Bert is perched in the banyan tree that engulfs our front yard. He’s up there checking out bird eggs instead of emptying the dryer or helping Marama comb out her rats’ nest. He’s not making me Cuban coffee or putting a palm to that triangle of stomach beneath my breasts; he’s looking at a nest.

Seven a.m. and the house is a disaster. Long term, short term: a disaster. The big issues, the ones that fall to our landlord—we’re blind to them now. Sneaking mold, inching ceiling cracks, shoddy stovetop, rotting old tooth smell that comes from beneath the sink. But it’s the towering pile of onion-stinking pans in our sink that I most hate to see. Soon I will have to wash them, and this makes me want to go back to bed and stay there indefinitely.

Fixed on the back of Bert’s salt and pepper head, I call out, “Marama!”

I hear the pitter-patter of foot flesh on tile. She slows in the doorway, smoothing chocolate hair out of wandering gray eyes. I’ve cut her hair to her earlobes for the summer months. She stares at me. “Yes, mama?”

I point to our banyan. “Papa found something interesting. Ask him to show you. And then put on your clothes and brush hair, okay?” She nods broadly. “You remember what’s tonight?” I ask. “Yes,” she replies, “Tonight we’re going to a wedding and I wear my RED dress.” She does a small hop while enunciating RED. Then she scampers out through the sliding door and I watch the scene without sound.

Her face cocks toward the cerulean sky, his perpetually burnt face angles to the ground. She raises her arms. Her SpongeBob nightgown rises, exposing cotton underwear. He maneuvers down in order to maneuver her up. With his thick arms above his head, lifting Marama to a branch, I can see the shadow of his butt crack. Every time I catch someone’s butt crack I get this pang of sadness. I’m sorry I saw what they don’t know I have seen. A butt crack is something so innocent. It doesn’t know anyone is looking at it. But I feel less sad seeing Bert’s—something closer to amusement or disgust—because it is the butt crack I have agreed to love all my life.

Only a moment ago, my husband rolled out of bed. Quickly, he brushed his teeth, changed out of one Guy Harvey t-shirt and into another, pulled on swim trunks, and headed to the kitchen. I kept an eye on him from our open bedroom door as he ground up his oxycontin. He coaxed the mound of powder to one spot at the edge of the grinder, raised it to his nose and tilted back, snorting. Like he’s taking a big swig of orange juice.

We’re fast approaching the five-year anniversary of Bert’s accident. I was massaging a client when it happened. Voicemails from his boss blinked on my cell when I returned to the break space: “Hi, Aroha, don’t worry, alright, but Bert’s a little injured. He had a spill and, uh, he’s at St. Mary’s—” there was a pause—“I think he’s doing okay, but get there as soon as you can, thanks. And uh sorry. I’ll check back later. Bye-bye.” He sounded like most men I knew: distant, uncomfortable, afraid to show empathy. I wouldn’t call Bert evolved, but at least he’s too simple and too honest to hide his emotions in the way many men have been taught to.

On the way to the hospital, waiting in traffic through the long Florida red lights, I managed not to get too scared. I don’t over-worry myself. I grew up in a Maori family and at a certain point, I stopped overdramatizing trying times, mostly because trying times were common times. My mother was depressive, my father had a bad relationship with alcohol, no one we knew ever had money. As a kid, if I got upset and dared to blame my parents to their faces for our dysfunctionality, they would hiss, “Aroha, what did you say to me?” eyes squinted, necks jutted forward, arms crossed, nostrils flaring. When they looked at me like that guilt would flush through me, my armpits pricking, my ears turning hot.

I sucked it up when they didn’t have money for birthday gifts, when bedbugs bit my neck, when my aunt went to jail, when my cousins overdosed. So when these white Americans, afraid of an on-the-job lawsuit, no doubt, called with shaky intonations, I thought little of it. Bert had seen some things in his life. He’d seen the grand kind of pain that’s too personal to him for me to even share. I wasn’t worried for this man who had suffered before. Then I saw.

