Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 17. Knowing

It was because she got so angry that he found out he could fly.

They had the fight, if you could call it a fight, at breakfast. She had certainly called it a fight. Her anger had flamed through the house and left the doors and curtains smoking, then poured out and filled the whole garden, set it quivering and flashing. He just left the house because he wasn't hungry anymore. He walked all the way down by the river and sat on a rock and tried to think how the fight had started but he couldn't remember so he tried to think how the fight had gone and it made his head ache so he just sat on the rock and stared and threw sticks at the river.

She stayed. She worked in the garden.
She worked under the fruit trees, pulling up big handfuls of grass from around the edges of the flowers and throwing them hard into the wheelbarrow. She was trimming the grass with her hands but she did not care.
She could remember the fight very well, how it had gone as well as how it had begun, and she was not ready not to be angry. He had stared out the window when she was trying to tell him how sad the days and days of rain were making her and finally, when she said something sharp, he had just turned his head the tiniest bit and said, well, the sun is out now, so that's fine, isn't it? and smiled before he turned away again to his window staring. He never looks at me, she thought, he never sees me really. He never hangs on to what is important, she told herself, he doesn't know what's real. She was so deep in remembering how hurtful he had been with all that ignoring that she actually grabbed the snake in her hands before she saw it. It was moving in her hands and she was bringing them up to her face to see what was moving in the long green strands. If she had been thinking she never would have brought some moving garden thing so close to her face. But her mind was all on her hurt, and the snake was right there before she thought clearly about it.

Down at the river he heard her screaming.
He stood up and stood still for a few seconds, only for a few seconds before he was there, somehow, there in the garden. It was another moment, only another moment before he found her where she was behind the wheelbarrow. Then he was holding her, running his hands over her and over her but there was nothing, no reason for the scream, for the shaking and the stiff, jerking breaths she took, gasping and ragged. That was where all the time went, that was what cost him.
By the time he found the two holes in her arm her lips were blue and her hands were cold. It was that her sleeve had fallen over the place the snake had fastened when it twisted in her hands, when she peered at it without knowing what it was she saw. The sleeve cost him the time. The sleeve, and the snake that bit and slid completely away so he never thought to look for a bite, never thought about it at all. That, and he just couldn't believe in a snake in the garden. They never saw snakes in her garden. Down by the river, yes, snakes by the river, but not in the garden. He tried to shake it out of his head. He had gone down to the snakes and the snake had come to her in the garden.

Later, when he tried to talk it out, when he tried to tell people how it happened, they set their hands heavy on his shoulder and nodded in silence. Yes, her sleeve. Yes, the wheelbarrow. Yes. The snake. He was bewildered. He said the same things over and over again. He should have gotten a dog to live in her garden. He should have brought a dog to lie by her and to protect her and to be there when he was working or traveling or sitting throwing sticks into the river. Snakes don't like a dog. She had said no dogs in the house, a dog had to live outside, and he had decided not to get a dog in that case. They didn't need a dog, they just didn't need a dog, he didn't think they needed a dog, you know? he said to the people and they lifted their heavy hands and let them fall again onto his shoulder. Yes, they said. No dog they said. You can't blame yourself they said and he shook off the weight of their hands and went to stare out the window.


When he got her to the hospital he was carrying her carefully, so carefully and she was strange, stiff and shaking and it hurt him to be so close to her if she was like this. The nurses or the doctors or whoever it was in the emergency room rushed to take her away but he hung onto her shirt, was dragged along while they tried to brush him away and he fought them. Let us do our job, one of them told him and he fought them. He had to show them, had to pull up her sleeve to show the two holes there in her arm. He felt her going away from him and felt the weight of hands on his shoulders and the doctor was trying to talk to him, saying the same things over and over. You did well, the doctor said. You did fine. Don't worry. Nobody dies of snake bite anymore. This is shock. She's in shock. You did well. You got her here. No one dies of snake bite. Not anymore.

He sat alone, waiting. He remembered and he planned. This is real, he thought, and he dropped his head into his hands and gave up. This is really bad, he said, then, no, this is good. He told himself, this is a blessing. Now I know. This is how you find out. This is how it happens. This is the end of the world and now I know. He looked at the chair and was amazed, swept away. The chair was so clear, so definite. It was real, it was right there. He shook his head at the chair, his eyes filled with tears. Outside the window there were millions of leaves on the trees and he could hear people talking down the hall, make out each separate little word they said. He felt the breath in his chest and the hairs on his head. I want to do it right. I can do a good job. This is real. Please, God, let me do a good job. Please, God. All I want is to do a good job.

He waited.

Later they helped him fill out papers and brought him juice and told him he could take her home in about an hour. Do you need help getting her out of the car when you get home? they asked, and he stared at them without speaking. The doctors looked at each other and one of them asked him the question again, carefully. Once you get home, can you get her out of the car by yourself? We think it would be good if you called a friend to help you, the doctor said slowly and clearly, to meet you when you get home. The doctor patted his shoulder. You did a great job, you got her here in plenty of time and she's going to be fine, but she just won't be up and around when you get home, not today, not for a little while. He looked at the doctors and out the window beyond them. All those leaves on the trees. His heart was hurting him. Leaves on the trees. Is there a problem? one of the doctors asked. They watched him. Is it a problem at home? Is there a problem with your car?
Car? he asked. Your car, they said. The car you came in. He shook his head. My car? he asked. Yes, they said, your car. You must have driven her here, how else did you get here? The doctors laughed a little, joshing him, to calm him, to put him at his ease. How else did you get here? Don't tell us you flew.

He knew then. Right then he knew.
He opened his mouth. They had said not to tell them so he wouldn't, but he knew. Knowing bloomed in him, stopped his heart, started his heart and set his fingers on fire.
I'll call a friend, he said, where's your phone?