced a smile, pushing Richard out ahead of me. Gracie moved toward him, but he didn’t lift her onto his lap. Instead, he patted her head and wheeled away from us.
“Let’s go see what other surprises are here,” he muttered.
I followed him across the hall to our room, my heart heavy.
Simple was not the word I would use right now.
Richard was fucking complicated and I wasn’t sure I knew how to unravel the mystery.
I rinsed my hair, then sat under the hot water, letting it rain over my tired, aching body. The barrier-free shower and seat I had installed were met with a lukewarm reception from Richard, but I loved them. Somedays, I escaped and let the water rain over me, washing away the pain and frustration of yet another day with the new version of my husband. At least he used the shower without complaint, unlike the lift I had rented to aid him in getting in and out of bed from the wheelchair. He had lost it, swearing and muttering about his dwindling manhood, but I knew he needed it. He grew terse and angry every time I tried to help him, so I gave him the space he needed and let him figure it out on his own.
I shut off the water and opened the door, realizing I was more than just physically tired. I had never felt as torn as I did these days. Richard and his mood swings eclipsed everything in our life. His recovery, or as he saw it, lack of recovery, colored his views, his temperament, and heartbreakingly, his love for us. He refused all offers of help, even going as far as to wait until I left the room until he got dressed.
If you called sweats and T-shirts getting dressed. It was his standard uniform now.
He had always taken such pride in his appearance. His custom suits that he wore like armor in his high-stakes world. The engraved cuffs on his shirts. The perfect tie and shoes. That had been the norm.
Nothing seemed normal now.
I thought when he came home, he would try harder. That the comfort and love that surrounded him would push him toward his goal. That we would be closer.
Instead, we seemed to be further apart.
His interactions with the girls, which used to be inspiring, were now stilted and awkward. His patience was thin, and at times, he seemed disinterested. Story time, one of his favorite parts of the day that I used to have to pull him from, was reduced to a few moments a day. The first night home he tried, but after a disaster, he refused to go back into Gracie’s room.
I was in Heather’s room, tucking her in when the commotion started. There was a thump, and I heard Gracie shrieking and Richard’s muffled cursing. I hurried across the room to find Richard on the floor, Gracie in tears, and his wheelchair tipped over. Somehow, he had gotten the scatter rug tangled into the wheel of the chair, and as he tried to untangle it, the chair tipped over. I righted the chair, pulled the twisted fabric away, and helped him get back in the seat.
He glared at me, his words burning into my skull.
“Think things through, Katy. Rugs and wheelchairs—not a good mix. Like me being here.”
I couldn’t get those words out of my mind.
I rolled up the rug, but the damage was done.
Story time was now a few lines he read in a monotone voice while Gracie sat on the sofa after dinner. She stopped asking to sit on his lap, but she always laid her tiny hand on his leg as he read to her. He looked down at it the first time with a strange expression on his face, then opened the book and started to read, studiously ignoring it.