Stages of Grace (4 page)

I blush just looking at him.

His eyes flick to mine. "Yes?"

"It's silly" I f
eel my cheeks redden even more.

His face breaks into an easy smile, my favorite smile, the one that seems to m
ake me weak in the knees. "Grace, your face is bright red. What's got you blushing?"

I cover my face with a sofa cushion and he plops down next to me, pulling me into his lap. His lips are on my neck, my arms linked aroun
d his shoulders.

"I ju
st love you so much." I whisper.

He kisses my cheek
. "I do too."

Jon makes dinner that night, flirting with me
as he cuts up carrots to steam.

He puts on some music and when the food does not need tending pulls me off the sofa and dances me around the room. After dinner, he makes love to me again. I fall asleep in his arms as he absentmindedly plays with my hair, my body tucked into the crook
of his arm. It is the best day.

When my alarm goes off Monday morning, I roll over to him and kiss him. Jon is still mainly asleep and doesn’t react. I smile at him, so certain that we will be able to fix this. I get up to take my shower and come back into the bedroom to get dressed. Normally, I would have put my scrubs in the bathroom the night before, but I was distracted and having so muc
h fun with Jon I had forgotten.

"Do you have
to make so much fucking noise?"

I am pulling my shirt over my head when Jon says that.
Of course, how stupid of me. "I'm so sorry. You won't hear another sound," I whisper as I grab my bottoms and tip toe back to the bathroom.

I begin berating myself for doing something that I knew would annoy Jon. I had stupidly thought that maybe since things seemed like before that I could, well act like I had as well. It was silly of me to assume that. Now all I do is worry that maybe my actions will cause Jon to revert. That is the last thing I want. I take extra care to be as quiet as possible. I gently close the door behind me as I leave to go s
it in my car while it warms up.

Walking up to it, I cannot miss the new, decent-sized dent by the front driver's side tire. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My fingers lightly trace the edge of the indention, bumpy and misshapen in relation to the smooth exterior surrounding it. Was this what yesterday had been all about? Did I get sympathy sex because Jon dented my car? The dent is on the side of the tire well away from the door. I get in and start the heat and defrosters. As the car warms up I wonder if he had been in an accident with another car or just randomly hit something. If it was with another car could I be sued for damages? Did he hit something or was he hit by something? Part of me wants to march right up th
ose stairs and demand answers from him, while another part of me is scared of his reaction.

Once my car
warms up I begin my drive into work, paying special attention in case it seems to handle funny. I’m in luck because it’s driving okay. As I cross the river, I think about my parents. My mother would have known what to do with Jon, or my father would have beat him up, not badly, just enough to scare him. I feel overwhelmed and weepy, wishing they were still alive. I had been close with my mom. We talked more than any of my friends and their moms. I could pick up the phone and tell her anything. My mom was good at not judging and seemed to always have the best advice.

I wish
I could have called her right then. I don’t want to talk to any of my coworkers about Jon. It was embarrassing. Between moving to the new apartment and being so busy with Jon, I had lost contact with my girlfriends from my single days. Would they even care or understand? Would they just want me to give up on Jon and call it quits? No one would be able to understand how good we had been together and how desperately I wanted that Jon back. Right now, though, what I wanted most of all was someone that I could talk to.

When I get to work, I ta
ke care to park the car in a way that the damage could not be seen by my coworkers. I switch my computer on and go to put my lunch in the fridge. Nikita is starting her computer and chatting animatedly about what she had done over the weekend, asking if I had done anything fun. I am checking the appointment log, thinking to myself that it is going to be a busy day, and didn’t hear Nikita the first time.

"Did you do anything fun over the wee
kend?" Nikita repeated herself.

"Oh, no, not really.
Laundry."

