The Death Spa

I wasn’t sure how I felt when my husband, Two-Dogs, suggested the move at first. Sure, we’d felt aimless in our jobs at the time, just working to pay bills. Working as a receptionist and hotel services rep was slowly turning us into wraiths, echoes of the artists we used to be. The fluorescent lighting, caffeine-fueled anxiety, the waxy smiles and dubious potlucks, cages decorated as offices where the only outside was cigarette breaks by the dumpster. Each client was just one face after another, a number, an insult, a continued demand for convenience no matter how soft you made things. There were nights Two-Dogs or I would come home to find the other passed out in front of the TV, or an occasional book or sketch pad, before collapsing on top of each other, bonding only through our exhaustion before waking up to do it all again. We were moving simply to stay in place, losing our ability to see color and each other. Art was another lifetime, boxed up and collecting dust somewhere in the basement of my body, a possession of mine, but I was no longer possessed by it.

On a visit to his hometown out in the Midwest, Two-Dogs bumped into his old neighbors at the farmer’s market and got to talking. They were an elderly couple who had seen enough of the white man's medicine and the politics of BigPharma. They saw how most Americans treated the elderly, the dying in general, as pests that only time had permission to weed out. The couple wanted to give outcasts a place to feel alive, revered, and loved before they passed. A home away from home rather than just a place to die.

They had recently buried their parents and some friends. They had gotten sick from food dyes and corn syrup and had a cancer scare. The pills they were prescribed eventually covered their bathroom counter like a beach floor of shells. They had paid enough deductibles to realize health insurance was just a legalized gangster operation. The neighbors finally went into business for themselves. They researched spas, retreats, and nature preserves to get an idea of a layout, bought farmland near the forest with their savings, and began building the spa. The dirt roads remained so animals could continue navigating the terrain with ease. The wood used for the floors and neighboring cabins was taken from the forest. The adobe bricks were made with natural binders such as straw. Rocks gathered for the spa were taken from rivers, lakes, and beaches around the state. Several gardens were set up for food, medicine, and housekeeping. Irrigation was done so that a nearby stream circled throughout the property, allowing for animals to perch, drink, and rest comfortably. Upon the spa’s completion, the couple searched for young blood to work the land, teach holistic classes, and tend to the clients. By the time Two-Dogs returned to Chicago, he was eager for us to move.

It had become clear to me what mortality was. Living the same day for years until your body finally grew exhausted from boredom and disappointment. And death was the only exciting act left. Morbid? Maybe, but true nonetheless. We decided any problem that was smaller or different from ours was a solution. The change would be our way of choosing survival. We were going to a place big enough for us to dream again. The country. It would be our way of giving back to a cause that was bigger than us. That’s what we told ourselves, or rather, that’s what I told myself. Sometimes I confused my hope for hope in us. Time passing makes it harder to know the difference. But here life and death could take on another meaning. We packed up a U-Haul and moved the following week.

The spa was beautiful. It was a space that made me think of a time before industrialization. I walked barefoot my first day, taking in the sound of water, wind chimes, and birds instead of screaming cars and loud music. The main building was made of chili-colored bricks with a nest hanging above its doorway. A deer walked in before we did as if she were coming home. The spa was considered, among other things, an animal sanctuary away from hunters of the region. Other creatures followed, comforted by their neighbors’ presence. Whippoorwills nested in the rafters, ground squirrels came by for nuts and birdseed, even the prairie chicken wandered in for rest from the sun. The pond could be seen from the doorway, a few shades greener than the mud. Cricket frogs happily burrowed, and mudpuppies fanned out their gills for you. It soothed the residents to be around nature. To smell something other than medicinal herbs. An ecosystem that fed on death so it could stay alive. Somehow, man and beast cohabitated, not as pet and master. This was the animals’ home first. Upon entering the facility, residents agreed to respect the animals’ space, not to initiate touch, and to leave them to their business. Essentially, live with each other as they did any other neighbor. Respectfully. If a creature chose to enter a resident’s room, land on their shoulder, or sniff their palm, they were to wait for said animal to introduce themselves. And everyone moved as if it had always been that way, like the days of Adam and Eve.

I wondered how I would feel about being surrounded by death every day. I’d only seen passing tied to sadness, loss, grief, a thing to confront when all other options had been exhausted. But didn’t that line of thinking make me no better than the society that discarded sick people? My guilt brought my mortality out as I wondered what life would look like near the end.

“Look at it as another material to shape,” Two-Dogs said after we toured the facilities during our orientation. “The sick, dying, and lonely will always exist, therefore we’ll always have work. Maybe working with them will be its own kind of art.”

