Challenge: LGBT+ romance

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Jordie- The Dog Days Are Over

Time means something different to me now. It used to symbolize hope, an opportunity to try something new and perhaps maybe, waiting for something joyous to begin. But now, it's just a burden, a reminder that even time itself must stop, that everything under the hands of time and within it must die. But waiting to die, that's something else entirely.

The flowers on the kitchen table are wilting now, their red pedals drooping towards the ground as if they too are crying, only to lap up their tears in the vase in which they dwell. I haven't paid too much attention to the flowers before now, but here we are, and here I am, having my evening tea, only to be staring at something I never thought of as living. Strange, how the world works.

"Are you coming to bed?" I ask the person sitting across from me, although she's more of a shadow now. She's made sure to only wear black it seems, engulfed in a dark wool knit sweater and faded navy sweatpants from her high school days that oddly enough still hug her hips tightly. Claire is stirring the porridge in front of her with her spoon, moving it back and forth in a slow circular motion. Her dark brown hair is hanging down in front of her eyes, and I hate that I can't see the breath of fresh air that was once the brightest green I had ever seen.

Claire drops the spoon into the bowl and we both stare as the oatmeal seems to swallow it. "I think I'll stay right here tonight."

"You're going to sit at the kitchen table, all night long?"

"Yes."

"I don't think that's very healthy Claire, I..."

"I don't care," she snaps. "I'm staying here. Go to bed, but don't wait up; I won't be there to kiss you goodnight."

I nod, take my empty teacup to the sink and set the dish down. I think about washing it, slowly. Maybe lingering would get Claire up off the chair, let her calm down and talk some sense into her. But what good would that do? She's been in the same pair of sweatpants for nearly a month and I don't recall seeing her take a shower in the past few weeks, but she doesn't smell, only of her usual Sunny Days perfume, but even the scent has faded now.

"I love you." I whisper to her, bending down to kiss the top of her head before vanishing down the hall and to our bedroom, or more or less, my bedroom now. I don't wait for a response or even hope to hear one called after me; she hasn't been able to say those three simple words in months. The bedroom feels like a prison to me. It was once a place where I couldn't wait to return to at the end of a long day at work and flop down on the bed, letting my body sink into the mattress. But now, the bed no longer feels comfortable and the pillowcases feel as if they are strangling me.

The pictures in their frames stare back at me, each one shows me a happy Claire with a grinning smile from ear to ear guiding a canoe, pulling on the reigns of a horse or lying in my lap, her nose pressed against mine. There are picture frames on the dressers that are turned face down, and my fingers so badly want to pick them up to see the happy family of three that we once were, riding horses together, in canoes and curled up by the fire on Christmas Eve roasting marshmallows. I know what they are, I don't have to endure the physical pain of seeing them.

"Fuck this." I say, and without even turning the light switch on I leave the room. My feet take me back into the kitchen where Claire is still staring at the beige slop of her porridge, perhaps trying to find the meaning of life hidden somewhere deep inside it. She looks up at me when I re-enter the room, her hair falling to the side of her head and I see those eyes again for the first time in weeks, and sure they're now dull, they're plain, but they're the eyes I fell in love with.

"Ryan is gone," I say, point blank. She laughs at me, but it's a laugh that is not welcoming, a laugh that insinuates that a fight is about to happen. "I can't bring him back, no matter how hard I try I can't bring him back!"

I form a fist with my right hand and unexpectedly punch the wall adjacent to us. I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I thought it would go through the drywall, I'd bring out my hand with a small bit of white plaster, a few cuts and I'd clean it off and head back to bed, satisfied with the pressure being released from my chest for now. Instead, I feel the hard-wooden strength of the stud behind the drywall send shooting pain through my knuckles and up my arm, causing me to fall to the floor holding my throbbing hand, sobbing.

Claire quickly ascends from her weeks-long seat and crosses to the freezer where she grabs the most suitable frozen package and drops to the floor with me, rubbing my back, placing the package on my already rapidly swelling hand. I haven't cried this hard, yet. I usually cry silently, in my sleep where no one can hear me and I can't feel the fat crocodile tears falling down my face. But tonight, tonight was my breaking point.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I'll fix the wall tomorrow, I promise."

Claire looks up to the wall and a laugh escapes her lips, the kind that is sincere, the kind that is genuine as if I had just told her a funny joke. "The wall isn't even dented. But that looks broken, we should get you..."

