Animal Dreams - Barbara Kingsolver [82]
“This is creepy, Carlo,” I told him when he got home late that night from his ER shift. “Why haven’t you moved things around? It looks like Hallie and I just walked out yesterday.”
He shrugged. “What’s to move around?”
Emelina had gone to bed, trying, I believe, to stay out of our way. She’d kept asking me if it wouldn’t be awkward for us to stay with my “ex.” It was hard for her to understand that Carlo and I were really “exes” right from the start. Having no claim on each other was the basis of our relationship.
I’d stayed up watching the news so I could see him when he got home. He slumped down next to me on the couch with a bag of potato chips.
“That your dinner?”
“You my mother?”
“I should hope not.” On the news they were talking about an ordinance that banned charity Santas from collecting donations in shopping malls. The owner of a sporting-goods store was explaining that it took away business. Rows of hunting bows were lined up behind him like the delicately curved bones of a ribcage.
“You look exhausted,” I told Carlo. He really did.
“I sewed a nose back on tonight. Cartilage and all.”
“That’ll take it out of you.”
“So what’s creepy about the way I’m living?” In his light-green hospital scrubs, Carlo looked paler and smaller than I remembered him. No visible muscles.
“It looks like you’re living in limbo,” I said. “Waiting for somebody else to move in here and cook a real meal for you and hang up pictures.”
“You never did either of those things.”
“I know. But it’s different when there’s two people living in a house with no pictures. It looks like you’re just too busy having fun with each other to pay attention to the walls.”
“I miss you. We did have fun.”
“Not that much. You miss Hallie.” Being here made me miss her too, more tangibly than in Grace. On these scarred wooden floors, Hallie had rolled up the rugs and attempted to teach us to moonwalk.
“How is she? Does she ever write you? I got one postcard, from Nogales.”
“Yeah, we write. She’s real busy.” I didn’t tell him we wrote a lot. We’d revived an intensity of correspondence we hadn’t had since 1972, the year I escaped from Grace and Hallie came into a late puberty, both of us entirely on our own. This time she was over her head with joy and I with something like love or dread, but we still needed each other to make sure it was real. We had to live with an odd, two-week lag to our conversations. I’d be writing her about some small, thrilling victory at school, and she’d be addressing the blue funk I was in two weeks ago when I was getting my period. It didn’t matter; we kept writing, knowing it would someday even out.
“How’s your father?”
“Oh,” I said, “deteriorating. Forgetting who I am. Maybe it’s a blessing.”
“Are you sleeping these days?”
“Yeah, I am, as a matter of fact,” I said, evasively.
“You haven’t had that eyeball dream?”
I’d never been able to explain this to Carlo’s satisfaction. “It’s not really an eyeball dream.”
“What is it, then?”
“Just a sound, like popping glass, and then I’m blind. It’s a very short dream. I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind. I’m afraid I’ll jinx myself.”
“So you haven’t been having it?”
“No, not for a while.”
It was kind of him to be interested. He gently squeezed my shoulder in the palm of his hand, releasing the tightness in my deltoid muscle. Not that it applied to us anymore, but people who know a lot about anatomy make great lovers. “So you’re getting along okay there?”
“As well as I get along anywhere,” I said, and he laughed, probably believing I meant “As poorly as I get along anywhere.”
“I’ve been giving some thought to Denver,” he said. “Or Aspen.”
“That would be a challenge.