Maybe his words were just for comfort, but it was a relief to know I didn’t have to produce new forms, just support existing ones. I’d gotten my massage therapy license back in Chicago and discovered the creative side of science. The slip of each vertebra, sutural bones, and connective tissue. My hands never got tired of exploring anatomy for its pain and working to dissolve it beneath my thumbs. The accompanying herbs and oils for each responding ailment were just as exciting. Sandalwood for calming nerves and increasing focus. Ylang-ylang to lower blood pressure and soothe skin conditions. Peppermint to help digestion. But tea tree oil was king as an antiseptic. And of course, the natural painkillers—cloves, turmeric, acupuncture.

When I started working at the spa, I was amazed by the infinite ways the body found to heal itself, or not—scarred flesh, tumored flesh, malnourished flesh. But most common was aged flesh. In another life, seeing disease or rot would’ve made me flinch, but to imagine these bodies as their own canvas and story made them approachable. It was a privilege to learn their history and massage them into their final rest. Heart disease. Cancer. Septicemia. Cirrhosis of the liver. The list went on. I didn’t have to fear making mistakes and their lives being in my control because they weren’t. The trajectory was already set and all I had to do was assist. Each body was an education. And yet as each neared the end, the fewer differences I felt. In my hands, the bodies of a grandmother and an athlete eventually became the same. Sickness and dying always sunk the body down as if it was trying to return to the ground.

We offered regular services like other spas: facials, makeup, stone therapy, cupping therapy, trigger point massage, chakra balancing, Reiki, steam room, hot tub, mud baths, and body wraps. Meditative music played on the right side of the spa for those who couldn’t sleep, couldn’t relax, or would be distracted without it. The other side was silent, for those who wanted to be left alone with their diagnoses. The spa also had yoga, meditation, and nature walks. Two-Dogs was one of the yoga instructors. But most clients were confined to their beds and could barely go down the hall to the bathroom. The people who came to us were usually the ones who didn’t want to die alone. Their family and friends had died off and their kids didn’t visit often enough if at all. For this reason, I believe some people can choose the moment they die. Many clients passed on my table with me massaging their hands or feet. It got to a point where dying and death felt the same, and I often didn’t know for sure until I said our session was up and they remained limp on the table.

Their corpses were then cremated. On the off chance there were any living relatives, they were notified of our process at the start of the resident’s occupancy and received the resident’s belongings once they were deceased. The relatives informed us whether they wanted the cremains, otherwise they received water burials. Since ashes contain high sodium and pH levels, the owners decided against burying the cremains around plant and wildlife. Instead, the cremains were put in biodegradable urns that were transported three nautical miles from shore in accordance with the federal Clean Water Act. The Disposers would say a few kind words because it was the least the deceased deserved. The Disposers would speak of the remains joining the Water Who Never Died and served as a peaceful resting place.

When I’d wake up in the middle of the night unable to go back to sleep, I’d get up to listen to the moon and lacewings speak into the sky. We were a ten minute drive away from the spa, and yet it felt like it was next door. Probably because it had shown up in my dreams a few times. On my way to the porch, sometimes I’d hear a scribbling noise in our guest bedroom. The first time I heard it, I peeked in and saw Two-Dogs bent over papers strewn across the floor. His graphic novel. Whisps of smoke floated up as a cigarette drooped from his mouth. The scent always lingered on his clothes and lips. That explained why his mouth was a stained amethyst shade. I knew he’d been smoking off and on for a while and nagged at him to find a healthier habit. But really, I was relieved to see him flawed, struggling with a past self. It was the one thing we still had in common. I remember when we’d smoke in college, thinking through our creations. Now Two-Dogs was recreating himself like an old companion in a shifting friendship. I remembered that sensation, how important it was not to scare the inspiration away, how fragile art could be.

▴ ▴ ▴

When I was in grad school, I went to all the Chicago galleries, museums, and libraries, trying to find my voice within other voices. After getting rejections for a year, I tried sketching new images, playing around with size, shape, and color. But I could never get past the faces.

Sometimes Two-Dogs drew part of his drafts on me, turning my breasts into a fox’s head, making my nipples shine as eyes. And I thought moments like that could be my inspiration, that I could find something in the domestic of us if nowhere else. I sculpted his face, the blunt nose and chin, scarf-like hair woven into two braids, wondering how I could dismantle it. I smoked a dozen cigarettes just to add the ashes into the clay to smell like him, then wrapped the hair in a chain around his face and put the ends in his mouth. To this day, I don’t know what I was trying to accomplish. All I could see was the clay’s disappointment before I lopped the head off my stone table and watched it roll to the floor.

Two-Dogs worked as a graphic novelist and photographer. He took pictures for a local newspaper, then took some more in his spare time. He showed me sketches he drew of nature and described the storyline he was working on. Three teens navigate a dystopian forest haunted by wolf children:

It was set in a year where summer never ended. Three misfits connected through their dislike of hikes and trust falls. Their parents needed to dump them somewhere they’d stay out of the fridge and off their computers. They were bullied of course, called ugly and stupid behind the counselors’ backs. Frogs left in their beds and chewed-up gum left in their boots. In response, they chose joy as protest, making each other bracelets, wearing each other’s socks, biting each other’s nails. They’d even managed to win a tennis match against the popular girls.