She doesn't finish her sentence, and she doesn't need to. She has realized that upon removing the package from my purple and blue hand that out of the freezer she grabbed the dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets. I can tell she's remembering Ryan at the table, taking bites out of a handful of dinosaurs and then smearing the chunks missing with ketchup, telling us that he was the T-Rex, stomping through the land and showing the dinosaurs who was boss.

"I'm the boss." I say to Claire, mimicking Ryan's young voice. She laughs with me, but she's also crying now, holding onto the package of frozen nuggets in her lap. My heart leaps in my chest and through the pain and tears I take a chance, lean in and kiss my wife on the lips. I can't remember the last time my lips felt hers. I can't remember the last time my tongue fell into synch with hers and I sure as hell can't remember a time where it was this passionate, this electric. She begins to move faster, and I match her pace. My good hand moves down her arms and to her hands, where I softly massage her palm before placing her hand on my right breast, and she squeezes it once, showing me that she hasn't forgotten what we used to enjoy.

"Annie," she breathes, pulling away. "Your hand, we should go to the hospital."

"It can wait." I tell her, forgetting the pain of my hand, forgetting the pain of the death of our son for just one moment. But forgetting is tricky when you purposely want to forget; your body won't allow it. A jolt of pain surges through my hand and I cringe, accidentally biting Claire's tongue in the process. She yelps and jumps to her feet.

"In the car," her voice is back to that depressive mode I saw her in earlier. "I'm driving you, let's go."

We haven't been back to the Emergency Room since Ryan passed away. In fact, I don't even think Claire has driven the car since our little boy left this world. Her hands are steady on the wheel, and I'm admiring the way she's holding herself when I know inside she's screaming at me. It's already dark out, and the route I took home from work is lighted with street lamps and reflective collars of dogs out for a stroll with their owners.

We talked about getting a dog, and I think when the time is right I'll take Claire down to the pound and we'll discuss maybe bringing another living being back into our lives; something to care for while we pass the time until we ourselves join Ryan in the sky. Ryan loved dogs, always did. Especially the larger ones, the ones you could bury your face into and come out with a mouthful of fur but a heart full of love. Humans don't deserve dogs, I've said this to Claire countless times as we've watched dog movie after dog movie, crying into each other's shoulder at how horrible humanity truly is. Ryan had allergies, at least that's what the doctor told us, so we never got around to the whole dog thing.

Annie gears down to stop at the upcoming red light, and from my position in the passenger seat, gritting my teeth through the pain, I see a woman jog up to us in a bright orange jogging jacket. In her hand is a leash that leads to a bright eyed german shepard on the other end. I unroll the window and the equally wide-eyed Judy Faye leans down to chat with us. She's been our neighbour since Claire and I paid off our mortgage. I remember because Claire and I were celebrating with under the stars sex and I hadn't realized I had left the porch lights on, giving Judy and her husband a full-blown erotic display when they stopped by to introduce themselves; I doubt her husband had any complaints.

"Hello Claire, hello Annie," Judy says in a said, melodic voice. "I haven't seen you in a while. How are you two holding up?"

Claire keeps her eyes on the red light and bites her lower lip, no doubt to keep from telling Judy that the shirt she wears underneath her unzipped jacket is on backwards.

"We're doing okay, Judy," I lie to the nosy neighbour. "Thank you for the flowers, they are still on our kitchen table. They smell wonderful."

Judy smiles, pleased with my answer. "I'm glad, Annie I just can't imagine what you're going through, losing Ryan like that. I remember one time..."

The air whooshes fast out the window and the german shepard barks loudly at the roaring of engine. I look to Claire, who has just blown through a red light, a mask of strength and courage washing over her face. I just stare at her, in awe at her beauty in this time of tragedy and her resilience to be here on this earth me, when both of us are just sitting around, waiting for time to take its toll.

Claire smirks. "I fucking hate that bitch."

"I hate her flowers."

"They stink, don't they?"

"It's the thought that counts."

"I guess so."

"Do you want to get a dog?"

Claire slams on the brakes, my body catapults forwards but my seatbelt catches me. Claire has stopped in the hospital parking lot, just shy of an actual parking space. I don't mention her driving, never have and never will. My hand is throbbing but it's gone numb, much like Claire as she turns to me, her eyes red from crying and her face drowned and broken; she has expelled all the tears from her body, she has nothing left to cry.

"I love you, Annie, I really do. But I cannot do this right now, making plans for the future. I don't see a future, not one without Ryan. Do you think getting a dog is going to fill the void in our hearts? Do you think seeing a dog sleep on Ryan's favourite blanket is going to solve all of our problems? Of all people I expected you to be the wreck and not me, you birthed him for crying out loud! You carried him for nine months and you're the one comforting me! You're not supposed to be the strong one, Annie, I am!"

