I sit on the edge of my bed studying my hands while Brenda changes for the night. The skin sags and puckers between the fingers. They are old man hands but I can’t remember when they got there. There is a gap in my life from forty to sixty. On one side of the canyon I look and feel and behave as I always have; on the other side…this side…I have sagging, crinkly skin. I look like an old man but I did not get here in degrees. It didn’t creep up on me. I just woke up this way, the owner of new and different aches and pains and a medicine cabinet full of pills meant to control them.
From my perch on my side of the mattress, I hear Brenda in the bathroom.
“Why did you mention the divorce?”
“He hasn’t really talked to me since the...since the birthday party. I thought I forced him into the divorce. I thought he blamed me for their deaths.”
Brenda comes back into the bedroom.
“Do you blame yourself?”
Maybe I shouldn’t answer.
“Yes.”
“You have spent your life saying two things: It will be alright or I’ll fix this. Clark is right. Whatever Plan B you think fits this situation...this time you can’t fix it and it won’t be alright.”
She climbs into bed, shuts the light and settles under the covers. I sit there staring out the window.
But I can fix this.
I can make it better.
George and I can make things right.
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