Bert, who could not speak, lay in a room awaiting a long list of surgeries. I talked with doctors over his bandaged, discolored body. His best work buddy, Carl, looked me in the eyes while he explained what had happened. I tracked his hands as they gestured uneasily: “We was up washing the seventh floor’s windows and I don’t know, man, Bert’s ropes wasn’t done right. My man didn’t rope himself right, didn’t double check. We never double check. Man, he pulled on this one,” he was miming it, “and then I never seen anything like it… he dropped. I swear to God I felt like I was dying seeing that drop. He kinda kept himself upright, arms swingin’ like this,” he was miming it, “and my man landed feet first… Mm… He went a few feet into the ground… Dirt up at his calves…” He trailed off for good.

I held his forearm. “I’m sorry you saw it, Carl.”

Almost every tooth in Bert’s mouth was broken. The obvious body parts were bruised, cracked, or shattered—feet, legs, ass, neck—but the teeth haunted me most. The teeth I could really see. They’re supposed to hold stronger than bones, and, yet, when your body hits impact from the feet up and your chin goes ricocheting off your chest, it all has to splinter.

Between surgeries, his split hospital lips would part slightly, his mouth aching to talk, and I’d get a glimpse of the creepy little jagged edges. It reminded me of the way cartoon characters look after getting smacked in the face with a skillet.

I read recently it takes eighteen days of eating opioids to become addicted. Bert took them a lot longer than that after he fell seven stories. The pain was incomprehensible and he needed them for months and months. Maybe he needed them for over a year, I don’t know—but the line is blurred when it comes to when he stopped needing and started wanting. I couldn’t tell him he wasn’t hurting anymore; his doctors still can’t tell him that now. It’s freak fortune that he gained full function back—that he even lived at all.

In a way, he does need them. It’s just that it’s a new need, different than the one before. My husband’s brain has morphed. It’s changed, along with his body. What was hard is now soft. I look at him in the tree and I see someone washed out. He is foggy and pathetic and I am sickened and I feel guilty for my sickness. We haven’t had sex in thirteen months.

He’s spreading his torso, now, over the lowest branches. He’s lowering down Marama and they have their hands clutched around each other’s wrists. That hold is strongest and safest. She’s levitating over our crabgrass. He’s letting go carefully and she’s landing with verve. I stop before our slider in anticipation of their reentrance. It’s tinted to keep out the brutal light and it makes my reflection dark but sharp. I need a haircut. My curls are straggling. My knees are drooping somehow. I hate the extra weight on my stomach. How do I hide it? At least I still have this jaw and these hands.

The door slides wide-open, sun screaming in. My family replaces my reflection. Marama is running past me to her room shrieking, “There were EGGIES.” I don’t tell her to get dressed because I know she’s on her way to do so. She’s not like most children; she only needs to be told something once.

Bert moves his wraparound sunglasses to the crown of his head. His gray eyes bulge out of his face like a madman’s. The dust travels up his nose and little by little it collects behind those eyes, nudging them forward.

“Hey,” he says flatly.

“Hey,” I say. His pupils are pinpricks. “When are you leaving?” I ask as I shuffle to the refrigerator.

“Whenever this motherfucker calls me.” His drawl is deep and comes sideways out of his mouth. He’s talking about a guy he works for sometimes doing tile jobs. He looks at his Motorola, flipping it open and closed.

“Hm,” I grunt, “Is he really gonna call you?” I’m searching for a Capri Sun, digging through shitty plastic drawers stained by unidentified liquids.

I can hear Bert shift weight on his feet, his flip-flops slapping. “Uh, what the fuck are you insinuating?”

“I’m saying, are you gonna work today?” I don’t look out from the fridge even though I’ve found the Capri Sun.

He inhales. “I pay this rent—going up by the way—every fuckin year—all the bills getting paid—I’m out here in this devil’s sun working for these crazy pricks—got this pain in my feet—and you’re tellin’ me I don’t work every day?”

Sharper than him, I start nagging. “Um, yeah. You don’t work every day. If you don’t get called early enough today you’re not gonna do anything productive around here and you’re gonna go fishing or get fucked up over at one of these idiots’ houses,” I flick my hand in the circular direction of our whole neighborhood.

He goes, “Ha,” and shakes his head back and forth, not looking at me.

We stop talking. Our eyes avoid each other’s bodies as we get Marama out the door and to the bus stop: lunch packed, sneakers double-knotted, breath minty.

