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Lucy had been a poor sleeper ever since James left. It was one of the many things she was (perhaps unfairly) blaming on him. James knew she needed a pair of arms wrapped around her at night so she could fall asleep, and anyway, who would want to be in a king sized bed on their own? In many ways she’d rather sleep in John’s room, not that he’d ever let her swap. A combination of stubbornness and an insistence that it’s wrong to cast your brother’s wife out of her own bed would prevent him from extending that courtesy.
She put up with it. These days she would skim her book on ciphers until the words stopped making sense, switch off the bedside light, and pretend to fall asleep until she actually did. Tonight that hadn’t worked, and she’d spent the last few hours turning over what Matt Neville had said to her about leaving. How his wife had ushered him away as if Lucy was a threat somehow. Maybe she was.
At some point in the night, she decided to get up and make a cup of tea. She jumped when she saw John hunched over at the dinner table.
“What are you doing still up?” She said, frowning. “It’s half past three”.
It went without saying that John was a man of routine. His bedtime was strictly nine thirty, and Lucy could tell it made him anxious to stay up beyond it. He didn’t turn his head when she spoke to him. Even more bizarrely, he was still in his work clothes, and was staring at the table as if in a trance.
“John?”
Lucy walked up to him and lightly touched his shoulder. He jolted in response.
“John, what’s the matter?”
He was staring at James’ tatty orange notebook. When he spoke, his voice came out in an almost whisper.
“I… I can’t solve it”
“What are you talking about? Of course you can.“
He shook his head firmly. Lucy sighed, trying to be patient despite her sleep deprivation.
“You should go to bed.”
He stayed stock still with his eyes fixed on the book. Lucy pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, trying unsuccessfully to meet his eye line. She was fairly used to watching John spiral, but this was different. His face looked strangely vulnerable and childlike, those brown doe eyes full of dread. His chest was rising and falling rapidly.
“I know it’s difficult.” She said, trying to soften her tone. “If I could solve it for you then I would, and believe me, I’ve tried.” She looked at the pages of incomprehensible notes he’d scribbled in a pad in front of him. His right hand was smeared with black ink. “Like it or not, you’re the only one who can do this.”
“No, I can’t” he said forcefully. “That’s just it, I can’t solve it, I’m sorry”. He finally met her gaze, looking at her guiltily. “I’m so sorry, Lucy.”
It rattled her to hear him so earnest, almost in tears. She couldn’t let herself entertain the idea that he was right. John’s constant flapping had, in some weird way, helped keep her together- she had to stay strong when everyone around her was falling apart. The problem was that John was her only hope, and he knew that.
“Hey.” She said gently, trying to offer a reassuring smile. “You’re tired. It’ll seem clearer in the morning.”
John frowned, picking the skin around his nails while staring blankly in front of him.
“You’re not listening to me”
“Because you’re not talking sense. Go to bed, John.”
He shook his head again. He had started to rock backwards and forwards in his chair, breathing shakily through his mouth. He was squeezing his hands so tightly his fingers had turned white. Lucy watched him with concern.
“Are you alright?”
“Of course I’m not alright. What part of this is alright?”
She gave a small smile.
“Hmm, fair point.”
Of course he was an anxious man, everyone knew that. But this was more than anxiety. She had the almost all-consuming and frankly quite confusing urge to hug him, but resisted.
So what was this, then, a panic attack? Lucy had no experience with dealing with that sort of thing. Admittedly she was quite bad at offering advice, and John didn’t like being touched. Her presence would have to be enough.
“It feels hot in here. Are you hot?”
Lucy shook her head gently. She wanted to put her hand to his chest and hold it there until his heart slowed, but she didn’t. He had started muttering things under his breath.
“Look at me” she instructed.
He continued rocking, picking violently at his fingers. Blood was seeping from his thumb; he hadn’t noticed.
“John” she said firmly.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid” he muttered quietly through gritted teeth.
“Don’t say that!”
She had grown tired of watching him make himself bleed; she reached across the table and placed her steady hands over his shaking ones, squeezing them tightly.
“Don’t say that, John. You’re the smartest man I know”.
He shook his head again insistently.
“I’m not. He is.”
“He isn’t here, is he?”
Even if he was, John was the smarter of the two. Not in a social capacity, of course. And she wouldn’t tell him that, not for his ego, but because it felt weird to talk down about her husband. Though she was half-tempted when she saw his sunken face. Seeing him like this was almost painful.
“Why won’t you look at me?” She said softly.
He kept his head bowed, still almost hyperventilating. Lucy wasn’t sure she had the right words, or if there was something she ought to say in this situation. She only wished he’d look at her.
“You’re okay.” She murmured, slowly stroking his hand with her thumb. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but everything’s okay.” Her eyes roamed over his face. “I love you.”
There was a pause.
“You don’t know how grateful I am to have you in my life, John.”
He turned his head towards her, and a tear was falling down his cheek. She removed her hand from his to wipe it away with her thumb. He didn’t move away.
“It’s all okay.” She said confidently.
“How can it be?” He said shakily, though he seemed to be calming down. “I can’t bring him back.”
“You can. And we will.” She pushed back her chair and stood up, extending her hand to John. “But not before you’ve slept, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
He pondered something for a moment.
“I… thank you”
He took it, and got up.
She smiled at him warmly.
“Goodnight, John.”