Sitting around the campfire, listening to random lyrics invented for the evening, one of the three noticed glowing lime green eyes between the trees. By the time she nudged her friends, the eyes disappeared. They heard howling in the middle of the night and wondered. Each day the forest grew taller, with woodland animals migrating down the path that led to town. Each night when the moon and stars arrived, one of the friends, the girl, saw the eyes. The creature gradually revealed more of itself. Its feral mouth. Its hairy back legs. Its sharp claws running along the tree. An oddly humanlike face perfect for howling at the moon. It wandered as if going somewhere. The girl wanted to know what it was, ask its name, figure out what each howl meant. Her friends warned her to let it go, to treat her curiosity as a dream that vanished by morning. But soon she felt a tickle in her throat that grew until she went out, releasing a howl in response to the creature’s. She walked toward the sound of its voice, eventually found its eyes and followed the glow. One friend woke up the other when he noticed the girl was missing and ran out to look for her. They grabbed a flashlight to follow her tracks. Deep into the forest they found her clothes discarded, a trail of shirt, shorts, and underwear. They found a tree hollow where the girl sat in front of the wolf, looking at her reflection in its teeth, as though it revealed her heart’s desires. They noticed wolfskin on her back splayed like a blanket at first, until the girl put it on and let the fur merge with her skin; her features became dark and canine-like. Though they could still see a glimpse of her in the eyes, the friends ran, scared they’d suffer the same fate. Suddenly, there were many glowing eyes in the forest, lighting the way home. The friends tried waking up the counselors, banging on the doors, only to discover their rooms were empty and the phones were dead. Roots and vines wrapped themselves around the cars parked out front. They tried to run out of the camp, following the rocky path their parents had driven up, only to find the trees closing in on themselves. The roots of the forest floor seemed to move like claws reaching for the outside world, while holding the kids within its belly. The friends knew the eyes behind them were closing in. They held each other’s hands, realizing that instead of focusing on the flesh, fire, and howls of summer, they should’ve been watching the leaves.

The story wasn’t for me, but I respected Two-Dogs’s practice too much to tell the truth.

I left before Two-Dogs noticed a shadow that didn’t belong to the night. But I remembered that sound, the quietest birth, between the mind and subject. I was angry at that sound because it wouldn’t visit me anymore. Or maybe I hadn’t made myself available to visit it, and that made it even harder to stand in its presence. In those moments, I hated my husband for doing what I couldn’t. For being able to manage his job, family, and art over the years without excuse. The only thing I could do was take my jealousy and insomnia outside with me to be buried in other noises, ones that would die before the morning.

Within a year, Two-Dogs and I settled into our jobs at The Death Spa, and he asked about growing our family.

“Are we not enough?” I asked.

We were in a tub, and he was combing out my hair. “Since we’re surrounded by so much death, it might be nice to be a part of someone else’s life.”

“You think we need a child to have that?”

He leaned my head back against his chest. “No. But I want that with you.”

We had talked about children before, saying we could see our lives with or without them. It was easy to avoid kids while we were in school. Our bodies only had room for art to grow, hoping to give birth to careers. Before I’d given up on sculpting. Now we had settled in a place far enough away from those dreams to imagine a different life, one where a child gave a sense of purpose because ours alone was no longer enough.

It was often necessary to work and parent at the same time, which was fine for massage therapy. But what about the real work? The art I told myself I’d return to? That required me to forget about everything else so that the clay, the table, my fingers consumed me until each piece was done? The art never compromised, it was all or nothing. Yet I’d only been able to give it nothing the past few years.

Somehow saying no to having a child seemed selfish and naive. Parenting could make me more responsible and bring my husband and me closer together. And yet, I didn’t want to give up on that part of myself I said I’d return to. Haunted by creations I never allowed to exist past my thoughts, like ghosts floating around my mind, waiting to be given homes. I resolved that if Two-Dogs felt the same after six months and quit smoking, we’d try.

The only change was my body as it filled with our son. We named him Kentucky. It means land of tomorrow, which meant there was always the promise of more time, more space to fill with our plans. It was scary how easily things fell into place, this path I didn’t even know I was approaching, choices I didn’t realize I was making until after they were made.

