Truth Hurts

by David Boyle

  I often urged Donna to go out with her girlfriends. She needed to get away from things for a few hours, especially when the medicine knocked me out. She was reluctant, but agreed. She got dressed one night and came in to the bedroom to say goodbye. She looked amazing. I wanted to pull the harness from my body, leap out of bed, and make love to her. Despite the beautiful dress and the pretty makeup, I saw her anguish bleeding though the mask of cosmetics. I turned away in despair.

  That night I spent time thinking about the dim possibility of full recovery: What would we do? Where would we go? What would it take to recapture lost time? I dreamt about the smell of her weekend perfume drawing me near. The tantalizing odor of her skin coated with her favorite vanilla-scented lotion, burying my face in tufts of her wavy black hair while she lay on my stomach stroking my chest.

  One day.

  Months passed with little progress. I still couldn’t move without pain or pain killers. My weight increased by another fifty pounds and Donna and I grew even further apart. We rarely communicated unless she was attending to my needs—even then no more than a word or two. Then one night she came home from another desperately needed girls’ night out. She had a good buzz on. Her eyes were glazed and she was walking funny, a bit shaky on her feet. I heard a man’s voice downstairs. I watched her enter the room with her heels dangling from her fingertips. “Who is that?” I asked her. Her purse slipped from her shoulder and hit the floor. She bent down to pick it up. “It’s only Tom. He’s a friend of Maggie’s.” I knew Maggie well. She was a friend of my wife’s from the office. “He offered to give me a ride home from the club since he was going this way,” she said.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, opened them. “Where the hell did Maggie go? Why couldn’t she give you a lift?” Just then I heard the door shut downstairs, Tom leaving perhaps.

  Donna rolled her eyes and then went downstairs to sleep on the couch. I wanted to know more. Did I dare ask? I was too exhausted to probe. I had my suspicions and they made me feel sicker than I already was. My stomach knotted when I pictured another man touching her, caressing her like only I was supposed to. The vision burned me alive, some guy sweet-talking her into bed. What else could it be? Part of me had no right to blame her if she had responded to an advance. I mean, look at me! What have I turned into? None of this was my fault. But no one chooses these things. They choose us.

  What hurt deeper was that I still harbored sexual impulses, sensations that I couldn’t act on, unless…Forget about it, I thought. Donna was unable to lean on me much less lie on me. I remember lying in bed one day in need of a bath. It was early in the morning. She came in with a robe on to give me pills and a glass of water. I was so frustrated. I had an erection and yet I felt embarrassed to ask the question—to ask for release. It was humiliating to ask her to do something most women are happy to do for their husbands. I wanted her to provide me with pleasure. I took the pills and chased them down with water. I wept like a fool. She asked me with distance in her voice, “What’s the problem now?”

  I confessed my desire. I never felt so pathetic in my entire life. It was as though I was begging for her touch and she was a prostitute of some kind. Oh, I hated the word. But that’s how it felt. She didn’t want to touch me or be near me. I saw it in her face. Apprehensively, she started on me with her mouth. For a minute it was as though the world had gone away and I was on that cloud they speak of. The sensation was so incredible it actually hurt my brittle bones, sent a shiver up my broken spine. I felt her touch again. I had missed it for so long. It made me forget the pain, if only for a moment. Matters became worse, more humiliating. She must have been disgusted by my odor. She lifted her head from my genitals and finished with her hand. Her face creased with repulsion and pity. Tears cascaded down her cheeks. That episode is forever stuck in my memory.

  Weeks passed and the days were exactly the same—monotonous. At times the pain wasn’t so bad, as long as I had a steady diet of pills. I slept a lot, even watched television when I was alert enough. I felt sorry for myself, asked over and over again, how much longer? There was never an answer. There never is, is there? The doctors were uncertain and I had to live every miserable day as if it was my last and somehow be grateful that I was still breathing and functioning. There was so much I wanted to do, but I guess it was easier for me to give up.

