Chapter 6 - The garage
Seven weeks before the staircase, Graham broke my ribs.
I did not know that at the time.
We had gone to Judith’s for dinner.
Of course.
On the drive home, I told him:
“I’m done with weekly Sundays.”
He gripped the steering wheel.
“Not tonight.”
“I’m not fighting. I’m informing you.”
“Great. That’s healthy.”
“Twice a month.”
“She just lost Dad.”
“Four years ago.”
He looked at me.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Use a timeline on grief.”
“I’m not. I’m using a timeline on our marriage.”
Silence.
At home, I went into the garage because I kept storage bins there.
I was looking for a suitcase.
I had a work conference the next morning.
Graham followed.
“We’re not leaving this like that.”
“Like what?”
“You issuing rules.”
“I’m packing.”
“You don’t get to decide unilaterally that we stop seeing my mother.”
“I said twice a month.”
“She’ll know why.”
“Good.”
His face changed.
“You want her to know you’re doing it.”
“No. I want her to know we’re adults.”
He grabbed my arms.
Not a punch.
Not a slap.
Both hands above my elbows.
“Stop.”
I pulled.
“Let go.”
“You need to listen.”
“Let go.”
I twisted.
He pushed me away.
Maybe harder than he intended.
Maybe exactly as hard as anger produced.
My left back hit the edge of a metal storage rack.
Pain shot through my ribs.
I fell to one knee.
Graham immediately looked horrified.
“Nora.”
I could not breathe properly for several seconds.
He crouched.
“I’m sorry.”
I shoved his hand away.
“You pushed me.”
“You pulled.”
“You pushed me.”
“I was getting you off me.”
That sentence confused me.
I had been the one trying to get away.
But arguments are disorienting when someone insists the geometry is different.
I stood.
Pain.
“Do I need the hospital?” he asked.
The question was soft.
Concerned.
I wanted the soft version of him to be real.
“No.”
“Can you breathe?”
“Yes.”
“Deep?”
I tried.
Pain.
“Bruised.”
He nodded quickly.
“Probably.”
Then:
“We don’t need to tell Mom about this.”
I laughed once.
“Why would we?”
“I mean anybody.”
“What?”
“You know how people are.”
I stared.
“You pushed me into a shelf and you’re worried people are dramatic?”
“No. I’m saying it was an argument.”
I slept badly.
The next day at my conference, sitting hurt.
Sneezing was torture.
A colleague asked:
“Are you okay?”
I said:
“Banged into shelving.”
Not:
Graham shoved me.
Why?
Because I was not ready for her face.
I knew what her face would do.
Concern would turn my private event into something external.
So I kept it inside the family.
Except even the family did not know.
I thought.
May you like
Later I learned Judith knew by morning.
Graham had called her.
:max_bytes(150000):strip_icc():focal(1048x378:1050x380)/Jenna-Bush-Hager-100223-c94955eb572d47ea815a340c18c6e771.jpg)