Diaper bags and midnight feedings. Crayons, wet wipes, popsicles. There’s a lot of color in a child’s world I never really thought to add to my own. So much need that filled his eyes and mouth. It surprised me how much I loved the fresh-dough feel of baby skin. I’d be lying if I said there weren’t parts I enjoyed. But in the monotonous moments when the jackrabbit hopped between my feet, when I watched Ken play basketball with the neighborhood kids, or the occasions when I smelled smoke in Two-Dogs’s flannel shirt, I’d remember who I wanted to be. That woman who smiled, cried, or threw rocks my way. Not a ghost, but an outline in the distance, wondering when I’d touch her again. Soon, soon. Sometimes I’d sketch an image, wondering if it was good enough to buy clay for. I drew the jackrabbit’s body as an elongated spiral along a woman’s leg, its mouth filled with dandelions with a bed of weeds at the woman’s bare feet. The rabbit’s eye darted at me, daring me to color in its face and bring it to life. Who was I to believe it was art or that anyone cared to see it? I balled up the page and threw it away just so the rabbit could stop judging me for trying. Soon, soon, I told myself. If there was time to dream it, there was still time to do it. It didn’t matter if her shadow faded and my face began to wrinkle, because I lived in my son’s name as if it were my own.

Meanwhile Two-Dogs fell in love with our life. I could tell from the first time he made Ken smile in the nursery that he’d be the favorite parent. Talking to our son from the days of drooly gibberish to his first-grade recital came naturally. It was clear in the consistent way Two-Dogs went grocery shopping and asked “How was your day?” that this was a part of his purpose. A purpose that only briefly crossed paths with mine. He was better at being an adult than I was, embraced responsibilities like a daily hug—the arms of weekly meal prep, the first alarm to get up for work, his freakish recall of each Brandy & Mr. Whiskers episode. He loved his job every day. I was content in my work and enjoyed its peace most of the time, but there were still moments I wanted to run away from it, from my home, or school drop-off, days I just wanted to belong to myself.

I’d mother, I’d wife, but I felt like such an imposter and everyone could see it. Out of necessity, Kentucky came to me first as an infant, but as he got older, I became the backup when his dad wasn’t around. Two-Dogs could make tying shoes and subtraction fun. Meanwhile I was a reminder of the parts of life that were a chore.

One afternoon as I was helping Kentucky with a science project, he gently took the glue stick from me and said, “That’s enough. I’m fine.”

I didn’t have the energy to be offended like normal mothers, nor was I naive enough to believe this was a true desire for independence. But I chose to feel relief as I left the kitchen.

Someone might argue it was natural for father and son to share a closer bond. But deep down, I knew it was just me. My inability to make my son the first love in my life. Even as a child, he could sense when l was elsewhere, no matter how present I tried to be. By the time Ken was ten, we tolerated each other. Not in a cold, awkward, or rude way, but with the reliability of the kitchen table where he did his homework. There when needed.

We always made sure the spa smelled of clay and chamomile, scents of rest and peace. Actual death reeked of decay and gas and other bodily fluids. But residents didn’t need to know that. The whole point of coming to the spa was to feel loved and out of body. For those who wanted a beautiful death so soft it was basically slumber. They didn’t want to be traipsed into a cold sterile hospice that reminded them they were wasting away and costing money. They didn’t need to know about the blood-stained stools, snotty livers, and swampy throats our staff cleaned up after.

Being near the end usually made residents reflective. My favorite patient, Marta, a seventy-some-year-old woman, opened up after I kneaded a section of her thoracic spine. As if her memories were stored in the crooked angle of her back. Somehow memories from decades ago grew closer at the end. The soda that’d been spilled on a dress. Regret over the job in Wyoming she turned down. How Waffles the cat used to scratch the arm of the couch. Who if anyone would come to say goodbye and remember her.

“Goodbye,” I responded.

She turned her head on the massage table. “What?”

“I’m saying it now. While you can hear me. So you know that I’ll remember.”

Marta turned back over. “Sounds more like a sentence than a comfort.”

I picked up her hand and massaged her palm. “You know more about your time than I do.”

She stayed silent with her face buried in the headrest. I could tell she was tired of talking about it, so I focused on looking for tender areas.

Marta’s husband had died several years before from a heart attack. Ever since she buried him, she wanted them to reunite, thinking her old age and going off her pills would do the trick in no time. Eventually the HIV she’d managed for decades progressed to AIDS. Marta hugged the doctor after he gave her the news she’d been waiting for. The first time I massaged her, I felt how swollen the lymph nodes in her neck and armpits were. There were purple blotches on her eyelids like she’d been beaten.

“Forgive my ugliness. Hopefully you won’t have to look at it for long,” Marta said when we first met.

I smiled. “The only thing ugly here is pain.”

Later in our first session, a catbird landed on Marta’s forehead, gently ruffling its feathers. Its tail fanned out over the part in the old woman’s hair. Perhaps she mistook its greeting for part of the massage because her eyes stayed closed. The bird reached down and gently nibbled at her nose. I cupped my hand around its breast to pick it up.

“Don’t,” Marta said. “I like having a face that’s still worth kissing.”

I enjoyed Marta because she showed me that one could have a beautiful relationship with death. Most people tolerated or accepted it because they had no choice. But she welcomed its progression, not trying to force it to come or go.

