A Pale, Heart-Shaped Face
Three days later, she was still in bed wearing the t-shirt and joggers her husband had helped her change into after the hospital. She forced sleep each time she woke, wanting the escape and the few seconds after waking when she knew nothing.
She took breaks for meals and the bathroom. She dreaded both, but the bathroom more. She heard her husband calling from the hall, the way he had last time he approached the room with a tray of chicken soup from a can and buttered toast, food she had once told him she always ate when she was sick as a child.
Hellooo, he said before entering the room. But, when she looked up, instead of her husband, she saw a barn owl looking through the partly opened door, hovering midway between the floor and ceiling.
She should have jumped from bed, knowing from her study of birds that owls could be aggressive. Certainly, one that had made its way into a house would be even more so. But she quickly understood that behind the owl was her husband, holding it in one hand, animating it, trying to sound like an owl and smiling his hopeful smile, the one he used after surprise flowers and baby-making sex.
You like birds, he stated. She blinked. It’s real. I mean, stuffed, he said. He offered her the owl with both hands, and when she didn’t take it, he placed it on the dresser, angled so it appeared to be looking at her. Not at her face, but at her body. Maybe at her belly.
It was time to take a shower. Her husband seemed glad, then worried. He wondered if it was safe. It’s been almost four days, she said dryly. No one at the hospital had said she couldn’t shower. No one had said she had to stay in bed. She wasn’t sick. She could do what she wanted. She walked past him and the owl to their small bathroom and locked the door. She undressed before the sink mirror where she saw herself only from chest up.
In the evening, clean and suddenly hungry, she accepted his tray. She asked for seconds of the mac and cheese, another meal from childhood sick days. She heard her husband cleaning the kitchen, then watching tv. She placed her tray on the floor, flattened her pillows, and pulled the comforter to her chin, turning toward the owl’s pale heart-shaped face. She wondered how long ago it had died dead. Its plumage was dry and flaky, and it had a musty smell. She fell asleep under its watch.
At night, she woke in the dark, a small lump by her side. Her eyes adjusted and she recognized the owl. Its glassy eyes picked up the bit of light in the room. She let it stay tucked between her husband and her, in the space that opened every night when in their sleep they wandered apart.
Patricia Fuentes Burns has published fiction in TriQuarterly, Quarter After Eight, Another Chicago Magazine, Jellyfish Review, and Quarterly West among other journals. Her work has been anthologized in various collections. She has earned an MFA from George Mason University and lives in Arlington, Virginia with her husband and three daughters.