Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 14. Filling the Space

She made the book for him and left it where he would find it when he came in from the snow. She stitched the pages and folded the cover and waited for words to fill the spaces but when nothing came she just left the book where he would find it and went to bed.

In the morning he was gone, of course, and so was the book.
She wondered about it as she went through the day, wondered what he had thought of the empty pages and the space between the covers. She waited for him to say something to her when he came in, but the snow fell all day and she was asleep again before he came home.

The next day when she awoke he was sleeping hard, buried under their mound of quilts and the book was lying on the floor right where she would put her feet down when she swung them out of bed. She sat, arrested, her feet suspended above the book, and she looked back at him. His face was soft, flushed, his dark hair mussed and curling. She leaned down to pick up the book and went softly out of their bed to sit by the window in the dark daylight that was all the storm allowed them and wrapped herself and the book in a thick comforter. She held the book against her chest and listened to the wind shout and insist outside the thick glass, waiting til the book was warmed through with the heat of her body before she brought it out, into the day, and held it, closed, between her two hands as if she were praying with it held there, before God. She twisted it in her hands then, left hand under the book, right hand on top. She held it that way for a moment more, trying to see into what he might have seen, felt, when he picked up the book for the first time, then she pushed her thumbs between the covers and opened it, hesitantly, as if the joint of its spine were stiff and old with disuse instead of brand new and excited to be opened.

Empty pages.
No words.
She turned five pages, ten.
Empty pages.
No words.
She caught her breath, so--pained, so--hurt.
She shut the book, stood up and the comforter fell in a warm heap on the floor. She walked out to the kitchen, walked quickly back, sank into the comforter and pulled it up around her arms, then up over her shoulders, then over her head.
What had she expected? Poetry? Love letters? A novel? Whatever she had thought, whatever she had hoped for, it had not been this. It had not been nothing.
Be fair, she told her desolate heart, be fair. You made that book to fill it with words for him and nothing came to you. Not one thing. Holding fast to fairness, grasping it grimly with both hands, she faced the empty pages she had thrust on him, the great absence she had handed to him and waited for him to fill. Be fair, she told herself, be fair. You couldn't do it. You couldn't do it either.
Why had she even thought of making the book, anyway?
Why had she assumed, hoped, waited for him to fill it?

She reached out of the nest of the comforter and pulled the book across the floor. She opened it as it was, opened it face down, opened it from the back and as the storm light slanted across the paper she suddenly noticed them. Bumps. The paper was covered with little bumps, little blisters. She tilted the book and scores of minute shadows bloomed at the bases of the bumps. She ran her fingers across them, feeling their uniform size. What in the world? She flipped the pages, looking for a pattern to the blisters and suddenly there were flowers. Flowers drawn in pencil on the pages, flowers filling the spaces. She snatched the book up to herself and saw that they were not flowers; they were snowflakes. Snowflakes. He had worked from the back and filled pages with snowflake drawings, delicate and detailed and endlessly, endlessly varied. Pages and pages of snowflakes.

She left the book on the floor when she slid into bed next him. He stirred, smiled, so sleepy, tried to get his arms around her. You're so cold, he said. Hey, he said, waking more and focusing on her. Hey, sweetheart, what's wrong? He ran the back of his hand softly across her wet cheeks and she turned her face, kissing his hand. I found the book, she told him. Yeah? he laughed a little, drawing her close. Sweetie, you are an ice cube, an ice cube. You drew snowflakes, she said, you filled the book with snowflakes. Hey, he pulled back a bit so he could focus on her face. Is that alright? Are snowflakes alright? Oh, hey, I didn't ruin your book, did I? he asked, really awake and worried now. It's not my book, it's your book, she said and made a small sound that was laughing and crying and thanking him. She opened her mouth and shook her head and buried her face in him. Hey, he said, hey. He tipped her chin up and smoothed her hair away from her face. Talk to me, he said.

I just, she said and stopped. Started again. I just made you that book and it was a terrible thing. I didn't even think of it. I thought I wanted to write and write to you so you could take the book out with you and have it, in your pocket or in your pack, the book I made and what I wrote. But when I got it done I couldn't think of the things to say. And then I just, I just left it empty and left it where you could find it and let that be the gift.
He rested his chin gently on her head and waited.
But, but really, she said, really, I wanted you to do it all, she said, I wanted you to see the book and be happy to fill it with words for me. I wanted you to want to fill all those pages, she said to his chest, I wanted you to want to do that for me.
And instead I just made snowflakes, he said soberly. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
No, she said, no! It was perfect. They're so lovely. You made it so lovely, and I was such a jerk. I gave all the work to you, she said earnestly, and you made a beautiful book. Thank you, she said, I'm sorry, she said.
He leaned back again, focusing on her, her serious face, her tear filled eyes. Okay, he said, helplessly. I'm glad you like it. I love you, he said, tucking her head back under his chin, and I really thought I ruined your book.
It's your book, she said, and why, why did you think so?
He said, well, first I tried pressing them. Tons of them. Snowflakes. But I ended up having to draw them. I'm sorry, he said.