Most residents didn’t live longer than three months, but others lingered for awkward periods of time, unsure of what still tethered them to the world. They’d move quietly around the spa, shifting nervously from the cafeteria to their room, embarrassed to still be a burden. Obviously, they weren’t, and the staff reassured them of this, but living became a responsibility that residents thought they relinquished. A small percentage managed to survive their odds, which often left them ambivalent. There was some relief for those who still had plans and sought redemption, but most residents had become resolved to their fates. Death was hard enough to accept, but to have to do life again? Having to try and go back out into the world? Instead of growing up, we called it growing back.

Marta was one of the few that outlived the normal care term. But instead of worrying about wandering aimlessly, she made the most of her time and energy. She volunteered to help with the garden, placing cloves and cinnamon oil and strands of her hair around the greenhouses to ward off pests. There was also the business of composting night soil, which the keepers begrudgingly took turns assembling, but Marta offered to do it willingly. Given that she could go at any moment, the garden would be a safe resting place until she was discovered. It’d be a lovely last sight, watching the massasaugas climb on top of the houses to sunbathe. The patches along their scales were shaped like flowers, coiling into ropes of spring when they slept, no matter the season.

Two-Dogs taught several yoga and meditation classes throughout the week. I’d sit in the back, hoping he wouldn’t stand up and see me struggling in and out of warrior poses. His voice had become hoarse over the years like a cowboy in a western. As he gave us instructions, I imagined us moving through a desert, working our way toward a shot of whiskey. Then I noticed he made his way around class less, remained sitting when the class was too focused on balancing to see what he was doing. I figured he was trying to encourage a more independent practice. His hand stayed on his heart, presumably sending light and love.

I’d grown used to men’s spit in the Midwest. My husband was no exception. They spit out thickness the color of groundwater because they were beasts at heart, marking territory, practicing aim or coolness, or just releasing a buildup of phlegm. It was no different than rearranging their crotches in public. I chalked it up to no shame, learned not to be disgusted, and looked away out of respect. I forgave these things because I wanted to be forgiven for the unconscious habits I’d grown into. The way I left lights and doors open for hours, or the random nights I’d wander into the forest behind our house naked and wait for nature’s bite.

Some things erode from forgiveness to normal to forgotten. The stains of my husband’s fingernails and teeth. The wet crackle of his cough. The wave ripples around his eyes and mouth. The droop of his skin that covered a heartbeat that every so often sat next to mine and at other times, raced past. I didn’t see these things as right or wrong. I just saw him. A man who resembled enough of my past so that I didn’t question my present. Then I found him in the shower, stuck in the steam, on the floor, grabbing at his chest. I was a fool for thinking Two-Dogs’s hands were full of light and love instead of need.

The doctors later confirmed it was a heart attack. I didn’t hear much that came afterward, just select words. Weak. Failure. Fluid. Swelling. Genetics. Clots. Narrow. Vessels. Quit smoking. He wasn’t allowed to teach yoga for at least three months, limiting him to walks and soft stretches.

I threw out salty foods he could no longer eat. Looked for any cigarette stashes around the house and threw them in the trash. Bought a weekly pill organizer for the meds they gave us. Plavix. Tenormin. Procardia XL. For my efforts, Two-Dogs called me a traitor.

“Aren’t we supposed to be advocating for a holistic, natural approach to wellness?” he asked me outside on our porch so Ken wouldn’t hear us.

I folded my arms, squeezing the pill organizer between my fingers. “Holistic and natural is not what gave you that heart attack. It’s funny you don’t want the white man’s medicine, but you’ll consume his goods.”

“I’d rather know what you’d advise residents to take.”

“You’re not a resident. You’re my husband. And you’re not dying.”

“We shouldn’t wait until I am to find answers.”

“We already have them.” I threw the pill organizer at his chest expecting him to catch it, but it clattered to the ground with a few days popping open, vomiting out the tablets. He walked back inside the house, leaving me to dust off the medication that was salvageable.

When Two-Dogs and I were fighting, I’d look through his old photographs. That way it felt like we were still talking. I checked his sketchbooks of the graphic novel less as progress was slower, just a few times a year. I should’ve asked him to show me, walk me through his ideas. But it felt less biased when I went into it on my own. I could believe my own thoughts when it was just me, rather than what I felt pressured to think for his sake. I skimmed to the latest section:

The friends had become hunters, united with a few of their bullies who survived. No one knew how long the war between the wolves and children had gone on. Summer never ended, though the humans saw their age reflected in the streams. Each wore their scars proudly. A bite mark to the shoulder, a scratch on the back. The wolves also carried scars. The hunters managed to kill a few, set traps near hunting grounds. Wolf meat was tough and full of parasites, needed to be boiled for hours before consumed. They ate it to receive their enemies’ strength and encourage dreams of how to kill them. They’d only had a handful more to defeat. The wolves knew human tricks, their smells. The hunters recruited deer and hawk to help. A hart nearing the end of its life offered itself as sacrifice to draw the wolves out. At dawn it lay out in moonlight, fur glittering with dew. Rays of light gave the appearance of taking its soul, a strong stag in its day, galloping up into the sky as the moon disappeared. The first wolf, missing an eye, peeked its nose out, sniffing for the scent of humans, but the hunters had covered themselves in rabbit pelts, giving the smell of grass. One wolf attracted another, biting into the hart’s neck and stomach. The smell of blood filled the dawn and attracted the other wolves. All five approached, the hawk circling in the sky cried to let the hunters know. They dropped from the trees and cut through the canines.