Nikita's expression makes it clear she thinks that is
a waste of a weekend. I listen quietly, nodding at all of the right moments as Nikita continues to gush about her weekend. I feel a little jealous, partly wishing I could go out bar hopping with a group of girls. Almost as though Nikita is reading my mind, she gives me an open invitation to go out with her sometime. It’s sweet, but as I look at Nikita, with all of her enthusiasm for life I just cannot relate to her. I thank her and go back to getting set up for the day.

It’s wintertime in Cleveland. To say we are busy with sick appointments is an understatement. I am on my feet most of the day and grateful for the distraction from Jon. At
lunch, after bathing in hand sanitizer, I eat my sandwich and comb the want ads for anything Jon could be qualified for. There are some promising ads I circle. I brought a copy of Jon's most recent resume with me to work and fax it off before clocking back in. I spend the afternoon avoiding sneezes and coughs, silently admonishing some patients to cover their mouths. There seems to be a bug going around. I suck on a vitamin C drop and hope it skips me. Getting sick is the occupational hazard of working in a doctor's office.

In general, I am somewhat impervious to most of the bugs that go around and am very good about getting a flu shot every year, considering they’re an employment perk of where I work. Still, a bug knocks me on my ass every couple of years, and I am due for one. Just the thought of it make me squirt an extra dollop of sanitizer onto my hands. Once the last patient is checked out, I sit down to catch my breath. It doesn’t last long. I still have to tidy up the waiting room. My plan is to avoid getting sick, so I put on a pair of gloves before I stack and straighten all of the magazines in the waiting room. Considering the very visible waste basket in the waiting room, I am not pleased to find candy wrappers and use
d tissues on one of the tables.

Nikita and I walk out together. I am dreading going home, I know I have to bring up the dent but am n
ot sure how to do it. If I ignore it I wonder if Jon will stay as sweet as he had been to me the day before. It’s not like being annoyed with him will change the fact that there is a dent. What if he had been at home all day sick with worry about how I would react?

On the drive home I decide not to bring up the dent and see if Jon will. I can picture walking in the door to Jon making something in the kitchen. He would walk over to help me take off my coat and kiss me, asking how my day was. We would have dinner together, and it would be the first step to being us again. If I could just ignore this maybe that would happen, and wouldn’t that be worth it in th
e long run? I was home. I park, take a deep breath, and after collecting my things, make my way up to our apartment. There had been a dreary drizzle of freezing rain most of the day. Expecting slick spots, I slowly make my way up the stairs.

The apartment is dark when I walk in. I flip on the light for the front room and look around. I stop myself from
calling out to Jon in case he is sleeping. I hang up my keys and purse, then take off my coat before moving further into the apartment, turning on lights as I go. The door to our bedroom is cracked. I peer inside, expecting to see Jon lying in our bed. He isn’t. Where is he? I walk back out to the kitchen to see if maybe he left a note before getting my cell phone from my purse to check for a text. Nothing.

I think about texting him to ask where he is, but the last time I had done that he had become so annoyed. He had imp
lied that my asking where he was, was an accusation. It didn’t matter that I tried to explain I only wanted to find out if I should be cooking for two or just myself. Jon wasn’t always this defensive. Only in the last year. In the past he had been so confident and so sure of our bond. He also had an uncanny way of knowing what I was thinking of asking before I did. He seems to have lost that.

I think back to the two resumes I had faxed off for him that day with a wish in my heart that something good would come of it. I make myself a sandwich and pull out a photo album from when we first started dating. It’s a black padded album with slots for two pictures and a comment on each
page, with a spot for one photo on the cover. I trace Jon's handsome profile on the cover picture. It’s a shot of us looking at each other. I laugh, looking at our sappy expressions. My laugh becomes a choked sob at the thought of how different we are today. Taking a napkin to stem the flow of tears, I close my eyes, pushing the album away.