I get in my beige Honda Civic and as I drive down our flat street, one-story houses floating by, young boys on bikes flashing behind me, I let my foot off the gas. I start to roll and I pull around the corner and suddenly the car is in park. I’m thinking about a lot of things, too many things. I get overwhelmed with all the things there are to think about.

I’m trying to let the good usurp the bad but there are so many hard memories and there are too many bullshit tasks to do in a day, in a life. I’m exhaling really methodically and my eyes are fixed on somebody’s flag flapping in the wind. The sky is so stark behind it, no foliage, no nothing, just that flag, the one I barely saw growing up in New Zealand. Now here I am in America, with its problems, wondering if they’re my problems too even if part of me feels very separate from it all.

I stop ogling the flag and call into the spa and tell them Marama’s got a bug and Bert can’t get out of work and that I’ll have to stay home today. I say that I’m sorry and that I’ll pick up extra appointments later in the week if it’ll help. My coworker assures me it’s fine. I nap in the car for an hour.

I wake up sweating. I drive around the block to check on our driveway; Bert’s truck hasn’t budged. On my way into the house I stall as I hear his laugh. He’s hidden by Wyatt’s hedges, but the sound carries across the street and I picture the way his head is probably thrown back, revealing which teeth were never replaced. I get an idea. I take a lap and park back where I napped. I hustle over to our house and hoist myself up the banyan tree. It’s so thick and shady with its irregular shape that I don’t think he would even see me if he felt the urge to gaze up and over at our yard. I have a pretty good feeling he won’t come home any time soon either and if he does, I decide, I’ll tell him the truth: I played hooky to spy on you. It’s relieving to accept consequence, to know I’m prepared for the worst outcome.

The men crank up an old DeWalt stereo. I can just make out the squeal of electric guitar.

Budweisers are retrieved from an outdoor fridge. They fiddle with a band saw. They chat with Wyatt’s girlfriend, Aldona. She smokes a cigarette. Bert bums one from her. Everyone looks so happy. And Bert’s helping them with things, you know, he’s weeding with Aldona and he’s checking under Wyatt’s hood, pouring in engine oil. They’re futzing around joyfully. I seethe.

When we were younger and newer we used to go down to Mermaid’s Cove and dance to live bands, we went bowling, we saw action movies in theaters, we got hammered and sang karaoke, we kept each other company at the DMV or the post office, we stayed up late laying on each other’s bodies. I’d massage him with peppermint oil and he’d say, “Mmmm.”

Now I’m in a tree watching him have fun from afar. Much of the day has passed and they’ve kept drinking steadily. My back has started aching as they’ve gone inside, come back out, eaten salsa, shucked clams. I bet Aldona’s making chowder. Bert’s smile is so slanted and convincing. He seems so much more pleasant to be around over there in that yard, where I can’t hear or see him up close. My face stings as I think of how I’ve pushed him away. I should be more sensitive, try harder again. Marama is his. I am his. I cannot be ashamed of him.

I turn my attention back to the tree. The eggs in the nest are smaller than I thought they’d be.

I’m stiff climbing back down and weirdly tired after hours of doing nothing. I stretch my way back to the car and when I return home from Marama’s school pick-up, the two of us find Bert sound asleep on the couch. I make the Shh sign to our girl and hand her a couple of books to go read in her room. I’m glad he’s sleeping off his buzz before Chris and Sam’s wedding. I want it to be nice but I’m nervous about how to change the tide. For one night I want us to just be with one another like we used to. I want to slip back into it, no questions asked.

I get Marama bathed and dressed and plant her in front of the TV. I shake Bert’s shoulder., trying to do it sweetly. His eyes squint open and I give him a small smile that’s supposed to mean Let’s start over. I’m not sure he picks up on that. I whisper, “Wedding’s in an hour.” He nods but his eyes are shutting again. I shake the same shoulder and say, “Come on, follow me.”

“What are you doing?” he asks as I close the bathroom door behind us. His face is so old now.

“Do you want to shower together?” I hear how innocent and silly it sounds.

