Fourth and Inches

by Kata Čuić

  It’s not so good to be the queen.

  A weird sound pulls me from my nightmares. All too grateful for the interruption, I bolt upright on the couch and strain to listen. Which isn’t an easy feat with my ears ringing from a breakfast of Patron.

  There it is again.

  An overly loud retching noise.

  Cancel the gratitude. I’ve stepped in cat puke enough to know this won’t be pleasant.

  I throw my legs over the edge of the couch, scrubbing another round of restless sleep from my eyes.

  I look up, then do it again.

  Look left.

  Rub my eyes.

  Look right.

  Rub them harder.

  I stand up, expecting to fall down, wake up, or any combination of my previous experiences of drunken hallucinations to correct my vision, but nope.

  What the hell happened in here?

  There’s no dirty laundry on the floor. I haven’t seen this coffee table in months. It shines now like someone not only cleared away all the garbage, but also…dusted it. The broken TV is righted against the wall, and no shards of glass remain anywhere I can see them.

  I distinctly remember the sound of Sophia’s pitiful crying when I gave her the boot, so I know she didn’t sneak in here to clean this place.

  Sophia.

  The cleaning lady.

  Who started her work in the master bedroom.

  Oh, no.

  The bed.

  I tear into the bedroom, only to find a bare mattress. The dressers are still on their sides, clothes and blankets all over the place.

  “God fucking dammit!” Sinking to the floor, it hits me.

  It’s finally happened. I’ve fucking lost it.

  The last shred of sanity I had was this untouched bed.

  It was the only thing left in my life that was pure. Unsullied by bad decisions, miscommunication, or outside influence.

  It was the only thing she wanted. The lone remaining symbol of everything I wanted to give her.

  Take away that shrine, and I, quite literally, have nothing left to lose.

  More wasted time ticks away as I stare at the mattress, too hopeless to even imagine what will never be in this bed.

  There’s that noise again.

  It’s too loud to be one of the cats. Distinctly human, it sounds vaguely familiar yet foreign. The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention as goosebumps spread across my arms.

  Someone is in my place.

  It’s too faint to be coming from the master bathroom. Knowing full well this might be my mind or level of intoxication playing tricks on me, I stealthily make my way into the living room, then down the hallway.

  I have a ban on all visitors.

  Did an angry fan somehow get past the front desk? Why would a disgruntled Gold Rushers supporter be throwing up in my spare bathroom instead of messing with me while I was passed out drunk, easy for the picking, right in the middle of the living room?

  Could a jersey chaser have paid someone off to gain access without being invited? Again, why wouldn’t she just maul me where I was?

  Why am I asking myself stupid questions when there’s clearly an intruder here?

  I trip over my own two feet and answer myself. Because I haven’t been fucking sober in weeks. I can’t even walk anymore. Asking myself stupid questions is all I ever do.

  I take a deep breath, readying myself for a fight, then throw open the door.

  The woman bent over the toilet bowl jerks, but doesn’t lift her head. The cats, however, run a scatter drill like cockroaches meeting light.

  Instead of fleeing past my ankles, they guard the shuddering form, hissing like they’re her only line of defense against me.

  Their owner.

  The guy who lives here.

  The guy who feeds them, and…occasionally cleans their litter box.

  When she raises her head on a groan, I know why they’re acting this way.

  Evie.

  Even with her sweaty, frizzy hair plastered to her forehead and a string of drool hanging from her mouth, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  More beautiful than any of the women who constantly hang around all the time.

  I drop to my knees in the doorway, unable to remain upright a second longer, certain I’ve crossed over into the realm of the dead.

  Evie doesn’t look sick when I imagine her. Disappointed, yes. Hurt? Sometimes. Like she’s in agony? Never.

  This isn’t a nightmare about the attack. One of my old t-shirts swallows her frame. No red stain bleeds through the fabric.

  We continue to watch each other in silence as I hold my breath.

  Waiting.

  On what, I’m not sure. Maybe to see how bad this place will really be. In the next scene, I’ll probably be forced to watch her make love to someone else. That would be justified.

  “Rob,” she finally croaks. “Can you get me some water?”

  Is this a trick? If I rush to do her bidding, will I discover my limbs don’t work? Or that no matter how fast I run, the sink continues to get further and further away?

  Will this be my eternity?

  Never being able to do even the smallest thing for her, ever?

  Destined to fail over and over?

  “Never mind.” She frowns.

  That’s not unexpected. This is Hell, after all. She’ll never smile at me again.

  It’s not until she stands on shaky legs to approach the sink that I reconsider my initial assessment. The sound of running water, the sight of her splashing it on her face, cupping her hands to drink, snaps me out of it.

  A little.

  This is too mundane to be adequate punishment.

  “Evie? What are you doing here?”

  With droplets of water sliding down her pale skin, her grimace appears ethereal. “You already asked me that. Don’t you remember answering the door?”

  No. No, I most certainly do not.

  If I had answered my front door to find Evie standing there, I would have leapt for joy. Begged her for a chance to talk.

