Rain fell in thick curtains around the house where my sister lay dying. I stood in the kitchen, craving the safety of my husband's arms. Rick paced the floor, car keys in hand.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"Come outside with me for a minute."
I followed him out the door into the garage. The air was damp and chill. I began to shiver. He looked at me strangely and took a deep breath.
"I'm not staying."
My heart exploded like buckshot in my chest.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not needed here. I've got to work tomorrow. I need to get a good night's sleep. You can call me if anything happens and I'll come right back."
I struggled to make sense of his words.
"What do you mean if anything happens? She's going to die tonight. The nurse says it's only a matter of hours. By the time you make it home you'll only have to turn around again...I don't understand...you won't be going to work tomorrow, Pam's going to die tonight..."
Rick sucked in his breath, shifting his long, blue-jeaned legs in restless circles, jingling the car keys. The garage was thick with the sweet smell of motor oil, wet earth and rain. My stomach pitched as if on a rough sea.
"I need you," I said, through chattering teeth.
"You don't need me. You've got your whole family in there."
"You're my family," I cried out.
"I'm sorry," he said, but there was no sorrow in his voice, or in his flickering green eyes. I fell to my knees and threw my arms around his waist, burying my face in the rough blue cotton of his jeans.
"Please, please don't leave me."
He reached down with his slender arms, took hold of me with both hands, and peeled himself away.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
I staggered to my feet, staring past the shovels, hoes, rakes, and hammers hanging mute along the walls. Dark trees foamed in the wind beyond the wide mouth of the garage door. His feet crunched on the gravel drive. The car door shut with a sharp thud.
I did not run after him.
That's when I should have known, but it took another eight months until the moment actually arrived. It was an April morning. I will never forget the damp winter leaves on the front stoop, the cold metal of the letter box, the nausea that passed through me when I saw the pink envelope addressed to him, sealed with a lipstick kiss.
He fled our seven-year marriage that night, the pink envelope stuffed into the chest pocket of his lumberjack shirt, closer to his heart than I would ever be again.