You May Also Enjoy Kasey Thornton
His wife doesn’t ask him to come with her to the bookstore. She doesn’t have to. They leave the house on Saturday, and he gets in the driver’s seat, and it’s not raining but he thinks it should be. She is curled inside herself, looking forward at a glassy star on the windshield where a rock struck it, picking at the pearl-colored polish on her nails. He drives slowly because he is not in a hurry to get where they are going. They are going because she got wine-drunk three months ago and told him about how her Uncle Chuck pushed her into the tiny hall bathroom beneath the stairs after Easter lunch when she was fifteen. Her hands gripped the pedestal sink and she gasped in the warm stink of whoever shit in the bathroom last. The brown marks were still on the bottom of the toilet. Seeing them washed God out of her. He was not sure how to feel when she said it. His wife was sobbing with her head on his lap, and he pushed his fingers against her skull as she spiraled and shrank and became empty in front of him. He remembered that it was Chuck that sent them the wine they were drinking as a Christmas gift. It made sense. She was always prone to bouts of… what? Not moodiness. Discontent? A frustration that infected her bones and lasted for weeks, where she couldn’t get comfortable at night and couldn’t make decisions during the day. She’d stare blankly at the television and bury her fingers into the mane of the dog’s neck, holding them there for hours to anchor herself to another living thing. He wished he was a living thing to her. There is a book that Google told her she needs. She knows she needs it, but she isn’t sure what she will do once she has it. She regrets ever learning to read because knowing how to read means she will have to read this book and she does not want to read it, but she needs to buy the book to say that she bought it, to know that she has it. She doesn’t tell him any of this. She doesn’t have to.
They walk into the bookstore and he puts his hand on her lower back like he is steering a vehicle from the passenger’s seat. They are suddenly lost, looking at all the sections. Would it be in Self-Help or Relationships? Family? Surely not Love and Sex? The edition they found in the Self-Help section was not the newest edition. They were out of the newest edition. She does not want to think about the implications of that. She takes the book about healing without looking at the cost and hugs it to her chest, not quite lovingly. They wait in line like wrongdoers, like they have committed a crime and are waiting to see if they will get away with it. The cashier boy waves them over. Her husband takes the book from her and slides it over the counter with a fresh twenty, a signal. No credit or debit. No memberships. No questions. No talking. His wife keeps curling up. She is a snake swallowing its own tail. Her eyes are wide marbles. The boy with acne says nothing because the book is any other book to him. It’s Harry Potter and the Child Molestation. It’s What to Expect When You’re a Victim of Sexual Trauma. It’s Eat, Pray, Panic Attack. He puts the book into a bag and hands the woman the receipt and his day is still every day. Her husband is propping the door open for her, but then she stops and stares at the receipt. He looks over her shoulder. The Courage to Heal: A Guide for Women Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse cost them $17.94 but that isn’t what she’s looking at. At the bottom of the receipt is a list of books headed with the words “You May Also Enjoy” and an ellipsis. There are four other titles listed there. She shakes her head, shudders with sudden delight, and throws her head forward, chuckling into the paper. She doesn’t tell him why. She doesn’t have to, because he is infected by her. People are trying to get in around them, but they are blocking their own way out and laughing about it.
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