They wrestled in the dirt, rolling, howling, gnashing their teeth. The last wolf wriggled like a fish fighting death, giving into madness, doing what it could to break the human’s hold. One of the hunters lifted the hart’s neck, directing its antlers into position. The wrestling hunter used his strength to push the wolf into the bones, feeling the jolt of each stab. The morning sky turned as blood-soaked as their attack.

The hunters walked to the forest’s edge, expecting their victory over the wolves to grant an opening, but it didn’t budge, but it didn’t budge. “Open,” they demanded, only for the leaves to shift slightly in the wind. One took a knife and sliced at the branches only for more to grow in their place. They sawed off the hart’s bloody antlers and rushed the forest wall. They got tangled in the shrubbery, wrapped into the leaves until the antlers were crushed to pieces. One of the friends screamed at the wall; the other watched as blood dripped from the antlers onto the leaves.

“We need the wolves’ skin,” she said.

“This all started happening when they came around.”

He moved toward her like she was the enemy. “They took our friend. They took everything! And now you want to become them?”

“We’ve tried everything else.”

They went back for the coats. The fur pulled away easily like sleeves. Under one coat, they found their old friend, battered and in the fetal position like she was born to rest. They didn’t want to think about who they killed and rushed into the wolfskin hoping that becoming animal would erase their pain and guilt. They became an in-between, not quite human or wolf. Features and senses sharpened. With their newfound bodies they approached the forest wall once more and tried to smell fresh air, an opening. But the air remained still and closed off. They ran around the perimeter sniffing for the familiar scent of their childhoods, but it never came. Exhausted from the never-ending heat, they howled as the sun came up.

Is it normal to raise a husband more than a child? Perhaps I hadn’t noticed the habits Two-Dogs had grown accustomed to, until I had to track them down. I found myself searching through his clothes for cigarettes, his car for fast-food wrappers. I kissed him to smell salt or smoke on his breath. But his tongue always reeked of tea leaves and mint. I couldn’t tell if it was just routine or a way to cover up his tracks. I didn’t want to be the nagging wife.

Instead, I vented to Marta, comfortable she’d take my words to her grave. We were advised against sharing personal information with clients, but I saw her as more of a peer than a sickly moribund. She’d basically become one of the staff, and we were consenting adults. Helping her out in the garden on my breaks made me believe that nature would make my anxiety subside.

“Just remember that he’s your partner, not your project. People need to feel okay with being able to refuse help,” she advised.

“And what if it’s not okay?” I asked.

Marta paused to look around the enclosure. “Then…make sure there are no weeds growing around the strawberries.”

▴ ▴ ▴

Dust collected on the pill bottles on my dresser, stuck in a liminal space between reminder and pest. It was unacceptable to throw them out almost as much as it was to take them.

“We can’t afford the prescriptions long-term, especially with me working only part-time now. There’s no point becoming dependent on something I’ll have to abandon later on,” Two-Dogs explained.

I rolled my eyes. “They’re pills not puppies.”

Eventually Two-Dogs refused to continue the conversation. I couldn’t blame him. Arguments were often a way to cycle through the same wounds and fires, waiting for the other person to admit to causing them. And it seemed that wherever we went, Kentucky did too, watching and listening to every word, trying to determine what was happening and how to feel about it. It was like being in the presence of an overly sentimental mouse that continuously snuck up on me, waiting to be fed a truth I didn’t have.

My peace offering came in the form of teas for heart health. Hawthorn. Linden. Motherwort. Two-Dogs drank them gratefully. I found myself watching him more. The coin-tinted strands in his braids, his jellyfish belly, how he played with Ken. I tried to measure if Two-Dogs had enough in him to get our son to his high school graduation, finish his graphic novel, or see me sculpt again. I was studying him not for the art of living, but for the fear of what we’d go without. Once a week I’d stop by his meditation class, watch his hands guide bodies more fragile than his. At the end he sat at the edge of his mat reading from a book with the lights turned down.

“What parts of you hold the most forgiveness? What parts hold the least? How do these contrasting parts help or hinder you? Is there a way to balance forgiveness throughout yourself?”

