Read What We Talk About When We Talk About Love: Stories for Free Online Page B

Love
    The mother went to the window and looked out at the parking lot. Cars with their lights on were driving in and out. She stood at the window with her hands on the sill. She was talking to herself like this. We're into something now, something hard.
    She was afraid.
    She saw a car stop and a woman in a long coat get into it. She made believe she was that woman. She made believe she was driving away from here to someplace else.
    THE doctor came in. He looked tanned and healthier than ever. He went to the bed and examined the boy. He said, "His signs are fine. Everything's good."
    The mother said, "But he's sleeping."
    "Yes," the doctor said.
    The husband said, "She's tired. She's starved."
    The doctor said, "She should rest. She should eat. Ann," the doctor said.
    "Thank you," the husband said.
    He shook hands with the doctor and the doctor patted their shoulders and left.
    "I SUPPOSE one of us should go home and check on things," the man said. "The dog needs to be fed."
    "Call the neighbors," the wife said. "Someone will feed him if you ask them to."
    She tried to think who. She closed her eyes and tried to think anything at all. After a time she said, "Maybe I'll do it. Maybe if I'm not here watching, he'll wake up. Maybe it's because I'm watching that he won't."
    The Bath
    "That could be it," the husband said.
    "Ill go home and take a bath and put on something clean," the woman said.
    "I think you should do that," the man said.
    She picked up her purse. He helped her into her coat. She moved to the door, and looked back. She looked at the child, and then she looked at the father. The husband nodded and smiled.
    SHE went past the nurses' station and down to the end of the corridor, where she turned and saw a little waiting room, a family in there, all sitting in wicker chairs, a man in a khaki shirt, a baseball cap pushed back on his head, a large woman wearing a housedress, slippers, a girl in jeans, hair in dozens of kinky braids, the table littered with flimsy wrappers and styrofoam and coffee sticks and packets of salt and pepper.
    "Nelson," the woman said. "Is it about Nelson?"
    The woman's eyes widened.
    "Tell me now, lady," the woman said. "Is it about Nelson?"
    The woman was trying to get up from her chair. But the man had his hand closed over her arm.
    "Here, here," the man said.
    "I'm sorry," the mother said. "I'm looking for the elevator. My son is in the hospital. I can't find the elevator."
    "Elevator is down that way," the man said, and he aimed a finger in the right direction.
    "My son was hit by a car," the mother said. "But he's going to be all right. He's in shock now, but it might be some kind of coma too. That's what worries us, the coma
    What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
    part. I'm going out for a little while. Maybe I'll take a bath. But my husband is with him. He's watching. There's a chance everything will change when I'm gone. My name is Ann Weiss."
    The man shifted in his chair. He shook his head.
    He said, "Our Nelson."
    SHE pulled into the driveway. The dog ran out from behind the house. He ran in circles on the grass. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wheel. She listened to the ticking of the engine.
    She got out of the car and went to the door. She turned on lights and put on water for tea. She opened a can and fed the dog. She sat down on the sofa with her tea.
    The telephone rang.
    "Yes!" she said. "Hello!" she said.
    "Mrs. Weiss," a man's voice said.
    "Yes," she said. "This is Mrs. Weiss. Is it about Scotty?" she said.
    "Scotty," the voice said. "It is about Scotty," the voice said. "It has to do with Scotty, yes."
    Tell the Women We're Going
    BILL Jamison had always been best friends with Jerry Roberts. The two grew up in the south area, near the old fairgrounds, went through grade school and junior high together, and then on to Eisenhower, where they took as many of the same teachers as they could manage, wore each other's shirts and sweaters and pegged pants,