Today is not a good day to look at it, maybe tomorrow. Getting up to wash my plate, I feel flushed. Raising the back of my hand to my forehead, I grimace at how warm it feels. I wash
my plate, take some aspirin, and then suck on a vitamin C drop. I am not going to get sick. There are few things I can control right now, but I am convinced getting sick is one of them. Changing into my pajamas, I am sure that a good night’s sleep will kick whatever funk may be lurking. Still hot, I shove most of the comforter towards Jon's side of the bed.

For the most part, I sleep well with the exception of freezing at some points and then feeling too warm. When I wake and see that Jon is still not home, I’m relieved because I am certain he would have been annoyed that I tossed and turned all night. That feeling is short-lived and replaced by a combination of concern at where he is to annoyance at how inconsiderate it is of him. Those feelings are pushed aside as I hurry to get ready for work. While I do not feel one hundred percent, I no longer feel feverish. Instead, I feel foggy, as though there is a hum in my ears and my limbs have fal
len asleep. But I can function.

Since Jon is not home, there’s no point sitting in a cold car as it warms up. I carefully hurry down the stairs to start my car and then quickly back up the stairs, sliding for a nerve-wrecking moment near the top. Once inside, I brush my teeth, gather my things, and after peeking to see the front window is now clear, make my way back down the stairs. Crossing the river, I send out a little wish to m
y parents to watch out for Jon.

Whatever energy I had managed
to find to drag myself to work doesn’t last long, My fog descends once again, and I struggle through my day. At lunch, instead of checking the want ads for Jon, I lay my head on the table in the break room and take a catnap, waking with an imprint of my watchband on my cheek. Nikita encourages me to go home early to get more rest, but I wave her off. In my eyes, there is no point, since it is now after lunch. There are only four more hours to go. I can do that in my sleep.

With only the occasional head bob, I finish my shift. When I get into my car
, I immediately switch the stereo to a metal station, hopeful the screaming will keep me conscious for the ride home. Visions of a bowl of chicken noodle soup carry me home. After parking, I notice that the front light is on. I am too tired to contemplate whether I am happy or not to know that Jon is home. I take my time up the stairs and hardly notice or care that Jon seems tense when I walk in. I drop my things by the door and shuffle to the kitchen. Jon looks at me in confusion, and I admit that I do not feel good.

Taking a pan out to heat a can of soup, I struggle to keep my mouth from hanging open when Jon casually asks if I can make him some soup as well. Turning quickly so Jon will not see the pained
look on my face, I say, "Sure."

"And some toast?"

I nod. Really, I am already making myself a bowl. It isn’t any bother to add another can to the pot and pop another slice of toast in the toaster. It’s no more work than what I have already intended to do, and even though I tell myself this, it does not hurt any less that he had not offered to make it himself since he knows I am not feeling well. I tuck that feeling way deep inside where I can ignore it because thinking about it just makes me feel worse.

I serve Jon and myself once the soup is hot. Jon finishes eating before I do and leaves his plate and bowl in the sink for me. I wash them along with my plate and bowl once I finish eating, tucking how that makes me feel inside as well. I could have said something, but really, considering I just want to go to sleep, how will it accomplish anything? At best, Jon would apologize after we talked it out and say he would be more considerate in the future, and at worst, somehow it would all turn into my fault, and I would end up feeling worse than I already did. In either scenario, a conversation will be needed, and honestly I do not want to talk to Jon, although I tell myself it’s because I’m tired and just wan
t to go to sleep.

Jon doesn’t seem to mind that I go to sleep early. I am so exhaus
ted I don’t even feel the movement of him climbing into bed at some point overnight. When my alarm clock goes off the next day, and I feel no improvement from the night’s rest, I know taking a sick day is my only option. I send a text to the office manager and to Nikita to let them know I’ll be out. Nikita replies almost instantly, telling me that she hopes I feel better. I turn the ringer off and turn over to go back to sleep. I wake again when Jon begins rustling. Jon snuggles up next to me, pressing himself against me. I feel like crap and turn away from him in an attempt to avoid his amorous attention.