I begin to cry, and this time, Claire has her wish. She holds me in the parking lot, rocking me back and forth, stroking my long black hair in a calming way only she knows how to do. She is the strong one even if she doesn't know it; I would of never been able to say what she had said to me.

"Let's get your hand fixed."

Claire and I don't speak as we walk into the emergency room or when we're waiting the long patient wait to see the doctor. We're thinking of the same thing as we look at the children play area in the right hand corner of the room; Ryan played with those bocks last month.

"Atherosclerosis, it's what happens when abnormal deposits of fats, cholesterol, and plaque build-up, leading to cardiovascular problems."

"What are our options?"

"We could do a lengthy surgery, try to remove the blockage from the passageway and put in a temporary tube, one that would be replaced with a heart transplant when one comes available at a later date."

"Let's do it."

"No, Claire, not yet. Sorry, doc, but what are Ryan's chances of making it out of surgery?"

The nurse calls us in, seats us in a small corner and draws back the curtain. She asks if I've been drinking, ingested any drugs or upon seeing Claire's face, ask if there was a domestic dispute at home. Claire reassures the nurse I haven't hurt her and never would; this is the first time Claire has spoken with another person in four weeks. This is the first time I haven't had to speak for her. The nurse leaves and we're alone once again, but it's a different silence; it's no longer awkward.

"I'm sorry I yelled."

"It's okay."

"How is your hand feeling?"

"I feel this pressure, on my chest since he's been gone. It's like I'm trying to remember what it was like when they first put him, bare naked on my chest when he arrived into this world eight years ago. I can't feel that heat, Claire, and it's heartbreaking, it's breaking me slowly. I just thought you should know."

Claire sinks back into the chair and puts her hands in her face, trying to muffle her sobs for the courtesy of the people on the other side of the thin fabric curtain.

Ryan sits in his hospital bed, upright, breathing tubes in his nostrils and an IV in his arm. He sees me enter and a smile flashes on his face. Claire is asleep on the couch next to his bed, mascara smeared across her skin; she's been crying. I sit down next to Ryan on his bed, holding back tears myself; I'm not going to show him that I'm terrified.

"Mom has been crying all night," he nods to Claire in the corner. "She cried herself to sleep, I think."

"She's nervous, that's all. But you're going to do great, you'll see." I kiss the top of his head and ruffle his jet-black hair. He laughs, and then has to take a deep wheezing breath in. We didn't tell him the odds of him surviving the surgery for his age and body weight was forty percent, it was something he didn't need to die with knowing.

"When I'm all better, do you think we could get a dog?"

I choke back tears, swallowing the golf ball sized lump in my throat. "What kind of dog?"

"Short haired, so I don't sneeze as much."

"Perhaps, we'd have to talk to Mom about it."

"I bet I would get used to it, then we could get three more dogs!"

I laugh. "That may be pushing it to the limit, Ryan."

"I can't wait to get a dog. What would we name it?"

"Anything you'd like."

Ryan thinks for a moment before giggling and nodding in agreement with himself. "Rex. Like T-Rex. Rex would be the boss of the house. Like me."

We laugh for a while, and when it's time the anesthesiologistsolemnly strolls in with her powerful knock-out drugs that will make Ryan feel as if he's on a cloud; he won't feel a thing. Claire and I are holding a hand each as he drifts off into silence, into peace, into a place where time doesn't stop and his dreams will be endless. He's crying now, though, nervous for the pain he will have when he wakes up.

"Moms?" he asks both of us, looking into our faces. He's frantic now, looking for any bit of reassurance he can muster. "Can we get a dog?"

"Yes." Claire answers before I have a chance to say anything and with that, Ryan closes his eyes, and never opens them again.

The doctors plaster my hand in a white rock-hard cast that renders me unable to work the next morning. Claire drives us home, and once we get there she turns on the stereo, something that hasn't been touched in our home for years. For once I want to crawl into bed and sleep, but Claire pulls me in close before I have a chance to detest and before I know it, we're slow dancing in the middle of the kitchen.

"Thank you." I tell her, although I'm not sure which part of the night I'm thanking her for. She reaches down to my height and kisses me lightly.

She nestles her head in the crook of my shoulder and we sway together, dancing to the pace of the music, waiting for time to heal our wounds. 

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Clara

DID NOT HAND IN