“Really?” He’s sort of shocked, his eyes all wide and confused. “Really?” he asks again, and this time it makes me wonder if he even wants to see me naked anymore.

“Yeah, really… We don’t have to, but I just—”

“Yeah, yeah, I want to, of course I want to. Are you kiddin’ me?” He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. I almost cry.

We undress quietly. We step into the steaming tub and he really looks me in the eye. It probably has to do with how sober he is in this moment, but it feels like he’s saying something. There’s such sadness in him. He puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes them. The water is pounding onto my back. He presses his fingers into my muscles and lets out a big sigh, ending it with kind of a melancholy half smile. I lean my face into his chest. We stand there for I don’t know how long before he starts smoothing a bar of soap over my body. The action is slow and beautiful. I wash his hair. He washes mine. When I turn off the faucet and am wrapped in the towel he hands me, I squeak out, “I’m sorry, Berty.” He shakes his head and says “No, I’m sorry.” His head still shaking, he adds, “I know it’s my problem but you’re the one who has to see it.”

I’m wearing a red dress that’s different than Marama’s but just as casual. My make-up came out alright, my hair is blow-dried nice for once, and Bert’s buttoned shirt is tucked in. Standing in front of the hall mirror together, he says, “Looks pretty good.” Marama grins with missing teeth.

The ceremony and reception take place in Chris and Sam’s spacious backyard. I’m startled by how much it reminds me of my own wedding. There’s a relaxed dress code, a buffet, a chocolate-on-chocolate cake, an extraordinarily loud band. Twinkle lights shimmer above as we dance, laughter bubbling out of our bodies. Bert and I are actually having fun. He’s spinning me, grabbing me tight, and singing out love-song lyrics like he just thought them up for me. I’m drinking rum and cokes and periodically he disappears with some of his delinquent friends. They’re smoking weed and doing whatever else would normally make me mad—benzos, oxy, Adderall, coke—but I’m trying to keep happy tonight. He returns each time a little bit farther away from me but we dance nevertheless. During a slow one he slurs into my ear, “Tomorrow I’m gonna go to a meeting.”

I nod my head and look away. “Good. Good. Good,” I repeat. A sliver of my grudge, a sliver of my fear dissolves, but most of me is embarrassed I’m even pretending to believe him.

My little gold watch reads 10:48 and Marama has fallen asleep on Aldona’s lap. My eyes are limp and pink in drunkenness. “Thanks for holding onto the kid,” I say to her.

She flashes her dentures, “Pleasure was all mine. Such a lucky little girl with parents like y’all.” Her voice is gruff but so genuine. I lift Marama up and in her slumber she clings to my torso like an orangutan.

“You heading home?” Aldona asks. I strain my neck, searching for Bert who’s nowhere to be seen. “Yeah, we need to get to bed. Will you let Bert know we left if you see him?”

“You don’t wanna wait?” she cocks her head slightly to the side.

“No, no, let him have fun. He’ll come pass out soon anyway.”

She chuckles, “Okay hun, nighty night. I’ll tell him.”

I carry Marama away from the noise and into the black night. I grow profoundly tired as the stimulation of the party fades.

Our house is so quiet inside. I lay Marama down on her bed. Her hair splays over her face and just a slit of white eyeball reveals itself. I nearly cry contemplating her thick little wrists. I rest myself next to her for what I think will be just a moment. My mind falls out from under me.

In the morning I wake up cloudy from a dream about orangutans frying eggs in my kitchen. I see Marama is still curled up and somewhere far, far away. My eyes are crusted in mascara and my mouth is dry and repulsive. I stumble towards the bathroom in deep need of a toilet, Cetaphil, and mouthwash. For a second, I wonder when Bert got home last night.

I turn the corner and there are his legs.

I feel sick, I’m sweating in my crotch, my armpits are itching, I’m vibrating as I open the bathroom closet and dig through my tampon box for the Narcan I hid there a while ago hoping I’d never have to make use of it. I fill the syringe without confidence, jab it into his hairy fucking thigh, gag, call 911, close Marama’s door, kneel next to him, start CPR while the operator calls me ma’am, and I wonder if I’ll ever have to do this again, one way or the other. He is blue, he is a lump on the floor. He looks as though he may be no one anymore.