Free The Myth of You and Me by Leah Stewart

ran to his suite, the word
no
beating time in my head with my steps.
    I saw his figure in the bed and came to an abrupt stop. I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t at that moment raised his head. I pressed my hand to my heart. “Jesus,” I said. I took a deep breath, struggling to disguise my relief. “What are you doing still in bed?”
    “Jesus, yourself,” he said. “If I sleep in, is that a national emergency?”
    “Are you sick?”
    “No.” He spoke to the ceiling. “I’ve decided that I’m going to spend the day in bed.”
    “You should get up.” I put my hands on my hips.
    He regarded me. “Why?”
    “Because.” I couldn’t think of a single reason. He snorted and put his head down. “Fine,” I said. I went back to the kitchen, where I made coffee and put two full mugs, each with three dollops of heavy cream, on a tray. When I returned, Oliver had propped himself up on pillows and turned on the television. A morning news show anchor was interviewing an attractive young actor about his new movie. Oliver kept his eyes on the screen as I went around to the other side of the bed and set the tray carefully in the middle. I climbed in on the other side.
    “What are you doing?” Oliver asked.
    “Joining you,” I said. “This is what we’re doing today.”
    Oliver lifted his mug and then, with a movement so startling I sloshed hot coffee onto my thigh, he threw it at the television. It was a weak throw. The mug made it just past the end of the bed and dropped to the floor with a thunk. On television, the anchor and the actor laughed like they were immensely pleased with themselves.
    “What’s wrong with your own life?” Oliver said. In his fury he looked like the bird of prey he always claimed to resemble. “What do you want with mine?”
     
     
    In the week after Oliver’s funeral, I woke up at seven every day. For lunch I made two bologna sandwiches and ate both of them. At night I watched
The Philadelphia Story
—one of Oliver’s favorites—so many times I could have acted out all the parts. During the day, when Oliver would have been reading or, more likely, nodding off over a book, I went to the attic and searched for old photos I’d never seen before, trying to guess who the subjects were—all those serious and smiling mouths, uplifted chins, hair bows and bow ties, striped bathing suits and carriages, hats and furs, cigarettes, lost lives. I didn’t cry. I avoided Oliver’s suite, and so a feeling persisted that Oliver was not dead, just perpetually in the next room. No one else came to the house that week, and I never left it.
    On the seventh day, I was standing in the kitchen, eating a bologna sandwich, when I heard the front door swing open. I froze. After a moment I finished chewing, and swallowed, but I stayed where I was, like an animal convinced that if it keeps very still no one will see it.
    “Cameron?” It was Ruth’s voice. “Cameron? Where are you?”
    “Here,” I said, but my voice, unused in days, came out small.
    Ruth appeared in the doorway. She wore paint-splattered jeans and a T-shirt, a huge cardboard box under her arm. She had a red bandanna over her white hair. “There you are.” She made a face. “What are you eating?”
    “Bologna. Are we going to paint?”
    She set the box on the table. It was empty. “No.” She rolled her shoulders and one of them cracked. “We’re going to clean. We’re going to sort. We’re going to give stuff away.”
    “Right now? Why?”
    She gave me a disgusted look. Then she pointed at the sandwich in my hand. “Isn’t it obvious?” she said. “Don’t tell me you like bologna. Now, come on.” She picked up her box and marched from the kitchen, heading in the direction of Oliver’s suite.
    This was a dilemma—not only did I not want to sort and clean Oliver’s suite, I didn’t even want to go in there, but I couldn’t bear the thought of Ruth making all the decisions alone. What did Ruth know