He stood by the desk, his eyes fixed on the blue cover of the brochure as he closed the leather flap.
“You should get back to the sofa,” he said, his voice softening just enough to deflect any more questions. “The doctor said no standing.”
I did not answer. I walked back to the living room and lay down, pulling the knitted blanket up to my chin as I listened to the quiet house.
Daniel remained in the den, his shadow falling across the hallway floor as he stared at the cruise brochure tucked into his briefcase while Helen lies on the sofa.
He did not look up when he snapped his briefcase shut. He carried it upstairs to our bedroom, his leather-soled shoes heavy and deliberate on the pine steps.
By nine the next morning, the blue hard-shell suitcase lay open on our quilt. Daniel tossed three floral short-sleeve shirts onto the mattress without folding them, his movements quick and jerky.
“I have to clear my head, Helen,” he said, keeping his back to me as he smoothed a collar. “If I stay here and stare at the bills, I am going to completely lose it.”
I lay propped against the pillows, my doctor-ordered bed rest starting on a Tuesday. Dr. Evans had been very clear about the pressure on my cervix with three babies, warning me that even a trip to the kitchen was a risk.
“The doctor said strict bed rest, Daniel. I am not even supposed to stand up to make toast.”
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his favorite heavy brass pen, the one that wrote only in a distinct royal blue ink. He uncapped it with a metallic click and began filling out the paper insert of the luggage tag.
“The company paid for this, Helen,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, reasonable tone he used with difficult clients. “If I turn down a four-month cruise, it looks like I do not care about the regional sales division.”
I watched the royal blue ink glide across the white card of the tag, spelling out his name in thick, perfect loops. He zipped the suitcase shut, the metal teeth grinding together.
