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Marrow
Cinnamon
Sometimes, she cradles broken glass in her hands.
She doesn't seem to know that it will hurt her. She just laughs, throaty,
rolling peals that bring him to his knees. He can't walk to her, so he
crawls. Glass grinds into his knees, ripping his flesh into pieces, but he
does not stop. When he reaches her, she smiles down at him, her brown hair
falling forward onto his face. Her lips, painted a perfect scarlet, form his
name without sound, and their hands meet. He clasps hers between his,
gently, but she pulls away. She always pulls away. Her body shifts, and
suddenly her back is to him. Just as suddenly, she whirls around again, and
strikes his face.
The blow sends him reeling, sprawling onto the glass-covered ground. His
lips bleed, his hands bleed, his knees bleed, and he screams out her name.
She is in the corner, laughing again, and slowly she disappears from view.
Sometimes, he is holding her hand.
He's reading the newspaper, the pages spread across her bed, intertwined with
the tubes snaking in and out of her body. Their hands fit together, same as
always, and he's reading an article about weekend getaway destinations. He
knows that she will never get better, but sure as he knows his name, he knows
that she will never die.
He reads through the paper twice, then folds it and slides it underneath his
chair, all without letting go of her hand. Her hair is sticking to her face,
slick with perspiration, so he rings for a nurse. The woman, always fat,
always in a crisp white uniform, brings a cool cloth and begins to bathe
Deborah's forehead. Toby raises his body, not quite standing, and takes the
cloth from her hand. He's never sure, but he thinks he sees tears in the fat
nurse's eyes.
He leans close to his wife, his head almost resting on her pillow, and
whispers to her as he presses the cool cloth to her face. He talks to her
about their wedding day, about how beautiful she looked, about how beautiful
she looks still, about how much he loves her. She moans softly, and he
chokes back a sob.
Her fingers, long and slender, seize against his, and his heart stops. Her
breathing is ragged, and then it stops, too.
The gold band scalds his finger as the tears scald the back of his throat, as
the doctor grips his shoulders and says that he's so very sorry.
Toby roars at them until he is alone with her again. When they leave, he
resumes his seat next to her bed. Their hands fit together, same as always,
and he picks up the cloth. He leans close to his wife, his head almost
resting on her pillow, and whispers to her as he presses the cool cloth to
her face.
Sometimes, he finds her in the cold.
He is standing in the frozen food aisle at the supermarket with Edgar Allan
Poe, who is marvelling over the different kinds of frozen pizza, when he sees
her. She has a box of popsicles in her hand and is showing them to Sylvia
Plath. Toby clears a spot next to the frozen peas, sits down, and watches
her. Sylvia is wearing a flowing dress, some sort of crepe that billows
around her as she moves, but he's not looking at Sylvia. Deborah bends her
head as she gestures to the popsicles, hair falling to the side and exposing
the white flesh of her neck. Poe touches Toby's arm and points to her.
Following Poe's gaze, Toby notices that the flesh of her neck isn't white at
all.
Toby looks back at Poe, who nods encouragingly at him. Toby stands and takes
a few steps towards the women. Sylvia sees him and shakes her head, wrapping
a protective arm around Deborah's shoulder. Ernest Hemingway is next to Toby
now, sticking his elbow into Toby's side. Toby watches his wife dancing down
the aisle as "Footloose" plays over the loudspeaker. Sylvia trails behind
her, picking up chunks of rotting flesh and muscle as they fall from
Deborah's frame.
Toby gasps and chokes, shudders and gags. William S. Burroughs hands him a
pint of mint chocolate chip and instructs him to eat. Because Toby can't
think of anything else do to, he does.
Sometimes, she is carrying his child.
He comes home from work, mumbling about the teachers' crisis in New York, and
she leaps on him. Her legs wrap around his waist, her arms wrap around his
neck, and her mouth presses against his. She breathes the words into him,
over and over again. He spins her in a circle, then stops abruptly and asks
if she's okay. She kisses him again, and he knows the answer.
They make love daily. They marvel as her belly grows, her smooth skin
expanding to accommodate their child. On Sunday afternoons, they lie
together in bed, and he sleeps with his head on her stomach. He tries to
hide it, but they cry when the baby moves for the first time.
The office they share becomes a nursery. He buys bunnies and lambs and
ducks, blankets and spoons and tiny clothes. She listens to his advice, then
decides that she doesn't care and paints the room a soft shade of pink. He
scribbles names on napkins, receipts, whatever he can find, and she does the
same. The day before she gives birth, she breathes into him again, and they
make a decision. Madeleine.
Rumbling pain strikes in the afternoon. She calls him, laughing and crying
at the same time. His fingers tremble as he buttons his coat, but his voice
is strong when he tells his secretary that he's going to be a father today.
She refuses medication for the pain, instead choosing to crush the bones in
his hand with her grip. He murmurs words of encouragement into her hair and
helps her walk down the hall, supporting her weight when she's hit with
another wave. Finally, finally, they let her push.
Toby counts to ten along with the doctors and watches the tiny head emerge.
Deborah pushes strong, hard, and his daughter greets the world. He is doing
it now, laughing and crying, and it takes him three tries to cut the cord.
Maddie is placed upon her mother's chest, rosy blanket obscuring her face.
He leans down and tries to look at his child, but Deborah swats his hand
away. He tries again, and Deborah yanks the baby away from him. He blinks
at her, not understanding, and asks to hold her. Deborah glares at him,
shielding the baby protectively with her body, and rises from the bed. He
moves toward her, begging now. She pushes the doctors out of the way and
breaks into a run. Toby chases her through halls, stairwells, parking lots.
He catches her in a forest and spins her around, expecting the child to fall
from his arms. Right before he wakes up, he sees that there is no baby.
Sometimes, they are in the air.
She floats around him like a cloud, as out of place as the moon in the
daytime. He takes her in his arms and they almost dance, filling up the
great blue expanse of the sky with silent motion. She stands on her toes as
they kiss, the lilac and frost of her breath melting him. He places himself
inside her like it hasn't been seventeen years, and she takes him like he's
her first. They move together slowly, drifting, gliding, floating. She
clings to him, shuddering, and he buries his face in her hair.
Her body slides from his arms like a meteor descending from the atmosphere.
She moves slowly at first, like a feather, but picks up speed after a few
long minutes. He watches, helpless, as her body hits the ground and
disappears.
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