Free Learning to Stay by Erin Celello Page A

and sagging, his eyesunfocused, and he sways a bit when he takes off his jacket. When he turns back toward me, I see a gauze bandage covering the inside of his forearm.
    “My God, Brad! What happened?”
    He fixes me with a blank look. “What?”
    “Your arm,” I say.
    He shrugs. “Got a tattoo.”
    He says this as though he is telling me he picked up a pack of gum from the gas station down the street, this man who used to say that a tattoo was an outward sign of a personality flaw. Brad broke up with a serious girlfriend in college, whom he loved, because she got a tiny hummingbird tattoo on the inside of her hip.
    He cocks his head like a dog trying hard to understand, and says, “You’re not supposed to be back until tomorrow.”
    “Change of plans,” I say. My voice is measured but terse. I’m trying hard not to be as angry as I am. I keep telling myself that Brad didn’t know I was coming home. But I’m tired and emotionally drained, and logic is no match for my emotions.
    “Sondra left. She left her husband. She left me in Minneapolis.” Saying those words aloud doesn’t make them any more believable. “Who does something like that?”
    Brad nods absently and walks to the kitchen. I stand where I am, waiting for him to come back out into the living room. I hear him take a pint glass from the cupboard and drop a handful of ice cubes from the freezer into it. Then I hear the glug-glug-glug of Jack Daniel’s filling his glass, and as he tosses the jug into the recycling bin, the clatter of it falling to the floor. Even though I can’t see it, I know it’s because the bin is still jammed full.
    “You didn’t get the recycling out yesterday?” I call to him.
    My tone is a little accusatory. Recycling day happens only once every two weeks, and even when I’m here alone, the too-small bin fillsto capacity. With two of us under this roof, it’s imperative that we don’t miss a week. I’m disappointed, and maybe a little miffed. Brad is Mr. Dependable. When he says he’s going to do something, it gets done. And this was the one, single thing he had to do.
    Brad comes out to the dining room with the recycling bin. I expect him to keep going with it, to put it outside. Instead, he tosses it away from him, in my general direction. Cans and newspapers and bottles tumble out onto the floor. They land with a crash, and I jump.
    “Happy?” he yells, and I jump again.
    He starts to grab anything breakable—wine and beer and sparkling water bottles, empty jars of olives and maple syrup—and smashes them again, one by one against the hardwood like snap’n pop fireworks. When he’s done, he goes back into the kitchen. I hear cabinets opening and closing. He returns with a box of cereal.
    Brad opens the box and upends it, dumping the contents on the floor.
    What is he doing? Has he lost his mind?
    “March!” he barks at me. I startle.
    “March!” he repeats, pointing to the pile of cereal.
    My only thought is that I’m thankful I still have my boots on. I do as this man says—this man who has taken over my husband’s body—because I do not know him, and I do not know what he’ll do if I don’t listen. I lift my knees, first one and then the other, crunching the cereal underfoot. A faint smile plays at the edge of Brad’s lips at the sound.
    I don’t know how much time passes until I slow, and finally stop. He stands there, staring at me—glowering at me. And then he walks past me and out the front door, out into the night, leaving a trail of frigid winter air in his wake.
    Not until the door slams shut do I feel the tears running down my cheeks. Our dining room floor is strewn with glass confetti. I fetch aplastic bag and begin disposing of the larger pieces; then I dig the vacuum out of the front hall closet and take care of the smaller shards and cereal crumbs.
    I sit on the end of our bed and unzip my boots, bits of cereal falling from in between the treads. I swap my jeans and sweater for