In my self-protective way, I wanted to hold my counselor at arm's length because I had too much trouble of my own to help her out of hers.

Whatever Tamsin was doing, or whatever was being done to her, I wanted no part of it. I had worked myself into a state of revulsion for my increasing entanglement in the lives of others, even Jack. This was where it led, to this hard white bed in this hard white place, where pieces of me bled out of my body.

I caught my breath, revolted by my own self-involvement.

When Jack returned, he tried to hold my hand, but I pulled my fingers away and turned my eyes to the wall.

"I'll feel better before long," I promised the wall. I forced myself to go on. If there was anything I hated, it was explaining myself. "I'll just brood for a while and get it over with."

I just couldn't, shouldn't, treat Jack this way. I was ashamed. I did my second least favorite thing, and began crying. My tears felt hot against my face. I bit my lips to keep from making a sound, but it didn't work.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I'm sorry I couldn't hold on to our baby."

"Move over."

I scooted as much as I could in the narrow bed. I heard Jack's shoes hit the floor and then the mattress took the weight of his body. He wrapped himself around me. There was not anything to say, but at least we were together.

Chapter Eight

The next morning, right after Carrie checked me over, I went home. Jack was silent for the short drive, and so was I. When we got to the house, he came around the car and opened my door. Slowly, I swung my legs out and got up, glad he'd brought me clothes to replace my ruined jeans. Trying to be modest in a hospital gown would've been just too much. I was a little shaky, but he let me make my own way into the house.

When I looked around the living room, I was stunned.

"Who?" I asked. Jack was focused on my face, his own dark and serious. "What... ?"

A vase of pink carnations was on the table by the double recliner. Three white roses graced the top of the television. A small dried bouquet was arranged in a country basket on my small bookshelf.

"Go lie down, Lily," he said.

I shuffled into our bedroom, saw two more little flower arrangements and two cards. I sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and eased back. I swung my legs up.

"Where'd these come from?" I was realizing that my initial idea, that Jack had gotten them all, was just plain crazy.

"Carrie and Claude. Janet, the dried arrangement, and she brought some chicken. Helen Drinkwater left a card in the door. Marshall brought you a movie to watch; a Jackie Chan. Birdie Rossiter sent flowers and included a card from her dog Durwood." Jack's voice was very dry. "The Winthrops sent flowers, Carlton from next door dropped by and left a card, the McCorkindales brought flowers." Jack picked up a notepad he'd dropped on the night table. "Let's see. Someone named Carla brought you a sweet-potato pie. Someone else named Firella called, said to tell you she'd be bringing by a ham tonight."

People here in Shakespeare had been kind to me before, helped me out when I needed it, but this was a little overwhelming. The Drinkwaters, for example. Since when had they cared about my well-being? The McCorkindales? I'd been beaten black and blue before and they hadn't noticed. Something about my losing a baby had struck a chord.

"How did they find out so fast?"

"You were brought up in a small town and you haven't figured that out?" Jack tried to sound teasing, but couldn't quite manage it.

I shook my head, not feeling smart enough to figure out how to untie my shoes.

"McCorkindale, the minister, visits at the hospital every evening. Beanie Winthrop is a volunteer Pink Lady. Raphael Roundtree's oldest daughter is an admissions clerk, so Raphael carried the news to Body Time. I had to call your clients and tell them you couldn't come in this week, so they knew. I arranged with the sister of the woman who does Carrie's office for the Winthrops and the Althauses to be covered this week, and she's best friends with Carla's little sister."

"You did?" I was so startled by all this that I was caught off balance. "I won't go to work this week? But Carrie said I would be okay tomorrow," I said. I could feel the blood rush into my face. "I could—"

"No," Jack said flatly.

There was a long silence.

"What?" My ringers began to roll into fists.

"No." Jack's face was quite expressionless. "You are not. And before you get that look on your face, listen to me. What Carrie actually said was, you would be feeling fine tomorrow if you took it easy. That means no work. That means you really do stay home and take it easy. Now," and he held up a warning hand, "I know you're going to get into the ‘I have to earn my living' speech, and I know you're going to get mad."

He was quite right about that.

"But, I am telling you, you are finally going to take the time you need to recover from something, and I am going to make sure you do it."

"Who are you to tell me anything?" I was starting off low, but I could feel the pressure building.

"Lily, I am ... your... husband." With the emphatic spacing of someone who wants to be clearly understood.

And all at once, like the tidal wave that precedes a hurricane, understanding washed over me. As though it would hold me in the room, my fingers clenched the bedspread as I stared without focus, the stunning facts washed off my anger. I had lost our baby. This man was my husband. I gasped air in desperately, fearing I would choke.

Jack stepped closer to the bed, obviously worried.

I felt tears run down my cheeks. I couldn't seem to let go of the bedspread to get a Kleenex.

"Lily?"

Wave after wave of complete comprehension swept over me, and it felt as though no sooner did I rise to my feet in the surf than another surge swamped me. I was weeping for the second time in two days. I hated it. Jack handed me tissue after tissue, and when the worst had passed, he stayed there, not moving, clasping me against his warmth.

"I'm sorry," I said, trying hard not to care that I sounded quavery and weak. "Jack, I'm sorry." I felt guilty that I hadn't been able to carry his child, guilty I hadn't managed better than Karen Kingsland, though there was no comparison between us. "This is so stupid," I managed to say, and was grateful when he didn't agree.

I didn't know I'd gone to sleep until I woke up. Jack had had a bad night, too, and I could tell from his breathing that he was dozing behind me. I thought over what he'd said to me. I made myself admit that he'd made sense. I made myself admit that before, when I'd gone back to work early after an injury, I'd done myself harm.

Even though I'd known I loved Jack for months, I was shocked by the power he had in my life. I hadn't thought this through; I guess you can't, you love someone without counting the change. I began to wonder what influence I exerted over Jack. He didn't smoke or drink; though he'd formerly done both to great excess. He'd hardly had time to think about another woman, and I knew ahead of time how I would handle that: it would be very bad.

I couldn't think of anything that I wanted Jack to do, or not do, differently. So ... Jack was perfect? No, that wasn't really how I felt. I knew Jack was imperfect. He was impatient, which meant he didn't always take time to plan things out. He relied too much on intuition. He had a hard time handling his pride.

I rolled over to face him. I looked at his eyelids, at the relaxed face with its thin nose and slightly puckered scar. Jack had been divorced twice, and he'd had the disastrous affair with Karen Kingsland, a cop's wife. Karen had been in her grave for five years now. For the first time, I wondered what the other wives had looked like, where they were now. For the first time, I was admitting to myself that I was one of those wives. One result of keeping our marriage secret was that I hadn't had to consider myself really Jack's wife, hadn't had to acknowledge the whole load of baggage and implication that was carried in the word wife.