I run my hands through my hair, and it’s one of those moments where I completely forget about the knot until it’s too late—one of my fingernails catches on the rough edge of it, pulling on it, and an electric line of pain streaks down the side of my neck. I wince, take in a sharp breath, but Tom is sitting to my right. I wonder why he hasn’t said anything about the knot—his determination to pretend it’s not there is starting to make me angry.

“I’ll talk to her again tomorrow.” Tom’s eyes wander to the three books still on the table. He picks the smallest up and leafs through it. “You know, at the end, Shirley said some pretty strange stuff too.”

Shirley. I wish she was here, with her quick smile and light touch. She would have loved you so much. The thought of Shirley wrapping you in a hug brings tears to my eyes, and I wipe them away quickly with the back of my hand. Why did she have to die? Why couldn’t she take care of you after I’m gone?

“At the end?” I ask. “The end? Pearl isn’t at the end, Tom.”

I stare at him, but he refuses to return my gaze.

“We never did talk about the pictures,” I nearly whisper.

“What’s there to talk about, Paul? I took some photos of Mary. What else do you want to hear?”

I give a bitter laugh and shake my head. “Those weren’t just any photographs.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

I see the uncertainty in his eyes, the wavering that I expected to find.

“Those were beautiful photos, Tom. You captured Mary in a way that none of Shirley’s photos ever did.”

He doesn’t reply.

“You captured Mary the way I saw her.” I pause. “The way a husband looks at his wife.”

Tom doesn’t reply, and this time he doesn’t stand up and walk out.

I take a deep breath. I stand up, and the chair makes a grating sound on the bare wood. The distance from the table beside the window to your bed feels so far. I stop and look down at you, reach down and feel your forehead. Your hair is soft, and I smooth it behind your ear.

“She’s exhausted,” I say. “There’s no reason for me to sleep in here tonight. I’ll start keeping a close eye on her tomorrow.”

“All the same,” Tom replies, “I think I’ll sleep in here, on the floor.”

“Suit yourself.”

Swimming Underwater

Nearly a week has passed since your last incident. The days all run together, with little to differentiate them. We wake up late, eat brunch, and go out on the lake after Tom comes back from town. He gives you a swim lesson, and I watch with apprehension. I sometimes go into town for lunch, but while Jenny and I have been polite, we do not revisit our last topic of conversation. You and I walk through the woods or go farther out on the lake or, if it’s raining, find something to do in the house. Yesterday we worked on a jigsaw puzzle.