The Banks of Certain Rivers by Harrison Jon

Author:Harrison, Jon [Harrison, Jon]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Published: 2013-03-19T00:00:00+00:00

Lauren, I see when I check through the kitchen window, is still next door. Through the line of trees between my house and Carol’s I can see the red color of her car; it’s there each time I check. I could go over there, I almost go over there, but I don’t. I’m not ready to explain what’s going on. Instead, I consider Peggy Mackie’s advice and change into running clothes. And because I’m not ready to tell Lauren what’s going on and don’t want her to see me running down the drive, I head out my back door, across the field, and through the orchard toward the beach house.

I’m not being deceptive, really. I just don’t know how I’m even going to begin telling her.

I am not ready. For any of this.

On this run I push myself. There’s a good reason to push, I’d say. The day is cool, the sky a uniform gray, and I run hard. My mouth is dry, I push myself, I breathe in gulps, and through the effort of propelling my body over the earth I’m able to get a small handle on what’s going on. I stopped running for months after Wendy’s accident, and it just about finished me. Pushing myself here, gasping, I decide that, no matter how far down this video thing sinks, no matter how bad it all gets, I cannot let myself stop running. I can’t.

Arthur is up on a ladder at the beach house, pounding beneath the eaves with a hammer. He yells something, probably a greeting, or maybe an invitation to stop and chat, but I wave and keep going. I go north, beyond our beach, beyond Leland’s now-busy complex, and back to the sandy ruts I’d discovered back on Sunday. Up through the cedars and left at the highway and, without thinking, onward to Wendy’s facility.

I’m winded when I get there, and I need to take a moment out front to catch my breath. The breeze is chilly, almost damp, and I’m wishing I’d thought to bring a light jacket along. When I get too cold outside and my breathing has calmed enough for me to go inside, Shanice seems surprised to see me.

“Take a personal day, Mr. K.?”

“You could say that,” I respond, and I manage a smile. It’s hard not to smile in the vicinity of Shanice. In Wendy’s room, on the table next to her bed, I find a giant arrangement of white carnations. It’s huge, like a floral shrub, really, and I duck back into the hall to ask where it came from.

“A little girl passed in hospice last night,” Shanice tells me. “Her parents wanted us to have her flowers over here in long term. Lord, there were more flower arrangements than people in that room. And there were a lot of people.”

“You guys do a good job,” I say. “Wendy is pretty lucky.”

I go back into my wife’s room and take a seat next to her bed. I lean back, close my eyes and reach through the sheets for her limp, dry hand.

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