— Me too, — I forced out, struggling to contain my disgust.
I kissed his forehead and left the apartment. But I didn’t go to the station. I drove to the outskirts of the city and rented a room in the cheapest hotel I could find. I sat on the creaky bed, took out my laptop, opened the video streaming program, and stared at the image of our bedroom. My trap had snapped shut. All that was left was to wait for the beast.
The first hour was torture. I sat glued to the screen, and nothing happened. Dima woke up, turned on the TV, looked at his phone. I saw him dial my number, but I rejected the call and sent a text: “On the bus, bad reception, will call later.” He put the phone down and continued watching some show.
Another hour passed. And another. I started to feel like a complete idiot. I started to think I had made it all up, that my paranoia was destroying our family, and here I was, sitting in this shabby hotel while my poor, sick husband suffered alone at home. Guilt began to suffocate me. Maybe I should call him, say the bus broke down, and I’m coming back?
I was just about to reach for my phone when something on the laptop screen changed. Dima turned off the TV. He lay there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling. And then… Then he did something that made my breath catch in my throat.
He sat up in bed. Just sat up, without my help, without effort. Then, slowly, as if savoring the moment, he threw back the blanket and lowered his feet to the floor. He sat like that for a minute, and then he stood up. Stood on his own two feet.
I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. He was standing in the middle of the room where he had spent two years lying down. He stretched, limbering up his stiff shoulders and back, and did a few bends. His movements were confident, strong. This was not a man learning to walk again. This was a healthy man.
My husband, my helpless invalid, walked confidently out of the bedroom. I heard the refrigerator door slam in the kitchen. A minute later, he returned with a bottle of beer in his hand. He plopped back down on the bed, opened it, and took a big gulp.
At that moment, his phone rang. Dima answered, and I turned on the sound in the app. The voice on the other end was painfully familiar. It was Stas.
— So, are you free? — Stas asked cheerfully.
— You bet! — Dima laughed. His laugh, which I hadn’t heard in two years, grated on my ears. — My warden is gone! She ran off to her mommy’s place.
— For long?
— Said for a couple of days.
— Finally! Damn it, freedom! I’ve already stretched a bit, had a beer. Listen, come on over. We’ll hang out like normal people. Grab some more beer and some chips.
— You got it! Hey, aren’t you afraid to be so out in the open?
— What’s there to be afraid of? She won’t be back until tomorrow evening for sure. We’ll have time to clean up. I’m so tired of lying down, Stas, you have no idea. My back is killing me.
— What about the wheelchair? Maybe you should at least get in the chair for appearance’s sake?..
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