  I would have done everything I should have at the only game of mine she attended this season. The one in Albany, where she wore Mike’s jersey and sat on his side of the field.

  I’ve been begging to any deity I’ve ever read about for a chance at a redo of that moment. I couldn’t have fucked it up a second time. Could I?

  A strangled gurgle escapes her lips and she rushes for the toilet again.

  Every instinct in my being tells me to go to her, to rub her back, to hold her hair. But, she’s still wearing it in a short style I wouldn’t be able to grasp. And, I’m not sure if I’m allowed to touch her with my tainted hands.

  I back up into the hallway and sit on the carpet. I’m allowed to wait with her, right? That can’t be forbidden.

  I don’t want to leave. My eyes might not get to feast on her for very long, and I can’t afford to waste a second.

  Finished for now, she hugs the seat, staring at me once more with dull eyes.

  If I had the capacity left for tears, I’d be sobbing.

  Those beautiful blue eyes look absolutely defeated. They mirror exactly what I feel.

  She licks her lips, tries to speak. Fails. Tries again.

  She’s so damn strong, even if she doesn’t look it just now.

  “How sober are you?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m still trying to figure out if this is a hallucination brought on by too much expensive tequila.”

  She squeezes her eyes shut, and my heart mimics her movement.

  “Do you need more water? I can get it for you.”

  She shakes her head, then purses her lips like she’s fighting another round of nausea. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…”

  My mind races, tripping over different ideas, the same way I did in the hallway.

  “I think I need to go to the hospital,” she finishes.

  Every thought comes to
a screeching halt in my brain. And then as if on delay, it occurs to me Evie never admits weakness. If she’s asking to go to the hospital, this is bad.

  Really bad.

  I scoot closer, still not sure how much of my presence she can stand, especially ill. “Okay. I can get you to the hospital.”

  “You can’t,” she whispers. “You’re too drunk to drive.”

  Shit. I am. I know I am. “What’s wrong? Should I call an ambulance?”

  She seems to genuinely think about it, which only freaks me out more. Even debating that type of emergency transport means she’s worse off than she looks.

  “It hurts so much. No amount of pain meds is taking the edge off, but I’m pretty sure I’m not dying. A taxi would probably be okay.”

  “I’ll call the front desk and get us a town car.” If it’s the last thing I do for her, I’ll get her the help she needs. It isn’t nearly enough to atone for all my sins, especially since I’m too inebriated to get her there myself, but maybe it’s a small start.

  “Mrs. Falls?”

  Pain, not joy, lances through my chest at hearing her addressed that way by the nurse who peeks her head through the curtain of Evie’s ER bay.

  The kindly looking woman with salt and pepper hair clucks her tongue as she goes about checking Evie’s vitals without any response from the patient. “She’s still out, huh? At least she’s not hurting anymore. She must have been suffering for quite some time before coming in. I’m familiar with the stubborn type who waits to get treatment only when the pain is unbearable.”

  “Yeah,” I murmur as a strange sensation of déjà vu washes over me.

  For the first time in years, this situation doesn’t remind me of the attack. Instead, I’m the same bumbling husband who had to prove his identity to be allowed into the treatment area with his wife. I’m the spouse who has no idea what her symptoms are, what treatments she’s been receiving, why we’re here at all.

  It might be the endometriosis. It might be something else entirely.

  The fact I don’t know eats away at me.

  “The doctor should be in shortly to speak with you.” The nurse, who’s likely seen more than most people would be able to handle, offers me a sad smile.

  Yeah. She’s got my number, all right.

  The weight of her pitying scrutiny makes me slouch a little lower in my seat at Evie’s bedside.

  Not even when she exits the small area do I breathe easier.

  I should probably be grateful she’s not a football fan. In fact, not one person in the ER so far has mentioned my status as the disgraced quarterback for the Rushers. But, all I can seem to focus on is how disbelieving they’ve seemed about my role as this woman’s husband.

  It’s like they all see through my skin to the person I really am beneath.

  I scrub my hands over my face. It’s been months since I’ve felt this awful. Hungover and confused doesn’t even begin to describe my current state. More like barely human, which isn’t doing me, or Evie, any favors.

  All the questions I wanted to ask since finding her puking in my spare bathroom pile up in my brain without any fresh alcohol to drown them. One keeps popping up more often than the rest.

  Why is she here?

  We’ve had no contact since October when I saw her at the game in Albany. Sure, she hasn’t filed for divorce, but I haven’t received a single email or text message, either. She just…ignores my existence.

  Not that I blame her.

  It’s not like I’ve reached out.

  I still have no idea what to say. I’m torn between wanting to comfort her and wanting to shake her until she gives me good enough reasons for why she did what she did to us.

  Once again, I find myself staring at her bare ring finger.

  I don’t even know where my wedding band is these days.

  “Rob?” Evie’s cracked voice breaks my concentration on her hand.

  “Yeah?”

  “How long have we been here?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “A while.”

  Her sigh fills the distance between us. “Has the doctor been in yet?”

