The Age of Grief - Jane Smiley [69]
The next time we went out, I suggested that we coast down it together. I remember the way that her eyelids snapped open at the idea and her stare locked into mine, but it took her only a second to say yes, and then we had to do it. I said, “Sit on the handlebars, then,” and she did. She put her hands in front of mine, balanced with the small of her back, and looked straight ahead, straight at the first dip, and I thought, We are going to die now. I settled the bones of my ass on the seat and tightened my fingers on the grips. I pushed off and pedaled. I did not want to drift into it, whatever it was, I wanted to pump into it. It was agony. The bike was surprisingly front-heavy. I could hardly manage the dips, and skidded dangerously to the left when the right-hand curve came up. Our weight carried us a block past the stoplight, which, fortunately, was green.
After we had stopped, we didn’t even speak about it, but resumed our conversation about dental matters while walking the thirteen blocks back up the hill. This time we didn’t stop at Dana’s house, but climbed to the top, where I stood holding the bike while she hoisted herself on. Looking back, it is that moment I remember, that recurring moment, always the same, of her hands and her thighs and her back, their stillness, the lifting of my foot onto the right pedal. Taking a clear position. I wonder why she trusted me so. I do not discount the possibility of simple stupidity.
Now, the flu. Three steep dips and a sharp curve to the right. People without children don’t begin to know the test that these illnesses present. But there was no clear position to be taken, and no one to take it with. I lay on the floor until about three, when I went upstairs and puked into the toilet. Then I lay in the hallway outside the bathroom, shivering with fever and waiting to puke again. At six, Dana found me, gazed down with a knowing look, and went to find the seltzer, the Tylenol, the thermometer, the cool washcloth, my pajamas, a pillow so that I could remain in the hallway, where I found a kind of solitary and rigorous comfort. The children thought it was very peculiar and amusing to step over me. I was too dizzy to care.
They abandoned me. The children went to school and day care without a backward look; Dana went early to the office to take care of my patients, with only a shout from the front door that she was leaving now, would I be all right? I got my own juice, my own blanket, drew my own bath, because it seemed as if that would ease the aches and pains. I did everything for myself, because they were all off, doing as they pleased, healthy and happy. I could see out the window that it was a beautiful day, and I imagined them all dazed by the sparkle of the light, on the street, on the playground, all thoughts of me blasted out of them. Lizzie would be working in her reading workbook, Stephanie drawing pictures of the family, Leah making turtles out of egg cartons and poster paints, Dana mixing up amalgam on her tray, all of them intent only on their work, no matter how much I might think of them. Just then the phone rang, and it was Dave. He said, “Dana wanted me to call and ask if you needed anything.” I said, “No. I just took some Tylenol.” After that I got into the bathtub and floated there for an hour, resenting the fact that I had left my juice next to the telephone in the bedroom. Drying myself, I was dizzy again