Bug’s eyes grew wide and he gobbled up the last piece of broccoli on his plate.  Little green leaves dangled out of the side of his mouth and a smear of ranch dressing kissed his bottom lip.  “Done!” he mumbled with his mouth full.

“Clear your plates so we can set up the game,” I instructed.  Bean and Bug took their plates into the kitchen.  I heard their forks scraping and then the clang clang of plastic dishes dropping into the deep-set sink.  They skated back to me, sliding their socks along the smooth tile, and clambered into their chairs.

I had my laptop set up on the opposite side of the table, and the game board set in front of me.  I started to shuffle the cards while Bean put the player pieces into the little plastic stands.  Bean and Bug started to argue over who would go first.  And then Bean went quiet.

“Tony should go first because he misses being home,” she said in her small voice.  “Is that a good idea, Mama?” 

I smiled at her.  “That’s a very good idea.” 

And so it was settled.  Bean and Bug anxiously watched the Skype account, waiting for Tony’s profile to change from “offline” to “online.”  Finally, I sent a text message:  “We’re ready, where are you?”

The computer started to ring, and I clicked on the “answer” button.  “It’s Tony! It’s Tony!” Bug chanted, bouncing up and down.

As we played the game, Bug noticed Tony eating.  ”What are you eating?” he asked.  When Tony told him that he was eating a hamburger because he had rushed home from work to be able to play with us, Bug gave me a sideways glance, pursed his lips together and said, “We had chicken and broccoli.” 

We played a few more rounds of the game; I caught Tony’s eye when Bean and Bug were busy counting game pieces.  He smiled; the first genuine smile for more than a week.  It has been nearly two weeks since Tony has been home.  We’re in the countdown now; in two days, he’ll finally be home again, but we only have him for two days.  It has been a lonely, difficult adjustment.  At each interval, the schedule worsens.  “Better?” I asked.  “Much better,” he responded.

We weren’t ready to hang up after the game, so I set the computer on the table, where Tony could watch the goings on in the living room.  Bean entertained him while I wrestled Bug into the shower, and vice versa.  At story time, I carried the laptop into Bug’s room, so Tony could sit with us while I read Bug’s stories.  I carried the laptop to Bean’s room so that Bean could read to Tony.

And then the evening routine was done.  I carried the computer into the kitchen so Tony could keep me company while I cleaned up; into the bathroom, so Tony could keep me company while I brushed my teeth, and then, finally, I set my computer on Tony’s side of the bed, got out my book, and we read together in bed.

Occasionally, we would stop reading and turn to look at each other, through the computer. After a while, I could feel my eyelids getting heavy.  I set down my book and just watched him reading next to me, where he belongs.  I got up, turned off the bedroom light, slipped back into bed, and tried to keep my eyes open as long as I could.

Eventually, I heard him whisper, “Good night, baby.”  I heard the disconnect noise “bong” and closed the lid to my computer.  Alone once more.

I don’t remember much about my grandfather, except that he was a small, wiry man.  He was a commercial artist. He loved watching birds and took his camera everywhere he went.  He took beautiful photographs, but there were rarely any people in his photos.  Landscapes, birds.

He taught me how to fold cloth napkins, and he liked these big, pink mints that tasted a bit like Pepto Bismol.

When I was little, my grandparents flew out to Arizona from Michigan, and we took a driving/camping trip with them to Southern California.  Grandpa and I played hangman in the car on the way to Disneyland, and he could make the Teacups twirl really fast.

They came out again for my brother’s graduation, once for my other brother’s wedding, and once for my first wedding.  My grandmother gave me a beautiful rose gold bracelet that had belonged to her grandmother to wear as my “something old.”

During the week before my wedding, I remember watching my grandmother sit quietly with a book or crossword, waiting for her husband as he blustered and fussed around her.  He was a hummingbird; she was a cat.

“Doris, where did I leave my glasses?”  he bellowed, dashing from room to room.  She sat, still as a statue, a small Mona Lisa-like smile on her face, as he ran around her like a fussy chicken, until finally he was ready.

“Well, come on, Doris.  What’s taking you so long?” he said.  I remember knitting my eyebrows together, looking at her, willing her to say something snarky. We were waiting for you.  But she didn’t.  She just tucked her crossword into her purse, and stood, still smiling, still peaceful.

“You should read it,” he told me.  This was not the first, or even the tenth, time he had said this to me.  I laughed and told everyone at the table how Tony once had spent the entire six-hour drive from San Francisco to Irvine describing the entire story to me.

My sister-in-law nodded along.  “It’s a long book,” she and Tony responded, full of logic.

Later, as we lay in bed, I tried to explain my reluctance.  It’s not about the book, it’s about the expectation.  What if, I explained, what if I don’t like it? Or worse, what if, because of my post-traumatic-stress-like inability to read for enjoyment, I can’t finish it? What if I disappoint you?

I used to read a novel a day, but ever since my divorce, I haven’t been able to read novels for pleasure.  I struggle to find anything that can hold my interest. I get about halfway through a book but can’t seem to finish them.  I don’t like the characters, or the writing is too dense or, worse, overfull of metaphor and in dire need of an editor.

It’s a long book, I told him.  It’s not you.  It’s me.  I liked what I’ve read of it so far, but it’s so hard for me to finish a novel these days, and this one is too important to you.  I was afraid to start it.

“Do you mean that?” he asked.  I nodded.  It’s not easy for someone who has always identified herself as a reader to admit to a reading disability.

He sat up, slid out of bed.  I heard the smacking sound of his feet as they hit the cold tile floor.  Smack, smack, smack.  A door creaked.  The glass doors of the bookcase slid open and shut.  I steeled myself for a battle of wills, in no mood to dive into a novel that is six inches thick in paperback form, with writing as dense (if not more so) as the books I read everyday, all day long, at work. 

The smacking sound of Tony’s bare feet grew louder until our bedroom door creaked open again. 

Quietly, softly, he set a slim volume on the quilt next to me.  It’s a little novel, its cover protected by library plastic.  He slid back into bed and pulled me into a spooning embrace.

“I like the other book,” he whispered, his beard scratching my neck.  “But this is my favorite. I’ve had that copy for twenty years.”

I picked it up, read the first page.  I giggled at a joke, and I kept reading, engrossed, my husband curled around me and my feet tucked between his legs for warmth.

“Thank you,” he whispered against my ear, and I thought, no, thank you.