  “No. The nurse said he’d be here shortly.” Why are there so many male gynecologists? It’s like going to a mechanic who’s never driven a damn car.

  When he performed the exam, I had to restrain myself from physical violence. The hospital followed protocol for diagnosis and treatment, based on Evie’s complaints. I was floored she even wanted me to stay with her during the invasive testing, clutching my hand like the lifeline I wanted so desperately to be for her in the past. I should have been grateful the staff was as speedy as possible with getting her pain under control, but still.

  Just because I can’t touch her doesn’t mean I want to watch any other man do so. Even in a professional capacity.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.” I don’t know that I’ll have any good answers to give her, but if she wants to talk, how can I say no? It’s all I’ve wanted for months on end.

  “I…” she falters, then twists the blanket in her slender hands.

  Only now does it occur to me she’s no longer wearing the necklace I saw her fiddling with at Mike’s game.

  The one with her wedding band and Pops’ medal on it.

  She’s finally moved on.

  “I know I probably shouldn’t ask, but would it be okay if I use the insurance, your insurance, for this? I can’t really afford to pay out of pocket for a hospital stay.”

  “Of course.” My words come out too forceful, but this is the surest I’ve been about anything in so long, it’s overwhelming. “Everything I have is yours. You know that.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her soft gratitude throws me for a loop.

  No argument, no insisting she doesn’t need to be taken care of, no assumptions about our relationship being a business deal only.

  “Mrs. Falls. Good. You’re awake.”

  The same doctor with the brusque manner who touched my wife in places I haven’t for over a year sweeps into the room.

  For her part, Evie attempts to sit up straighter in the bed. Everything about her posture makes it clear she’s readying herself for a fight.

  Why? I have no idea.

  “How are you feeling now?” The doctor gives Evie his full attention, assessing her with his gaze.

  “Better, but the pain medication is already starting to wear off.” Judging by the crease in her brow, she’s telling the truth.

  And he clearly knows it. “The tests we ran confirm your diagnosis—severe endometriosis. We need to discuss recommendations for follow-up care and management of your pain once you’re discharged.”

  Evie holds up a hand to halt his spiel. “I’m familiar with my diagnosis and treatment options.”

  He raises his eyebrows, duly impressed. “You’ve already found a specialist in your area, then?”

  “I have.” Evie nods as if she needs to reassure herself of the facts. “What I haven’t found is a specialist who will do what obviously needs to be done.”

  “And what do you believe that is?”

  My gaze pinballs between them, a mounting sense of dread threatening to crack my silence.

  “I want a radical hysterectomy, but I can’t find anyone willing to perform the surgery on a woman my age.”

  Her words jolt me, sharper than the anger I experienced in the months following our separation. Suddenly, her gratitude and willingness to ask for help makes total sense. She’s going to use our marriage to her advantage for once. The healthcare coverage she hasn’t used until now will become her tool for getting ultimate revenge.

  “You can’t.” I jump out of my seat like putting a barrier between them will prevent the doctor from agreeing to her demand.

  I might not have any say in her life anymore, but I’ll be damned if I stand by, silent, while she flushes everything we used to want down the toilet.

  She deserves so much better than that.


  She deserves everything.

  Even if I can’t be the one to give it to her.

  “I agree with your husband,” the doctor patronizes. “You’re twenty-two, with a hopefully long life ahead of you. According to the information you gave at intake, the only treatment option you’ve tried is hormonal birth control. There are other methods for managing your condition which aren’t as drastic and life-altering.”

  Evie throws her head back against the pillow, frustration evident in the slight trembling of her body. “And they haven’t worked. It’s getting progressively worse. Did you miss the part where I mentioned I’m bleeding for twenty days at a time? I know I’ll never be able to have children. Just take it all out, and get it over with. It’s going to come to that, anyway.”

  The doctor might not have missed that tidbit, but I certainly did.

  Twenty days?

  How is she even functioning?

  The doctor makes a humming noise in the back of his throat, whether to ease Evie’s evident tension or mine doesn’t matter. “You will have a difficult time finding any gynecologist willing to perform that type of surgery without first exhausting all other options. I understand you’re in chronic pain, but you should consider the various avenues before resorting to something so drastic. Give us more time to help you.”

  “I don’t have any more time,” Evie practically screams. “I’ve been in agony for nearly half of my life. It’s not getting better. Nothing has helped. What don’t you people get about that? It’s not your decision. This is my body. I call the shots, not you.”

  The doctor opens his mouth to argue, but I’m the one who stops him this time by placing myself directly in front of him.

  He doesn’t understand her past, her need for control and bodily autonomy.

  “Can you give us a minute, please?”

  He nods, clearly relieved he won’t have to put more effort into talking his patient down from the ledge.

  I wait until the curtain is closed once more to round on Evie. Horror washes over me as the full impacts of her wishes surface through the haze in my alcohol-laced brain.

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” she fires back, then, “You don’t know anything about what I’m going through, so you can’t possibly understand my decision.”