The Last Day by John Ramsey Miller Page A

room. Why the hell would I put it under your pillow?”
    “Your pillow,” she said angrily. “Just like you didn't take Barney's watch from my jewelry box, or any of the other things you don't wantto or can't remember. I'm sick of these games, or whatever they are.” She looked at him with genuine concern. “Maybe you should see someone to make sure it isn't …” She didn't say it.
    “It is not early Alzheimer's,” he said defensively, but he'd sure as hell wondered the same thing over the past three months.
    “I never said it was. You're way too young. You're just under a lot of pressure. We both are. But it worries the hell out of me, and it should worry you. I have no idea what it is, but it's sure something. Maybe it's your nightly Scotch consumption.”
    “Maybe it's not all me,” Ward said.
    “Ward, you have to see a professional. If not Richardson, then someone else. Find out what this memory loss is. Deal with your grief. The sleeping late is probably because you don't sleep at night.”
    “Don't sleep! I sleep like a dead man. Is this going to be the grief counselor discussion?” he said. “Someone who can help me forget about Barney? I don't want to forget about him like you seem willing to do.” He immediately regretted saying it.
    “I'm not sure what I want,” she replied sadly.“But I can't keep going like this. I just can't. It's killing me, Ward.”
    “Natasha, do you still love me?” He wished he hadn't asked the question, but there it was, hanging like a cloud in the air between them.
    “What kind of question is that?” she asked, looking at him angrily.
    He shrugged. “One that has been on my mind lately.”
    “You honestly have to ask me that?”
    “I saw the letter from your doctor friend in Seattle.”
    She didn't accuse him of snooping, nor did she say it was an old letter that was of no consequence. What she said was, “I was seriously considering his offer, but just as an alternative. I'll tell you the truth. I don't honestly know how I feel about anything or anybody at this point. I have feelings for you, but you're a different person. I never know how you are going to react to anything. You forget things and you do things you say you didn't do, things only you could have done. Maybe you're walking in your sleep. That might explain things. Who else could be moving things around?”
    “You blame me for Barney,” he said.Natasha rolled her eyes. “The only person who blames you is you. It was a horrible accident. That's what accident means. If one of us blames the other, it isn't me.”
    “But you could have saved him,” he said, an anger growing. “Don't tell me you haven't thought a million times that if you'd just been here instead of me, he'd be alive. You would have resuscitated him. Admit it. You think I killed him.”
    “Your feelings of guilt are self- induced. You're projecting what you feel inside onto me.”
    “I can't talk about this,” he said, feeling nauseated.
    “Then what else can we talk about?” she asked, throwing her napkin on the table. “You want the truth? My son is dead and now I feel like you want me to get into his grave with you. Maybe you want to die, but I don't. I won't.”
    Natasha stood and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Right now, I just want to take a hot bath and go to sleep.” She started to leave, her eyes filled with fury, perhaps disgust, but definitely tears.
    “Don't forget your Ambien.” He knew better than to say that, but he'd said it anyway.
    “Go to hell,” she said, storming from the room.
    After she slammed her bedroom door, he stared at her plate, her nearly full glass, and for a second Ward had the strangest feeling that Barney was watching him. He stared out through the dark window and he could almost see his son standing there, staring at him. His look would be asking, Why are you being mean to my mama ?
    I don't know, Barney, Ward thought. He was sure Natasha had put the ball under the