Page 37 - WTP VOl. X #6

woman smiles up at her.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Gallagher inches her chest away from Maggie’s hand, pats her on the forearm, and closes her eyes. With her head leaning back against the pillow, she asks, “Have you heard any more from that husband of yours? The one with the tool belt?”
“I know the one,” Maggie says. “Sam and I are sepa- rated, you know.”
She covers Mrs. Gallagher back up with the hospital gown. The woman’s arms rest by her sides, her skin red and scaly from the chemo treatments. Maggie grabs a tube of lotion from her shirt pocket, and begins massaging the woman’s forearms. She re- members when Mrs. Gallagher met Sam, during the woman’s first bout with breast cancer. It was a clear winter day with a bit of sun, and he was between jobs, at a lull from ice and windstorms and custom- ers without electricity. He showed up with tuna sandwiches from the cafeteria and a goofy grin on his face. “Do you have a few minutes?” She’d cher- ished instances like these, but now, she can barely remember what it feels like to be at ease—with or without Sam. He’s been gone for weeks, and Mag-
gie has barely missed him. After Pete died, she no longer looked up at the sound of Sam’s sigh or heard the hum of his favorite songs; when he rubbed her neck and shoulders his calloused hands were like an intruder’s navigating her skin. He became someone living inside her house without warrant, her body numb, unable to remember the solace of touch. Her mother used to say that hardship brought people closer together, but that wasn’t the way it worked out—the sorrow seared into each of them separately, split them open, sent them shooting off into different atmospheres.
Maggie applies the excess lotion to Mrs. Gallagher’s bony knuckles, spreading and rubbing it between her fingers. Mrs. Gallagher licks her lower lip. She’s on
the verge of sleep. “I don’t think you two are finished yet,” she says in a low voice.
The medicinal smell stings Maggie’s nostrils. “Tomor- row, I’ll bring you a better cream. Something with lavender. More soothing. We’ll trim these nails of yours, too.” She inches the hospital gown down, lifts the woman’s gold chain and crucifix, moisturizes her chest, her thin, delicate neck. She covers her back
up, tucking the sheet underneath her armpits. As she turns the light down, Mrs. Gallagher begins to snore.
~
At the nurse’s station in the hallway, Maggie tosses the tube of cream into the trash and scrubs her hands at the sink. Chelsie has just finished her rounds, her hard, round stomach jutting out. She has that rosy glow in her cheeks, common for women in their third trimesters. Even her long ponytail has a waxy glim- mer.
“Did I hear Mrs. Gallagher asking you about Sam again?”
“You did.” Maggie forces a laugh.
“I swear she’s obsessed with his tool belt.”
“She’s on a lot of medication,” Maggie says, waving her hands in front of the paper towel dispenser.
“I’ve always had a thing for work boots myself. Never really gave the belts much thought.” Chelsie leans up against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest.
Maggie moves to the computer, leaning forward to scroll down to Mrs. Gallagher’s file. “I wanted to ask your opinion about something,” Chelsie says.
“Oh?”
“You know we like ‘Harry’ if it’s a boy. But I was think- ing of ‘Liesl’ for a girl. What do you think? Too much like Sound of Music?” Chelsie turns on the faucet and begins scrubbing her hands.
“Not at all. It’s pretty.” Maggie grips the mouse, stays focused on the screen while updating her notes. Mary Gallagher. Mastectomy wound. Left breast, second procedure.
At twenty-six, Chelsie reminds Maggie of her younger self—her naïve, full-of-optimism self who thought ev- ery distinct detail added up to a larger whole, helped
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