There When You Need Him

Arnie and I don’t have what you’d call a storybook marriage. We met a little late in life, well past any giddy expectation of finding a soul mate. Still, we feel loving toward each other, share a friendly physical affection, and have built a comfortable routine for a day-to-day life together.
But I keep a distance from him. It’s never been my way to reveal my fears and doubts. I was raised to prize self-reliance, so I don’t like to ask for help or reassurance. I hide my childish yearning to be held close and kept safe. But that mute longing to be taken care of, buried for years without light or air, is still there—shapeless and powerful— and somehow shameful for its being hidden.
So four days ago, when Death glanced my way with a casual sweep of the eyes and nailed me with terror, I didn’t tell Arnie or anyone about the hole of fear I’d been swept into and how it had closed over my head. But he must have suspected. Last night I said, “I’m thinking I want to go up north tomorrow. Up to the River Camp.” We both knew I meant to go by myself. I wanted a chance to calm my mind, to sort out my reactions to the information I’d found in a medical reference book.
Arnie stood looking at me with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops, my stolid husband of ten years. “Okay, Em,” he said.
“Just for the day.”
“Okay, Em.” He reached across the distance between us and gave my hand a quick squeeze, and I pretended not to see the anxiety on his face.

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