I stood outside the door listening to the echo of his voice. A doe joined me, likely sniffing for something leafy to eat. She pressed her snout between my ribs. I lowered my hand for her to lick my empty palm.

One night I couldn’t sleep. Since Two-Dogs wasn’t next to me, I assumed he was in the guest bedroom working, then noticed his car wasn’t parked on the street. Ken slept in my car as I drove to look for his father. I arrived at the spa and walked around, wondering in the darkest part of myself if he went off somewhere to die in peace like the animals did. When I was about to look elsewhere, a spot of light behind one of the greenhouses brightened then dimmed with smoke. I ran over and swatted the cigarette out of the shadow’s mouth.

Stolen from his stupor, Two-Dogs eyes shot open. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Wondering the same about you.”

“Where’s Ken?” he questioned, looking past me.

“Sleeping. Like you should be.”

“I wasn’t tired.”

My eyes narrowed. “Going behind my back puts you to sleep?”

“Don’t start.”

It wasn’t a start. It was the middle of a rut I couldn’t see my way out of. I yelled the expected things while Two-Dogs stared at the dying cigarette crumbling into ash.

He sighed. “It’s not about sickness, or you, or Ken. I can’t be expected to give up everything.”

“When did smoking become everything?” I asked.

“It’s just a part of my life. You remember what it’s like.”

I folded my arms. “Yeah, I do. Then I was pregnant with your son. Things change.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“It’s what you wanted.”

He looked at me, confused. “And you?”

“I want you to stop smoking!”

All the air suddenly left my body. How did this moment become about me instead of him? Why did I feel guiltier than he did? I realized that I was the one with regret, not Two-Dogs. He’d been living the life he wanted, even the parts that were bad for him. But I shrank myself down to the only life I thought was possible. I stood there, quiet, praying he didn’t press me further because I didn’t have an answer either of us wanted to hear. An answer that might wipe away our son’s existence, fill our second bedroom with clay, books, and rocks in place of toys and glow-in-the-dark stars. I couldn’t voice that part of myself out loud, no decent woman could. Even the thought made me imagine Two-Dogs’s face cracking in half before he stumbled to the ground and died of a broken heart.

Two-Dogs stared at me. One of his hands was tucked into his back pocket, and I knew that’s where his pack was. I reached into it, pushing past his resistance, and took out a cigarette and the lighter. The smoke masked any leftover words. I’d rather be a hypocrite than tell the truth. Two-Dogs pursed his lips. “Really?”

I exhaled and threw the pack back at him. “Shut up.”

He snorted and put the cigarettes and lighter away, then took the one from my mouth to inhale. “Sometimes I think I’ll never truly know you.”

We looked out at the sky, into the sliver of moon tucked between shifting clouds. Something moved along the greenhouse wall, heading to the roof. It was a massasauga snake coming to bathe in the cool and muted light. The lilies on its back were in full bloom. “Just promise me you won’t leave me to raise Ken by myself.”

Two-Dogs handed the cigarette back to me.

When we were done, we went home and waited for sleep that never came.

I went down to the kitchen for milk and ended up grabbing my old sketchbook, which I kept on top of the fridge. I drew an assortment of s’s that eventually wound their way into being the snake’s body. Its flesh came to me as glass and I saw its organs underneath. Each organ was entwined with flowers. The eyes and tongue were slits, arrows guiding the snake’s path. I briefly imagined the creature looking at me and asking why I’d drawn it. Why did the faces of all my creations betray me? I scribbled out its head, ran my nails across the paper ready to crumble back into nothing, but decided to close the notebook and leave it be. A half-formed thought was better than no thought at all.

Several months later, I started noticing nicotine patches on Two-Dogs’s arm. I was relieved but scared to say anything about it. Any pressure could scare him back into old habits. We went about our lives, daring to breathe and be normal. Then I received a call from the spa informing me that Two-Dogs had collapsed while teaching class.

I rode in the ambulance, refusing to let go of his hand as the paramedics hovered over him. He went pale as tubes collected along his body. When we got to the hospital, more tubes followed, like an infestation of plastic worms. One of my coworkers was able to pick Kentucky up and let him stay at their place. I dreaded picking him up, already hearing the questions I didn’t want to answer, the hug I didn’t want to give, the tears that would bring out my own.

“I want to see dad,” Ken whimpered while we were in the car.

I stared ahead, afraid of what my eyes would reveal. “He wants us to wait until he feels a little better first.”

“What if he doesn’t get better?” he asked.

My mouth twitched.

“You’re lying, aren’t you?”

I bit my lip, realizing how bad I wanted a cigarette.

“Why don’t you want me to see him?”

I parked the car in front of our house. “Because if you do, that means I have to see him too.”

“Shouldn’t it be about dad instead of you?”

I ran my fingers along the steering wheel.

Kentucky sat up in his seat, looking at the car in front of us. “Did you ever really love us?”

I shook my head. “That’s not fair.”

