And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed Read Free Page A

rested his hand on the curve of my worn, gray sweatpants. “They’re in bed now anyway. At the end of the day, they always go to bed.”
    “In bed” is relative. I could still hear Tucker making that silly clicking sound in his throat, which he had just discovered and was abundantly proud of. “In bed” is not asleep. But it is a step in the right direction.
    “Can we just be quiet, please?” I asked Robb, immune to the irony that I had been the one doing all the talking in that most recent tirade.
    “Can I watch baseball?”
    “Can I read my book?”
    “Yes.”
    “Deal.”
    “Dessert?”
    “Um … yes.” Isn’t that what we’ve all been waiting for?
    With dessert served in the deep ice cream bowls we found on clearance at Kohl’s, I moved back to my own chair—the oversized, comfier, more realistic place for me to sit for the duration of the night. Several chapters and innings later, it was time for the weather segment of the evening news—9:17 every night. Robb moonlighted as a closet meteorologist. He had installed two weather stations in our home, apps on his phone, and updates on his desktop. He was routinely one click away from the five-day forecast. I found this nicely helpful in my decisions about shoes and cute cardigans, since I would otherwise pay no attention to the weather until I was uncomfortable enough to notice it.
    My goodness. Sometimes we seem so old. What happened to the two who watched movies late into the night and boasted the occasional 2 a.m. run to Taco Bell? We used to have more to say to each other. Dinner conversations, chats on that walk around the neighborhood, pillow talk late at night—we always had a few more things to say. Where have those conversations gone? Are we too comfortable? Are we too familiar? Maybe we’re just too tired.
    He followed his meticulous routine of locking every door, turning off each light, then double-checking that each door was locked. Leaving him all the practical tasks, I checked on the sleeping little boys. I straightened this one’s blanket and found that one’s teddy bear. I stroked the tall one’s head; I rubbed the small one’s back. I kissed this one’s fingers, that one’s eyelids.
    I breathed a prayer over them. “God, arm them with strength. Make their way perfect.”
    Little do they know that I love nothing more than them. They are as big as I love.

December 2010
    Three days before Christmas I was balancing several writing deadlines, as often happened at the end of the month, the end of the semester, or the end of the year. All three factors were simultaneously upon me, and like a madwoman I was typing, editing, revising, and rewriting other people’s words. I sat at a Starbucks table, my fingers clicking on the keyboard, one foot resting in the chair across from me, and writing manuals spread on the table space around my laptop.
    Robb’s parents had arrived in town that morning, and we would meet for dinner that evening, so I had a number of hours to write as fast as I could. I had set aside holiday cheer, except for the faithful red label of my Starbucks cup, and I wrapped my mind around Kate Turabian’s rules for annotated footnotes of a secondary reference. I’m pretty sure if Kate Turabian were alive, we would not be friends. She was one finicky gal.
    My phone buzzed—incoming message.
    R:
Can’t stop shaking. Sinus cavities ache.
    I glanced at Robb’s text and sent off a quick reply with my text-savvy thumbs. An average of more than fifteen hundred texts a month builds a speedy wpm ratio. And also carpal tunnel syndrome.
    T:
Bummer, love. Need me to come home?
    R:
No. Just wanted you to know. I think I’m sick. Fever.
    I frowned sympathetically at the screen of my phone.
Well, that’s unfortunate,
I thought.
Nobody wants to be sick at Christmas.
My mind wandered vaguely to the ramifications of a sick husband during the holidays, but I didn’t linger there long. I had work to do. He told me he was fine and I