  A few days went by and Donna went out again for another ladies’ night. It was a long one, too. She returned after two in the morning and again was pretty tipsy. This was definitely unlike her, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about what she did. To make matters worse she came home with that Tom character again. I heard his voice from my bed, its deep, hollow timbre unmistakable. Donna came to my room to check on me. “What’s he doing here again?” I asked. She shot me a look that could’ve burned through steel. “He’s been helping me get through this tough time,” she said. “He has even taken a few medicine runs for me when I’m too busy running around. He doesn’t live far from Harry’s Pharmacy.” There had to me more to it, I thought. But what could I do? I didn’t have the will or the energy to contest her response. Thirty minutes later I heard our front door close downstairs and then shortly thereafter she was on the phone. What had she been doing downstairs with Tom? It had been awfully quiet for a while when he was here. And now who was she talking with on the phone? I overheard some of the conversation. The last words I remember hearing were, “I know, like in his car, can you believe it, felt like a teenager again.” I was losing my mind. I felt my body overheating. But what difference would it have made if she had had an affair? I couldn’t satisfy her. Don’t get me wrong, it killed me to simply imagine what she did, although there was nothing I could do about it. I wanted to get better one day and I convinced myself that if and when that time came I would forget about her little ventures. This was my life to take control of, and one day I would do just that.

  This morning the sun is tearing through the curtains and warming my skin as I come out of my trance. I’m not sure what day it is. I turn my head to the left but Donna is not beside me. I turn right and look long and hard at the dresser, the one with the mirror attached. I think I feel better today. I feel as many do after a night of restful sleep. I’m ready to live. A fond memory is staring back at me from the dresser: a picture of me and Donna tanned and fit on vacation in Barbados two summers ago. Tears drip down my face. Will I see a day of that kind ever again? Will I look as I did then, one day soon? Ever?

  Every morning Donna hands me pills and I chase them down with a glass of water. She brings me meals when my hunger beckons, bathes me when my acrid body odor permeates the room, and, believe it or not, gives me pleasure when she can’t stand the sight of me. Today she is late. My limbs ache less, but still throb. What prevents me from reaching the pills on my own, or at least trying? I’ll take one pill today instead of three. That’s a start!

  I shout for her. “Donna! Donna!”

  She doesn’t answer. The shower water was running fifteen minutes ago. Then it stopped. Steam drifted into the hallway and outside the bedroom door. Donna loves hot showers all year long. She says they’re invigorating. She feels cleansed, like a brand new person. Maybe the new Donna has found her way back to me somehow and we can start fresh. She’ll be here soon to administer my meds as always. I need her help. But wait. No. What if…?

  I can do it alone. I’ll try. I can muster the energy and push myself. When I get up I will find her and tell her how much she means to me, remind her how much I love her over and over again, and make sure I say it every day for the rest of our life. Now, that’s a plan! The way it used to be. I want to prove that our life will get better and today I will break new ground.

  I detach the braces that harness me. I slide my leg off the edge of the bed and plant my foot firmly on the floor. The excruciating pain flares up. I jerk backwards. My whole body goes into spasm. I’m seeing stars behind the darkness of clenched eyes. I will not turn back now, no way. I manage to swing my
other leg gently off the bed and on to the floor. Now I am standing on my own two rickety feet. Once again the blood rushes through my bloodstream feeding all of the cartilage, tendons, and flesh. My muscles and joints are granted a second chance. They propel me a step further, and then another. I am in motion. The pain refuses to go away. My body feebly inches toward the dresser, so close to the pills that I can almost taste their bitter sting on my tongue. I want to cry out for my wife at the top of my lungs, but I cannot gather the breath; too much air has been wasted by incessant panting. My heart is pumping in overdrive, making me dizzy. With my trembling arm I reach out. My fingers grip the top of the pill container and I pull the bottle of life to my chin, unscrew the cap. Another pain rockets up my back and now I’m seeing stars. Damn, it hurts! The searing pain travels to my neck. I have blacked out in my bedroom while standing erect. I never knew that was possible.

  My mind constructs painful but irresistible pictures, time capsules in life that I yearn to rediscover: me and Donna in London, then a second shot of us in front of the Eiffel Tower eating deep-fried dough like a couple of happy, crazy-in-love kids. I glance down at the open pill bottle and put it back in its place. Today I’ll take fewer pills, try to ease myself off them. From now on, I’ll only take them if the pain is too intense.

