And so he would think of the house, the house that gave them so much more room and allowed the kids to run and jump without worrying about disturbing anyone under them. And Alice had the kitchen she wanted, with ample room for hanging pots and pans and whatever else she wanted to hang from a rack or nail. And, of course, there was the joy of decorating your own home, feeling completely free to make any changes you want, and ten thousand other advantages, and so he thought of all those things and the financial concerns would dissipate, and eventually he would feel himself sliding into sleep, but for some reason a part of him seemed to cling, ever so lightly, to a thin thread of wakefulness and so when the alarm suddenly startled him he was not dragged from a deep state of rest, but more or less jolted from its nearest edge with a sharp twist of exhaustive nausea and a foul thickness in his mouth.
But since coming home from the hospital the tranquillizers and the sleeping pill prevented his being awakened and so all those thoughts, worries and concerns no longer assaulted him during the night. He still awoke shortly before the alarm went off, but it went off much later now that he wasnt going to the office, and though his body was sluggish from the drugs, and his mouth thick and foul tasting, he did not have to battle that nervous exhaustion that the doctors said was resposible for his breakdown. But there was still this time of anticipation and dread.
He lay as still as possible, breathing quietly, listening intently to see if there had been any noticeable change, but there wasnt. He still heard nothing and it wasnt any brighter. He sensed Alice was awake too, but said nothing, though he wanted to turn over and just touch her gently and thank her for being there, for loving him, but the inertia from the drugs was impossible to overcome and so he lay still, breathing quietly, and trying not to think about the fact that there was another day to face…
But it was not just the drugs that made it impossible for him to turn and touch his wife and reassure her and tell her that he loved her and appreciated everything; it was the responsibility that accompanies such a gesture. If it were possible to just touch her in that way that she understood so well, if he were to place his hand gently on her cheek and let his feeling of love flow to her as he had so often in the past, she would turn and smile and hold his hand and kiss it and he knew he was now unable to contend with that, that he would be forced to hunt for words or expressions and none were available to him. He was suddenly so overwhelmed by the responsiblity of love… the responsibility of living. And so he lay on his side facing away from his wife, breathing quietly, eyes closed against the day, waiting for the alarm to ring and when it did he knew Alice would stop it immediately, not wanting it to awaken him, and get out of bed as gently as possible so she would not disturb him. If only he could let her know that she did not have to leap at the clock and then slide from the bed and tiptoe into the bathroom, quietly closing the door, turning the water on to a bare trickle, splashing the sleep from her eyes, not bathing until he was awake and up… he listening to her almost inaudible movements, wishing he could say its alright, that she could take her shower now, and that she did not have to keep the kids so quiet while they ate and got ready for school… but he shuddered at the thought.
Maybe soon he could stop taking those pills. Maybe soon he could just get up and go downstairs and have breakfast with his family. Maybe soon he would be going to his office like he used to. Maybe soon he could just put his arms around his wife and simply say, I love you, without fear or guilt or worrying about what he would say after. The major problem was simply that he could not find anything positive or healthy to focus his mind on. If he thought about his work he only experienced worry and concern: was he still capable of performing effectively? will he have a job when he got well? or should he say, if he got well? No, no, he had to get well. But what was wrong with him? He did not really know. He had talked with the people in the hospital and spent time with Dr. Richter, but he still did not know what was wrong with him. What the hell did nervous exhaustion mean?
What did rest mean? Was this rest? Was this going to get him well? Well from what???? O God! He had to get away from that. But if he thought about his wife and children such a sadness flowed through him that he wanted to cry and yet he did not know why. What was there to cry about? He loved them. They loved him. No one was dying, so why cry? Or was he dying? Were there certain types of death he knew nothing about? Was it possible to stay like this forever? Locked into these thoughts in a futile attempt to avoid his feelings? But even if the lock is opened where could he go? When he battled his way free he always ended up in the same place, engulfed by those feelings that literally froze his body and made him shudder with unknown fears and dread, that made the misery of the previous thoughts almost seem like a pleasure. And so he went from a painful level to one that was unbearable, unable to free himself from the process, listening to the sound of another morning as the children scuttled around, continually being hushed by Alice, dressing, eating, gathering books, suddenly remembering something important and eventually rushing from the house.
He continued to lay immobile, eyes shut, until the need to urinate forced him from the bed and he went to the bathroom. He ignored the mirror and washed quickly and dressed in old clothes. He pulled the window shade aside a few inches and looked out… He relaxed a trifle and his face started slipping into a smile as he watched the snow falling straight down, an inch or so on the ground, the trees and bushes covered. The entire front yard white and glistening, the whiteness of the yard sectioned by the footprints of Beth and Michael. A semblance of joy started awakening within him as he looked at the quiet scene—a Cardinal and his lady suddenly splitting the whiteness -remembering sleighriding… and then a pain stabbed him as he realized that the children should have been hooting and hollering at seeing the snow but were undoubtedly told to be quiet, that daddy is sleeping and needs his rest. He stared out the window, aware of the hazards of snow on the roads, and the fact that the driveway would have to be shoveled and…
he escaped down the stairs slowly.
Alice was sitting at the table, drinking coffee. She started smiling as soon as she heard Harry coming down the stairs. Have a good sleep, sweetheart?
Harry shrugged and nodded, Yeah.
Its snowing. Isnt it beautiful?
He nodded again and went to the stove to pour himself a cup of coffee. Alice got up. Here, let me do that, honey. You sit down.
No, no, thats alright. I can get it. Alice stopped halfway to the stove, You sure? Its no trouble. Harry was trying to smile but kept frowning. Please, please, its alright.
Alice stood still for a moment, watching, sensing his irritation, then attempting again. Can I get you something to eat? Toast? Biscuits?
No, no. Just sit down, Alice. Please. He carefully carried his cup to the table and sat.
Alice followed him and sat down slowly not wanting to shake the table and spill his coffee. They both looked out the window at the falling snow. Alice snapped into another smile. Michael was barely dressed when he went out to test the snow. He made a snowball and threw it and came back in all beaming and saying its great packing and the sleighriding will be terrific. Im certainly happy this is Friday. And so are they. This could well be the last snow of the season.
Harry looked at her, his face relaxed, almost smiling, Thats right, isnt it? Its the middle of March.