After 32 years together, I thought I knew every version of my husband, even the helpless one he became whenever something hurt. But after an accident, Conor stopped letting me help him. The more protective he became of one simple injury, the more certain I was that something else had happened.
“Don’t touch the cast.”
Conor’s voice came out so sharply that my hand stopped inches from his right leg.
He was sitting on the bathroom floor beside the tub, one crutch under the sink and the other across the doorway. The top edge of his cast had cracked when he fell, and the padding had shifted.
“You’re on the floor,” I said. “I’m trying to help you.”
“I can handle it.”
“Don’t touch the cast.”
“You just lost a fight with a bathtub.”
“Cynthia.”
Something in the way he said my name stopped me.
It wasn’t irritation. It was fear.
Conor grabbed for a towel, but he wasn’t fast enough.
The loose padding had slipped far enough for me to see a long pink scar running above the cast line.
Something in the way he said my name stopped me.
It was healing.
And it had nothing to do with the fractured ankle he’d supposedly gotten two weeks earlier.
I stared at him.
“Conor… what the hell is that?”
His hand closed around the towel.
Suddenly, the last two weeks of strange behavior made sense.
It had nothing to do with the fractured ankle he’d supposedly gotten two weeks earlier.
Or at least I thought they did.
When you’ve been married for 32 years, you learn certain things about a person.
I knew Conor snored worse on his back.
I knew he said he wasn’t hungry right before stealing half my fries. And I knew my husband had absolutely no dignity when he was sick.
A cold meant soup, tea, extra blankets, and hourly reports about his sinuses.
So when his coworker, Nathan, brought him home one afternoon with his right leg in a cast, I’d expected six weeks of helplessness.
I knew Conor snored worse on his back.
Nathan had worked with Conor for years. I’d met him enough times to know he was quieter than my husband and twice as patient.
That afternoon, patience was clearly necessary.
Nathan had one arm around Conor’s waist when I opened the door.
“What happened?”
“Wet floor,” Nathan said.
Patience was clearly necessary.
Conor lowered himself onto the couch with a groan.
“Fractured ankle. The doctor said six weeks. This is going to be miserable.”
Six weeks.
I’d deserve a medal by Friday.
I propped his leg on pillows and brought him water.
“Anything else, Your Majesty?”
I’d deserve a medal by Friday.
“Tea would be nice, Cyn.”
I stared at him.
“You offered.”
“I absolutely did not mean it.”
He grinned.
That was my Conor.
“Tea would be nice, Cyn.”
I made the tea anyway.
When I came back, the padding near the top of his cast looked folded. I reached toward it.
Conor pulled his leg away.
“I’ve got it.”
I laughed.
“Since when?”
“I don’t want you bumping it.”
I made the tea anyway.
“Conor, you once asked me to check your temperature four times in one evening.”
“It was a bad fever.”
Then he shifted his leg farther away.
The next morning, I offered to wrap the cast before his shower.
“No. I’ll do it.”
“You plan to balance on one foot while wrapping your own leg?”
I offered to wrap the cast before his shower.
“I can manage, Cynthia. Please, stop hovering.”
He took the plastic upstairs.
A minute later, I heard the bathroom lock click.
Conor never locked that door.
Three days later, I asked when his follow-up was.
“Next week.”
“I can manage, Cynthia.”
“What day?”
“I wrote it down.”
“Where? I’ll come with you.”
He looked away from the television.
“I’ve got it, Cynthia.”
There it was again.
He looked away from the television.
Not annoyance.
Guarding.
“You’ve become strangely independent since breaking your ankle.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve spent 32 years asking me where we keep the aspirin.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“You’ve become strangely independent.”
“It’s in the same cabinet it was in when we moved here.”
He almost smiled again, but it disappeared.
Over the next week, the little things became harder to dismiss.
He showered when I was downstairs.
He kept the injured leg on the far side of the bed.
If I entered while he adjusted the cast, his hands stopped.
He showered when I was downstairs.
Then Nathan called.
Conor’s phone was on the kitchen counter while he was in the living room.
I answered.
“Hey, Nathan.”
“Oh. Hey, Cynthia.”
“Want Conor?”
“Oh. Hey, Cynthia.”
“I was just checking how he’s doing after everything.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“After breaking his ankle, that’s what you mean, right?”
A pause.
“Yeah. That’s what I meant.”
I looked through the doorway.
Conor was pretending to read.
“I was just checking how he’s doing after everything.”
“He’s fine.”
“Good. Tell him I called.”
When I hung up, Conor glanced over.
“Nathan?”
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“To know how you’re doing after everything.”
“Tell him I called.”
His eyes lifted.
“What?”
“His words.”
Conor shrugged.
“He meant the accident at work, Cyn.”
I walked away before he could see that I didn’t believe him.
“He meant the accident at work, Cyn.”
That evening, I made a decision.
I wasn’t checking his phone or searching drawers.
After dinner, I was going to ask my husband one question.
What are you hiding from me?
But I never got the chance.
The crash came from upstairs.
What are you hiding from me?
Then I found him beside the tub.
And saw the scar.
Conor covered his leg with the towel.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t leave a scar like that.”
“It’s handled.”
Then I found him beside the tub.