Lacemakers

Before Freeways

15 Before฀Freeways The light before she opens her eyes, the light after. Muscles down his back like a magazine glossy, carved marble in the sculpture garden. She never knew him, sees that. Outside the mower chokes on wet leaves. She can hear its angry mechanism: a grinder, an alarm. This is only a drill, but still the panic. Driving I-10 to the late shift: are nights orange in other cities too? Her patient, Betsy, as a young wife— before freeways or swamp coolers, Betsy’d explained— sleeping on the lawn all summer. Dreamed she was Betsy. Dreamed that glut of stars casting a glow. Glut of opening cotton pods. Brutal. That heat. Tired of being the object of his— tired. His arms around her before work, a kind of owning. Tell me you’re helpless and I’ll let go. Struggles. She can’t remember when he stopped using her name. Every Wednesday the hospital tries its sirens, emergency lights like comets in the halls. Her patient, Kay, waiting on the collapsible chair. The patients given compass points and numbers. 3 West-17 who knew her husband better on paper. 4 East-9 who couldn’t string a sentence. ...