“Let me touch you,” I mumble, hoping he can decipher my disjointed answer.
I don’t know when my eyes closed, but they need a little while longer to rest before they’ll open.
After a few beats of my heart, he seems to understand.
“Whatever you need,paperotta.Sip some water, then rest while I prep the bath.”
“Not bath.Shower.”
He pauses at my demand, but grunts his understanding, offers me water, then plods into the bathroom.I don’t open my eyes until he returns.
He offers me his elbow.I take it and drag myself upright in semi-manageable increments.By the time I make it to my feet, my head spins and legs feel like jelly, but I cling to my husband’s arm and shuffle toward the bathroom.
Emotions clog my throat.Mario pinches the blanket closed around me without touching or pulling on my body while I remain preoccupied with staying upright with his arm in one hand and his knife in the other.
Goopy warmth slides down my legs, but he offers me as much dignity as possible with the blanket.
It isn’t until he guides me into the shower and drops the quilt to the bathroom floor that I realize I left a trail of smeared blood along the floor.
Mario doesn’t care.He doesn’t even look.His eyes stay locked on my face as he leads me to the towels spread over the tiled shower floor.Keeping his hands away from me, he helps me lower myself onto the towels by squatting, kneeling, and then joining me on the tiles beside the towels.
Hot water rains down on us, soaking our clothes in seconds.I sigh in relief as the heat seeps into my abdomen and soothes my cramping.
For a while, we lie without speaking as the rushing water echoes off the walls and steam fills the shower.The cloying scent of blood lingers in my nostrils even as the worst of the mess swirls down the drain.
Mario rises, soaps a loofah, moves the showerheads so they don’t spray directly on me, and then offers me the loofah.
I scrub my shorts and legs until white froth covers me from hips to toes.
He offers me a washcloth and takes the loofah.I run it over my neck and arms before slipping it under my shirt and cleaning my skin.Despite having already seen all of me, my husband doesn’t comment about my modesty.
When I deem myself soapy enough, he redirects the showerheads.I sigh and melt into the towels.If I could stay lying on the shower floor with hot water raining down on me for the next week, I would, but even if Mario let me, the water would run cold eventually.
He squats beside me and runs a hand through his wet hair.
If I weren’t on death’s door, I’d jump him.
I want to be the water droplet rolling down his chest.
He cocks his head, growls, and braces his forearms on his thighs.
“Careful,paperotta.I’m hanging on by a thread,” he threatens.
I sigh and close my eyes.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
The patter of hot water against my torso weaves a spell around me, and I inch toward sleep.
His low, imploring voice pulls me awake.
“You’re not well, Valentina.Let me schedule you an appointment at the finest clinic in New York City and—”
“No.No doctor’s office.He always made it too humiliating.I can’t,” I insist.
“Alright,paperotta.No doctor’s office.”He gives in too easily, and I’m glad because I’m too tired to fight.“Let’s get you dry and into bed,” he says as he turns off the shower.
“No bed.Too far.Too messy,” I say.
