A Curve in the Road

by Julianne MacLean

  Then I try to remember if he was different over the next two days, and I recall that he seemed tired on Saturday afternoon. When I asked if he was okay, he brushed it off and said he might be coming down with something. I made him a cup of tea, and he seemed to perk up after that. He was obviously very good at keeping me in the dark.

  “What can you tell me about the diagnosis?” I ask, digging deep for the doctor in me, not the wife who has never felt more betrayed or more like a failure as a woman.

  Paula stares at the floor. “I don’t know. It wasn’t good. All I know is that he went to see his doctor about a mark on his shoulder that he thought looked suspicious. Then he found out it was cancer, which started in his kidneys and had already spread everywhere . . . to his lungs, liver, and bones. There were hardly any symptoms other than the mark on his shoulder. The doctor gave him three months to live.”

  I feel suddenly breathless and cover my face with my hands. Hot tears fill my eyes.

  Paula doesn’t let up. “He called on Sunday to tell me that he wanted to end it between us and spend whatever time he had left with you. I tried to change his mind, but I couldn’t. So you won in the end.”

  I look up. “I beg your pardon?”

  She stares at me with bitterness. “He wanted to spend his last days with you and Zack. So there you go, Abbie. Congratulations.”

  I stare at her in shock. “Are you kidding me? You think I should feel triumphant? As if the past three years of lies and infidelity never happened?”

  She turns away from me, staggering slightly because she’s still intoxicated. “This is messed up.”

  “You’re damn right it is.” I follow her. “I’ll never really know if he would have spent his last days with Zack and me. Was he coming here to see you on Sunday? Had he changed his mind?” I realize I’m shouting now, and I try to cool my temper. “And why the hell was he drunk driving, regardless?”

  “I’m not sure, but he was angry with me because I threatened to tell you everything. The last time I spoke to him was on Sunday afternoon, and he was upset. He hung up on me, and I think he must have gone to a bar or a liquor store after that.”

  “What do you mean exactly, that he was upset?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know . . . he said he screwed everything up, and he begged me not to tell you about us. He went on and on about what a bad person he was and how he was sorry for ruining my life. I told him I wasn’t going to just disappear and leave him to die alone. I said I wanted to be by his side until the very end, but that just made him even more angry. He reminded me that he wouldn’t be alone. He’d have you. Then he told me to stay away, that it was over between us.” Her voice shakes while she fights not to cry. “I was begging him not to end it, and that’s when he said he’d be better off dead if I told you the truth, and he hung up on me.”

  My eyebrows pull together in a frown. “Better off dead? Wait a second . . . was he suicidal?”

  She sobs. “I don’t know! Part of me wonders if he was coming to see me because he’d changed his mind, or maybe he was coming here to threaten me in person, to make sure I’d keep quiet. Now I’ll never know for sure. And neither will you.”

  I stand up because I can’t listen to any more. I don’t want to be in the same room with the woman who was sleeping with my husband and tried to keep him from me in his final days. Does she truly believe that I beat her in the end? That I feel victorious because Alan wanted to devote himself to Zack and me and not her? I didn’t even know that I was a player in this game until this very moment.

  She follows me to the door, where I grab my jacket and shove my arms into the sleeves.

  “Wait, Abbie,” she says. “Please, don’t go.”

  “Why not? I got what I came for. You told me everything I need to know. There’s no point in beating a dead horse.” I look around for my purse.

  “I’m sorry I kept this from you,” Paula says, sounding a little less drunk now, “but Alan made me promise never to tell you, and after the accident, I felt so guilty . . . that it was my fault he was on the road that night. And then I figured . . . what would be the point in telling you? It couldn’t change anything, and you’d only be in more pain.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have come to the funeral,” I reply. “You should have stayed away.”

  But would I have preferred to live the rest of my life in ignorance? I honestly don’t know the answer to that question. Maybe I would have.