I reached to touch him, but he flinched away.

“I have nothing to say to you until you take me to see him.” He slammed the door on his way out and let himself into the house. It was strange seeing a twelve-year-old mad at me in that way. I remembered the days when he was in a car seat. I closed my eyes and leaned against the steering wheel, thinking we were all being unfair to each other.

Two-Dogs asked to be transferred to the spa. I hadn’t been answering the hospital calls, but Marta called me when he arrived at the facility.

“Can you keep an eye on him?” I asked.

“For now. But you still need to see him.”

I knew from her tone that it was bad. Time was no longer open, and I couldn’t afford to be a coward much longer. But once I went, I’d have to imagine life without him and the promise he was breaking. Seeing him sick and dying would make a part of me sick and die too. Except I’d still have to wake up every day and find a way to live with death inside me. Even when I went to work, I couldn’t force myself to visit. To be close to death on a stranger was easy, because they weren’t taking a part of me with them. The distance between me and residents kept things therapeutic. But Ken’s story was far from over and I didn’t know how to fill in the gaps of his life. I still had so many voids of my own to fill. As a wife. Mother. Artist. Though I could live with remembering Two-Dogs as he was, Kentucky would never forgive me for robbing him of the chance to say goodbye. True to his word, we hadn’t spoken since that night in the car. I honestly preferred the silence. Many people, staff and residents alike, paid their respects to Two-Dogs, leaving cards and flowers. So I heard. Many gossiped about my absence, questioning what type of wife I must be. Anyone could see it in the way the staff hushed when I entered a room, how they looked at me out of the corner of their eyes.

Marta came in at the end of my shift as a silent reminder. Instead of asking how Two-Dogs was, I held her hands in mine, feeling the remnants of my husband on her palms. I could feel the damp cloth she used to pat down his rocky skin, as if all the moisture was slowly leaving. There was still a slight sheen on her fingertip from massaging balm onto his lips. I ran her fingers along my cheek, hoping to feel a kiss, however slight. I didn’t even feel my tears, only the wet Marta wiped off my face. Confusion tasted salty on my teeth. I loved her, but what force would allow the presence of this woman over the absence of Two-Dogs? I was ashamed of my thoughts, but Marta held me like I didn’t mean them.

“In my husband’s last days, I brought lilacs to the room. He was often too tired to open his eyes, but he could always tell I was there when he smelled the flowers on my skin.” She petted my head and continued wiping my tears. “He said turning death into a garden made leaving more bearable. That he dreamed of us walking in it together. It seemed to bring us both peace. Where is your peace?”

I looked down and steadied my voice. “I don’t know if I have any.”

“Why don’t you try to make some?”

After dinner, I told Kentucky we’d see his dad in the morning. He nodded, then went to his room. It was fair for him to wait and see if I’d keep my word. Hopefully trust would come in time. Later that night I looked for Two-Dogs’s graphic novel, hoping to find solace in its pages. When I found it, I savored each graphic and word until I finished it.

Years had passed, and the wolf children had grown into young adults. Two of them had died, one from a hunting mission gone wrong, the other from sickness. Two remained, friends turned lovers. The couple spent the last year trying to figure out how to make the forest open its walls and reveal civilization. The forest was good at making them wander in circles, stretching its paths into slight curves, and the wolf couple only noticed when it was too late. They climbed trees, looking for the forest’s end, or for survivors who knew the way out, but they only managed to find skeletons. They asked animals who resented humans for shrinking their home and killing their ancestors and used silence as revenge. Then the couple tried battling the forest, setting fire to its wood. The forest retaliated by blowing the flames against them, leaving enough burns to cause them pain, but not kill them. When they healed, the couple agreed to apologize and offered sacrifices: roots, berries, trout, hawk, and deer. The forest remained unmoved. On the last morning, the she-wolf rose, looked for her lover, and eventually tracked the scent of smoke. When she found the fire, she found her alpha, imprisoned in gathered wood with a torch in his hand. Please was all she could manage to say. He replied that he loved her before setting himself aflame. The forest controlled the heat as if holding it between its palms and highlighted the alpha’s last breath. When the fire died down, the forest finally cracked open, as if exhaling all the smoke from a cigarette, and revealed a town in the distance. It was overrun with shrubbery, but reminiscent of the days of man. The last image was the she-wolf stumbling close enough to the town to meet a child’s eyes.

I don’t know why, but I laughed, a howling, sun-in-my-face laughter that I had to smother in my hands. Maybe it was the irony or the fact that I was tired of responding to grief with tears. The sacrifices made for the people we called home echoed from the page into my veins. It was as if the image said my husband’s goodbye. The ending of the story was as terrible as the beginning had been all those years ago, but in a whole new way that I held against my chest the rest of the night. Somehow it was reassuring to know that it belonged to me now and that the work, no matter how long or painful, could be completed.