Just then Rosemary entered. "Lindsey, darling, where are you?" She carried a bag of bagels and the morning paper. Looking at the mess on the floor, she wisely said nothing, but headed for the broom closet to get the mop.

Somehow, irrational as it was to feel this way, Lindsey got angry at his wife. "You're not my mother! You don't need to look at me as if I were a naughty child, and you don't need to clean up after me!"

Although she was taken aback, Rosemary tried not to let it show on her face. "Okay, then, you clean it up." She handed him the mop; he tried to use it with one hand without much success. That just made it worse. He stormed out of the kitchen and threw himself onto the couch. He could hear Rosemary putting the remaining eggs away and mopping the floor. Then she came in and sat down on the other end of the couch. "I guess we need to talk."

Lindsey realized how petulant he had been. Rosemary loved him. She was the only person in the world who cared about him at all, and he was picking on her. She didn't deserve this. "I'm sorry, darling. I should never take this out on you. I love you."

She slid closer to him. "Lindsey, who else can you vent your frustrations on? Holland? Lila? Angel? I promised to love you for better and for worse. I think I can put up with the worse for a while. After all we've had so much of the better. And eventually this will get (she searched for the right word – definitely not ‘better') easier to take. You'll learn to live with it and to get along."

He shook his head. "I know I'm not handling this well. And I know you don't mean to make me feel like a little boy, but sometimes you do. I feel like my mother has to take care of me – cut my food, help me dress, everything. It's not a good feeling. I feel weak and useless."

"I don't know when I'm crossing the line between acting like your wife and acting like your mother. You're going to have to tell me. I just know that every time I see you struggling, my heart just breaks." He went to put his arm around her, but she was on his right. Damn it again! Damn Angel! Damn Wolfram & Hart! He wanted to call Holland and let it all out on him, but then again he didn't want to eat his own liver!

"Come on, let me make your breakfast. Would you like some scrambled eggs and a bagel or two?"

"Actually, you know what I'd really like? That is, if you've forgiven me enough to make it for me." She nodded. Fortunately, some of the milk was still in the bottle. She took eggs, milk, butter, French bread, a little cinnamon, and a little vanilla and began to make him French toast. So he could eat it, she had to cut it up. He gave her that look that he always gave her when she had to cut his food for him. He didn't mean to, but he just hated to have to have that done.

"Thanks, Imzadi, this is delicious. You really make the best French toast," he said, pouring on the maple syrup that she had warmed in the microwave. This was true, as she added vanilla and cinnamon to it; those were two ingredients that really made it good, but his mother had never been able to afford them.

After breakfast was done, he carried his plate over to the counter. Then he went back for his juice glass. Then again for his coffee cup. Then he opened the dishwasher. It's so much more work with one hand, he thought as he loaded his dirty dishes. Then he went into the bathroom to take a shower. Unlike some showers with a single control, his had two faucets, making the temperature adjustment harder. First it was way too hot, then too cold. Then he couldn't get the cap off the shampoo. He leaned against the wall and pounded his fist against it. At least Rosemary wasn't hovering over him wanting to help! Damn it, Lindsey, you know that's what she wants to do, just help you. So he called her. "Rosemary, can you please unscrew the cap from the shampoo for me?"

She came into the bathroom, took the shampoo bottle, and opened it for him. "May I join you in there?" she asked. He shook his head. Not now, not yet, maybe not ever! Would he ever be himself again? Even washing his hair was a chore now. He wasn't sure if the right side was completely clean. That's another two-handed job! When he emerged from the shower, he saw that she had left his terrycloth robe hanging from the hook on the door. That was made it easier to get dry. He pulled on his boxers and a pair of sweatpants, then found a t-shirt. No, that was hard to do with one hand. A polo shirt was looser and easier. He still couldn't part his hair easily with his left hand, but he wasn't going anywhere today. It was Saturday.

The day passed slowly. Although he wasn't used to it, he learned to use the television remote with one hand. He just surfed the channels, not finding anything interesting on. Rosemary sat by him, reading. He watched her and tried to figure out how to hold a book and turn pages with one hand. I guess I'll just have to do my reading by laying the book on a table, the way I used to study in school!

When he went into the bathroom, he noticed a strange odor, as if someone had thrown up in there. I wonder if Rosemary is sick, he thought. She's been very quiet lately. He thought it was due to the strain of caring for him. His arm started hurting, so he got the bottle of pain pills down from the shelf. She had left it uncapped so he could take them easily. At first she had been afraid he'd take too many, but he had told her in no uncertain terms that he was a grown man and didn't need Mommy looking over his shoulder at whatever he did!

Although she was doing her best not to hover over him, Rosemary was getting dismayed. He should be trying to learn to write with his left hand or use the computer again. He can't just sit around like this. "Would you like to go for a ride somewhere? It's a beautiful day." He shook his head. What am I going to do, she wondered.

She prepared soup and sandwiches for dinner, as they were easy for him to eat with one hand. After all, sandwiches are always served cut in half. She had picked up a couple of new movies at the video store, a comedy and an action flick. He didn't want to see either. Rosemary, who didn't feel well because of her pregnancy, finally let go.

"Just what is it that you want, Lindsey? What can I do for you? I don't know if I'm doing too little, or if I'm doing too much. I can't please you any more. You don't want to try to learn how to do things for yourself, and you won't even allow yourself to have a good time. You've been badly hurt, permanently hurt, and I can understand that, but you're allowing yourself to wallow in self-pity or anger. And we haven't made love since you lost your hand, even though we both need it. What can I do to make things better? Tell me!" By the end of this speech, she was yelling at him. He stared at her, open-mouthed. He just hadn't realized how hard this was for her.

"You're right. I am pitying myself. But I don't know what else to do now. I'll try to be a better husband to you. You deserve it. I didn't mean to make you suffer." He reached for her. She leaned against him and kissed him. But when she gently bit his earlobe while moving her hand down his stomach, he pulled away. "Don't, Rosemary. I don't think I can."

"You mean you're not in the mood?" she asked incredulously. He had never been reluctant to make love. They used to sleep with her back against his chest, like spoons, his right arm across her stomach. She would often wake up to find that his hand had moved in one of two directions, gently stroking the appropriate part of her, and that he was ready to get the morning off to a great start! As a matter of fact, sometimes the phrase "horny as hell" came to her mind. Active had certainly been the operative word for their love life! She couldn't remember him not being in the mood. But now. . .

"No, I mean I don't think I can. I know I can't please you any more, now that I'm missing a hand. And I just think I won't be able to perform."

Rosemary was aghast. She hadn't seen this coming. Could he really feel this way? He had to be depressed. "Lindsey, I don't know why you think you can't please me any more. You still have everything else – your left hand, your lips, your tongue, everything. We'll just have to have a little more practice, that's all! Why don't we start now?"

"I don't know, darling. I just don't think I'm capable of it any more. I don't think that I can. . ."

Rosemary put her mouth over his, effectively cutting off the rest of the sentence. Then slowly, gently, she began to make love to her husband. Eventually he began to realize that maybe things would get better. Taking her right hand in his left one, he led her into the bedroom. For that night, at least, things were back to some semblance of normal. At least until her next trip to see Dr. Scott in just a few days.