  “Despite how this must seem to you,” Paula continues, “you should know that Alan loved you.”

  I hold up a hand. “Please. Don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m serious,” she replies, sounding desperate. “I was the one who was jealous of you, because I knew he’d never choose me. He didn’t want to break up your family. It was always that way. He was very clear about it.”

  I find my purse and shake my head at her. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

  I walk out the door, but she won’t stop. She’s like a tenacious terrier, following me down the hall to the elevator.

  I press the button, the doors open, and I step on. “Please don’t contact me again. We’re done now.” The doors shut between us.

  A moment later, seated in my mother’s car, I insert the key into the ignition with trembling hands and start the engine. My tires skid on the pavement as I pull away.

  I make it less than a block from the apartment building before I pull over because I need to have a meltdown. I squeeze my eyes shut and pound the steering wheel multiple times with my fist.

  God in heaven. Alan had cancer. And on the day that he died, he may have been trying to put an end to his affair. Or maybe his life . . .

  But why didn’t he call me right away when he found out about his diagnosis? I’m a doctor. Did he not think I could handle it? Maybe I could have helped him somehow. There might have been hope, a better prognosis . . .

  I force myself to sit back and take a few breaths.

  Why should I even care whether Alan had a terminal disease? He’d been cheating on me for three years. Maybe longer. There could have been others before Paula. And if he was suicidal, was he just being a coward because he didn’t want to face me when the truth came out?

  I squeeze my fists around the steering wheel, flex my fingers, and look up at the roof of the car. I need to let this anger flow out of me, because I can’t go home and see Zack like this, with poison in my veins.

  After a moment, I dig into my purse for my cell phone. I dial my sister’s number, and I’m relieved when she answers.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Carla. It’s me.”

  “Finally,” she replies. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you. What happened?”

  I bite my bottom lip and fight back the tears. Alan doesn’t deserve them.

  “Paula told me that she and Alan had been having an affair for the past three years and that Alan found out he had cancer on the Friday before he died.”

  “What?” Carla replies. “Are you serious?”

  I continue on, explaining everything I know. “He didn’t have long to live, and that’s why he was drunk on Sunday—because Paula was pressuring him to leave me, and I guess he couldn’t deal with any of it.” I pause. “He might even have been suicidal, but I doubt we’ll ever know for sure.”

  There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “Oh my God.”

  “But that was no excuse for him to get behind the wheel when he was drunk,” I continue. “He could have killed other people. I can’t feel sorry for him, Carla. Not after all this. He deserved what he got.”

  I regret my words the instant they pass my lips, and I cup my forehead in my palm. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I’m just really upset right now.”

  “Of course you are,” she gently replies. “And you have every right to be. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I were in your shoes and found out that Braden was keeping secrets like that from me.”

  I sit in the car, in the glo
w from the dashboard lights, tapping my thumb against the steering wheel and staring straight ahead—not really seeing anything beyond the glass.

  I feel as if my seemingly perfect life was never anything but a fragile house of cards. I had no idea that a sudden, unexpected gust of wind would blow it all down.

  “Are you okay?” Carla asks. “Will you come home now?”

  I inhale deeply. “Yes. Has Zack been asking about me?”

  “Don’t worry about him. He’s fine. He and Braden just took the girls to a movie, so he won’t be back for a while. I thought it would be good for them to get out of the house.”

  “Yes,” I reply. “And listen, don’t say anything to him or Mom about this. I don’t know how I’m going to handle it, if I should tell them or not.”

  Carla hesitates. “But you have to tell Zack.”

  “About the affair?” I consider that for a moment and feel a strong resistance to the idea. “No, I can’t do that. He loved his dad. I don’t want him to start questioning those feelings or believe that he comes from a long line of dishonorable men. This anger and confusion I’m feeling right now is . . . it’s not healthy. Part of me wishes I’d never found out.”

  She ponders my reasoning. “Maybe you’re right. But you don’t have to decide anything tonight. Take time to think about it. In the end, you’ll know what’s best.”

