Stan had been so depressed since Thanksgiving. It had been right after that—the most happy time she could remember that they’d had—that he’d gotten the diagnosis, and he had spun down into a depression. He hadn’t been out of the house since, he’d just sat there in his La-Z-Boy in front of the TV and dozed, the TV on but him not paying a damn bit of attention to it. She’d put the tree up early, right there beside the fireplace, so he could see the tree and the fire she laid every night and the TV all at the same time. Sylvia was as much panicked because of the time of the year as anything else. Everyone said that sick people in depression, especially the old—not that Stan, at fifty-eight was old, but he was twenty-three years older than she was—died at Christmas. Everywhere she’d gone in the past week, trying to get special foods and little seasonal doodads to lift Stan’s spirits, she’d heard how grandma this and uncle that had popped off between Christmas and New Year’s, or right. I was out of his arms and almost to the parkinglot before I could think and play it cool. My arms went around my chest to hug me and I could feel myself shaking. Tears were in my eyes and all I could think was that I needed to get away but I had been having too much fun on his motorcycle to pay attention to where we were going and frankly, I was lost. Before I could make any sort of decision, he was behind me trying to put his arms around me. “Are you alright? Babe, I’m sorry. I promise to go slow with you. That won’t be any time soon. You are an amazing, beautiful woman. The woman I would wait for. The kind of woman I want to spend the rest of my life getting to know.” Now that I look back on it, I remember him saying “the kind of woman” but at the time all I heard was comfort and safety and the idea that he liked me enough to stick around for awhile. All I acknowledged was that he wasn’t going to leave me any time soon. I automatically relaxed and my naive heart fluttered. He had.
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