Range of Motion by Elizabeth Berg

see them again.” She hikes her basket up on her hip, juts her chin at me. “Go ahead, take your bath and lie down.”
    I see her so clearly, her left arm across her waist, helping to hold the basket. The tiny diamond on her wedding ring has turned to the side; the ring has gotten too big. I swear I can see her beating heart in her throat. And I know about her. She uses dark-blue ink in her fountain pen, signs her letters, “As always.” She takes her slippers off at her side of thebed at night, leaves them lined up and ready for when the morning sun pushes into her bedroom. She drinks from jelly glasses washed in the metal dishpan, rinsed in water that reddens her hands, then dried with a dishcloth embroidered with pastel daisies. She feeds her children lunch at a table covered with decorated oilcloth: sandwiches cut on the diagonal, milk; and on Friday, a Baby Ruth for dessert. She uses cold cream from the five-and-dime that comes in a white jar with a pink top. She prays on her knees at night, her head bowed, her faith steadfast and unquestioned. She has never looked at herself naked. Her back bothers her frequently, but she doesn’t mention it.
    I mean, I could just go on and on. It’s like idly looking down into a well you thought was dry and seeing the black face of water so obviously deep you feel fear in the pit of your stomach like a fist.
    It is worrisome, what is happening to me. As though there weren’t enough going on. I’m just tired. I’m just too tired. I do need a nap. My subconscious has had to grow big, has had to play tricks to get me to pay attention to my most basic needs. I turn out the basement light, then turn it back on, head upstairs on legs that feel like they have the flu.
    I sleep awhile, a good half hour, and then wake up with a fuzzy-brain feeling. I go to the bathroom and splash my face with cold water, then go across the hall to Sarah’s room, sit on her bed, think about what we should do fordinner tonight. We always used to order out Chinese on Sunday night—shrimp with lobster sauce, he got that every time—then eat in front of a rented movie. I haven’t done it since the accident. I wanted to wait for him to be back. But maybe we should just start doing things again, without him.
    I lean back on my elbows, feel a lump on the bed, turn and reach under the covers to take it out. It could be anything: a shoe, her lunchbox, a book she is reading. It is a book, her diary, a white leather thing, gold trim, unlocked. I know I shouldn’t, but I open it and read the last entry.
    I think my Dad is dead. I told Lindsey, but that’s all
.
    Oh, Sarah, I think. Do you really believe I wouldn’t tell you? But the truth is, I keep so much from her. Surely she knows that; kids are all the time being smart in ways you wish they wouldn’t be. Just learn your math, we think; never mind the secret places in your parents’ hearts. But they know when you’re hiding something. Why should she not think I’m hiding the fact that he’s dead? Why should she believe he’s alive when he lies unresponsive to her every word, when he no longer rolls up his sleeves to help her make Lego cities, when he no longer checks her homework and tells her she’s a genius, or lies on her bedroom floor with his hands behind his head, his ankles crossed, listening to all she wants to say before she goes to sleep?
    I put the diary back under her covers. Then I go into my bedroom, stare at his side of the bed. There’s a wrinklethere. I go over to straighten it out, but I don’t just give a little tug. I pull a bunch of fabric into my fists, and then I start shaking it. “You’re so stupid,” I say. “Walking under ice. What’s the matter with you?” I pull the spread off the bed, throw it onto the floor. Then I pull off the sheets and I hear myself making the growling noises I used to make when I played monster with the kids. “Stupid!” I say. “You never think of anyone but yourself!” I stomp all