  “I hope so.” Feeling dazed and tired, I realize I haven’t eaten all day. I glance at the dashboard clock. “I should come home now. What about supper? Should I pick something up?”

  “Don’t worry about a thing. Mom’s already cooking. Just come home, Abbie. We’ll take care of you.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

  I end the call, slap my cheeks a few times—hard—to try and wake myself up from this unbelievable nightmare, and pull onto the road leading back to my mother’s house, since the home I knew with Alan doesn’t seem to exist anymore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  When I arrive, I smell something delicious cooking on the stove. After what I’ve just been through, the company of my sister and mother does wonders to soothe my spirits, and I want to hang on to that feeling of security.

  Letting my eyes fall closed, I breathe deeply and remind myself how blessed I’ve been—until now. I can’t let myself lose sight of all the good things, even though all I want to do is scream and hit something.

  I’m hanging up my coat when Carla walks out of the kitchen to greet me. Without a word, she wraps her arms around my shoulders and holds me tight.

  “Thank you,” I whisper in her ear. “I don’t know how I’d be getting through this without you.”

  “At least you know the truth now. You don’t have to wonder. You know exactly where you stand, and you can deal with it head-on.”

  Head-on. Such strong, fighting words, but I’m not sure I’m up to it. I don’t know how to be a widow. I don’t know how to manage these feelings of betrayal that complicate the grief I should be feeling over my husband’s death, which is a tragedy all on its own. If only it were that simple, that contained.

  Carla and I go to the kitchen, where I find my mother standing at the stove, stirring a pot of something. I work hard to hide the fact that I’ve just learned something shocking and heartbreaking about my husband and that it feels like my perfect world has been completely annihilated.

  I give her a kiss on the cheek. “That smells great. Is it chicken fiesta soup?” One of her specialties.

  Mom takes one look at me and frowns with concern—probably because it’s obvious that I’ve been crying.

  But that’s to be expected, right? It’s the day after my husband’s funeral. What woman wouldn’t be crying?

  She asks no further questions, so I sit down at the table, already set for the three of us, with a green salad, a basket of soft rolls, and a selection of dressings in bottles. There’s a bottle of white wine too, and I can’t wait to pour myself a great big, gigantic glass.

  Mom serves the soup, we pour the wine, and I’m so hungry I devour a full bowl before I realize that Winston is not at my feet. This is unusual when there’s a meal on the table, not to mention the fact that he didn’t greet me at the door.

  I glance around and listen for sounds in the quiet house. “Where’s Winston?”

  Mom and Carla pause with their soup spoons in midair. They look at each other questioningly.

  “I don’t know,” Mom finally says, setting down her spoon. “He was in the basement with the kids earlier, before they went to the movie.”

  I immediately push back my chair.

  “Winston?” I hurry downstairs, reach the rec room, and don’t see him anywhere. “We’re having supper!” I call out to him. “It’s chicken soup!”

  My body floods with alarm, and I start to wonder if I’m anxious about everything because I have PTSD from the crash. Or maybe I’m turning into a crazed woman who can’t relax about anything because her life is exploding and she knows there will be nothing but chaos from this day forward.

  “Winston!” I shout, my gaze darting from one corner of the rec room to the other.

  At last, when I flick on the fluorescent light in the unfinished section of the basement, I find him under a table by the storage shelves. He’s curled up, sleeping, still wearing the white plastic cone around his neck. Normally, he would be on his feet by now, tail wagging, but tonight, he’s not responding.

  I run to him and drop to my knees on the cement floor. He doesn’t open his eyes.

  I place my fingers under his nose to check his airways, and I touch his belly. He’s still breathing, but he feels feverish.

  “Winston!” I shout.

  He opens his eyes at last and blinks a few times, but he still doesn’t lift his head.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” I ask in a gentler voice. “You don’t feel so good?”

