17
Gavin
The motorof the vacuum chugs along as I pump the waste from our fifth port-a-john stop of the day. The sun beats down on the plastic, heating the stagnant air. A fly buzzes overhead, and I swat it away. The stench is still all-consuming, even with the sanitizer I spray and the deodorizer I put down.
You’d think that would’ve turned me off years ago from doing this job, but like Jamie said, I’m providing for my family, doing honest work, and there’s no shame in that.
I think about the kids, and figure, I loved them, and even if I don’t remember them being born, or playing catch with them, or teaching them to ride their bikes, that doesn’t mean that I won’t remember it again. Someday soon, I’ll have my memories back, and I’m sure I’ll be ashamed of myself if I don’t keep caring for them as best I can.
A twinge pesters me, like the fly buzzing overhead, and I realize it’s that the doctor said I might never remember. But that doesn’t seem so terrifying anymore. They’re good kids. Jamie is…I like the way we fit. Who am I kidding? I love the way we fit.
There’s a part of me that almost doesn’t want to remember. Because there’s an itch inside that tells me there’s a reason that Jamie looks at me like I’m a feral dog that might bite. And there’s a reason the kids egged me. And there’s a reason my grandma in-law doesn’t like me. I’m almost afraid to learn those reasons.
I shake my head and wipe the sweat from my brow. I’m almost done pumping, I’m crowded into the tight walls of the port-a-john.
Thankfully, stepping into the claustrophobic space isn’t as terrifying as it was yesterday. Mostly, I admit, because I’m distracted with thoughts of Jamie. As soon as my throat starts to go tight and my mind yells, run, run, run, I just have to picture her lavender eyes regarding me with that dazed, just-been-kissed expression, and the desire to run flees. I guess I’m claustrophobic, and even though I’ve forgotten everything about myself, apparently my subconscious hasn’t.
I shrug and turn off the vacuum, pulling it from the john. Big Tom’s at the truck, working on the paperwork for our next stop. I load the waste into the tank and hop into the rumbling truck cab. Tom doesn’t spare me a glance. He’s just as talkative as he was yesterday. Meaning he’s grunted, sighed, shrugged and thrown another tuna sandwich at me. I was kind enough to share some of my cornbread.
“Tom. I’ve been meaning to ask you.” I wait until he looks up. I turn down the country music crackling over the radio. Then, “In all the time you’ve known me, have I ever talked about my wife?”
He gives me a flat look.
I rub my chin and look out the window at the carpet of dark green grass and the thickly leafed trees shading the roadside park. “I mean to say, did I like being married?”
He grunts, turns the radio back up and puts the truck into gear. We pull onto the twisting mountain road, heading for our next stop. Apparently, Tom thinks the conversation is over. But we have five minutes until we hit the next park, and I still have more questions.
The leaf-scented breeze from the open window rolls over me and I watch the trees fly by. “So, did that grunt mean yes or no?”
He scratches his beard. Okay.
“I think I’m a friendly guy,” I continue. “I like people. I think I’m happy. And when I look at my wife…” I draw in a breath, gazing out over the lush forest and the craggy mountain boulders. “I can’t describe it, but when I look at her.” I shake my head. “Never mind.”
Big Tom nods, his furry beard not big enough to hide the reddening of his cheeks, I take that as encouragement to keep going.
“Alright. So it’s like this. When I first saw her at the hospital, I thought there was no way that I was married to her. Couldn’t see it. I didn’t believe anything she said about my life. But it’s only been two days, and now I can’t see my life any other way.” I peer at Big Tom to make sure he’s listening. He grabs a handful of sunflower seeds, pops them in his mouth and then nods, so I figure he’s still with me. “When I’m near her, I feel…I feel like a raft, being tugged down the current toward a waterfall, I can’t pull away, and I really want to go over that cliff.” I rub my head. That sounded stupid. Big Tom spits his sunflower shells out the window.
I sigh. “Here’s the deal. I can’t stop looking at my wife. Last night, I caught myself counting the freckles on her cheeks. There are thirty-seven of them, in case you were wondering.”
Tom grunts. He wasn’t wondering.
“I’ve decided her eyes are the shade between a morning sky and lavender just blooming. And she does this thing, where if she finds something funny but shouldn’t laugh, the left side of her mouth twitches. When I compliment her, her face turns pink, and all those thirty-seven freckles pop and I want to…” I clear my throat, thinking about what I want to do. “Do you see? Was I always this poetic about my wife? I don’t think I’m a poetic person. Am I?”
Tom spits more sunflower shells out the window. I guess I’m not. I frown. “I think I like my wife. I think I loved her.” There’s an aching flutter in my chest, like my heart’s beating against a closed door, in a dark, lonely room. “I loved her, didn’t I?”
I think about this morning. She came into the kitchen when I was stirring the oatmeal. She stopped with a surprised look, and I grabbed her hand, pulled her close, and dropped a kiss on her lips. She tasted like mint toothpaste and cherry lip gloss, and I could feel her pulse racing as I rubbed my thumb over her wrist.
Lust, wild, raging lust shot through me and I wanted to drop the oatmeal spoon and tug her to the bedroom for a repeat of last night. But Scooter snorted at me from the floor, and I could hear the kids in the loft, getting dressed.
“Morning,” I’d said instead, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Jamie flushed and stared with wide, shocked eyes, like she’d never gotten a morning kiss before in her entire life.
That was odd. Really odd. Didn’t I ever kiss my wife?
I look over at Tom and he lifts an eyebrow, like he’s asking why I can’t tell whether or not I loved my own wife.
“You’re right. I should know better than anyone else.” I consider this. “I think I may have hurt her in the past. Maybe I wasn’t always good to her. I’m not sure what she thinks of me.” I give him a sidelong glance. Tom confirms what I was thinking by putting a calloused hand on my shoulder and giving me a hard pat.
So there’s that. Apparently, I was a dick.
I nod. “Thanks. Good talk.”
We pull into the next roadside park, a U-turn drive with a scenic view over the blue-green valley and a wooden picnic table. I hop out of the truck, the birds are singing, and even though apparently I’ve not always been the best man, I think I’ve been given an opportunity to be better.
Like I told Jamie, there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be. Looking out over the sloping mountainside, the wide open valley, and the blue, blue sky, it feels like the world goes on forever and ever, and I’m standing in its center.