  I roll him gently onto his back to check his incision. There’s redness and swelling around the stitches, which, together with the fever, is a clear sign of infection.

  “Shit.” I blame myself for being so distracted over the past twenty-four hours. I should have made sure someone was keeping a closer eye on him today.

  Stroking his silky fur, I bend down to kiss his cheek.

  I can’t lose this dog.

  “I’m going to call the vet,” I tell him. “You stay right here. I’ll be back.”

  I rush upstairs to get my cell phone, which has the vet’s number listed in my contacts. Mom and Carla watch me with alarm as I skid past the dinner table.

  “Is he okay?” Carla asks.

  “His incision is infected.” I pick up my phone and scroll through my list of contacts. “I’m calling the vet right now.”

  As soon as I find Dr. Payne’s number, I hit the call button and run back down to the basement.

  The receptionist answers. “Oceanview Animal Hospital. Ruby speaking.”

  “Hi, Ruby. This is Abbie MacIntyre. Winston’s mom.”

  “Oh yes,” she cheerfully replies. “How’s he doing?”

  “Not good, actually.” I speak calmly and give her the information she needs. “His incision is infected, and he has a fever.”

  “Oh dear,” she replies. “Stay on the line. I’ll connect you with Dr. Payne.”

  There’s a click, followed by elevator music. I pace around the chilly basement corridor, chewing my thumbnail while I wait for him to answer.

  “Hello, Abbie?”

  “Yes. I’m here.”

  “What’s going on?”

  I kneel next to Winston, sit back on my heels, and pat him. “I went out for a while this afternoon, and I just got home to find Winston asleep and lethargic. He has a fever, and his incision is showing signs of infection.”

  “Is he conscious?” Dr. Payne asks.

  “Yes, but lethargic. He opened his eyes when I shouted his name, but he barely lifted his head. He’s very weak.”

  Before giving Dr. Payne a chance to reply, I begin to ramble. “Please
, you have to help me. We can’t lose him, not after everything we’ve been through. Seriously, I need him to be okay.”

  “Don’t worry, Abbie. Can you bring him in right now?” Dr. Payne asks.

  I quickly consider the logistics. “I’ll have to carry him to the car. My son’s not here, but I’m sure I can get my sister to help me.”

  “No, no . . . don’t do that,” Dr. Payne replies. “Just stay put. Don’t move him. I’ll come over.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s no problem. Tell me your address?”

  I give it to him, and he promises to be here in ten minutes.

  Dr. Payne arrives wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and carrying an old-fashioned-looking black leather doctor’s bag.

  I show him downstairs to the basement, and he follows me to where Winston is curled up under the table. Dr. Payne kneels beside him and lays a hand on his belly. “Hey, buddy, how are you doing?”

  Winston’s eyes open at the sound of Dr. Payne’s voice, and his nose twitches as he sniffs the air. I hope he’s not frightened.

  Dr. Payne pulls a penlight out of his bag and uses it to examine Winston’s incision. He then withdraws a stethoscope and listens to his heart. He presses on his belly to check for pain or swelling.

  Dr. Payne looks up at me. “There’s definitely some infection around the incision, and you’re right—he has a fever. I’m going to give him some antibiotics, but I’d like to take him to the clinic for the night, maybe cut a couple of stitches to let the wound drain, do some blood work and an x-ray, and keep an eye on him. Is that okay with you?”

  “Of course,” I reply, even though I can’t bear the thought of being separated from him again. “I just don’t want him to be uncomfortable or in pain. Please don’t let him suffer.”

  I realize I’m preparing myself for the worst. It seems impossible to think positive thoughts when everything good in my life has fallen straight into the crapper over the past few days. I’m not sure how much more I can take.

  Dr. Payne frowns at me with concern. “Are you okay, Abbie?”

  Suddenly, the room is spinning. There’s a tingling in my head that mutates into a heavy fog. I feel an overwhelming desire to close my eyes.