  I need to find Donna first. That is what I have to do. It is incumbent upon me to live again, to make an effort, to reshuffle the cards and play a new hand. I struggle to the crutches leaning in the corner of the room. My whole body feels elephantine. Then again, it is. I take advantage of the sudden emotional rush and try to focus. She is near. I sense her, feel her, smell her, want her. This she won’t believe until she sees it with her own eyes. I propel myself toward the hall. As soon as I cross through the doorway I feel happier than I have felt in what seems like an eternity. She will be so thrilled by the effort I’m making. She has stuck with me through it all and I knew I had taken more than I gave and demanded more than I offered. Renewal is upon me and there’s a lot of catching up to do, but I am determined to make up for the precious time lost. I owe her at least that. She has made some decisions that twisted me inside, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed. I make it down the stairs into the living room.

  “Donna! Babe! You’ve got to see this! I’m out of that god damn bed!”

  I hop as fast as I can toward the kitchen. Around the corner I see the sleeve of her white blouse. In the sunlit room, the woman I love like no other is sitting at the kitchen table, her face awash with tears, pen in hand, paper covered with ink. My weak legs buckle and knock me off balance. I totter into the wall. I fall. One crutch snaps in half and I take a header onto the tile. Now I’m bleeding from my forehead. My wrists are mangled, contorted, out of alignment from the impact. I crawl into the room on my hands and knees. The pain rises inside me with a vengeance. I keep myself from losing unconsciousness. The room starts to spin. My equilibrium is way out of balance. My stomach is churning furiously. Now Donna is kneeling beside me, tears flowing strongly still. Here I am once again: horizontal, helpless. The pain recedes temporarily and I’m able to catch my breath. Donna looks me straight in the eye. “I’m so sorry, Anton, but I need to tell you what’s killing me inside. I’m close to the edge and I need to get this out.” She wipes tears away from her puffy eyes. Her lips quaver.

  “I can’t do this anymore, so, so, so… sorry. I loved you once so much, but...but then the, the love I had…es… escaped. None of this is your fault. I tried to cope. I swear. I tried to find a better way. Most will think that, that…that what I’ve tried to overcome is pale in comparison to what happened to you. They’d be right, but I…I hurt no less. Guilt is tearing away inside, Anton.”

  I am too exhausted, too confused, in too much pain to respond. Tears are draining from Donna’s eyes. “Oh, God… let me finish,” she says.

  “The pain, the pressure, the burden—it’s all a black hole of self-loathing that I’ve slipped into; trying to find a way out is like swimming in quicksand. I feel so, so alone…trapped…ugly for having to feel this way. I hate having to think about the terrible things that I’ve done…all because of…of resentment, and, and longing for the future I’ve missed out on. No matter what, I believe our life is doomed.”

  Donna is trying to hold it together, struggling to say more. Tear drops are sliding down her face, falling on my stomach. I clutch her, pull her near, but she resists. Defeat sets in and I take a deep breath as I listen to her again.

  “The pain won’t go away, Anton. To walk out on you would leave me… ashamed…ashamed to show my face again. I’ve already made mistakes that are beyond forgiving. This is the easiest way out for me, the way it has to be. I want out.”

  I’m crying as hard as Donna now. I am out of breath—a mixture of emotional and physical pain has overwhelmed me. My hefty body is lacquered with sweat. My eyes shift to Donna’s, the life has vanished from them. I hardly recognize her anymore: her face is pale and gaunt. I never thought she’d take her pain to this level and contemplate abandoning me. But I can’t blame her; won’t blame her. I’d rather die than see her this way. I grab her hand, squeeze her fingers. They are cold and rigid. I muster the energy and speak.

  “Don’t do this. I’m gonna beat this thing. But I need you. I’ll always need you, always did, even when I didn’t say it.”

  Donna weeps, forcing words through hampered breaths. “But…but I…I can’t do this an…anymore. I just can’t.”

  I reach up and grab her, pull her down close to me. Indescribable pain hammers my head, I feel as though my eyes are about to explode from their sockets. The feeling steals my breath away but I have something more to say. I am damn close to blacking out. “Please…please…don’t leave me. Try and find love for me once more. Please. Remember when I promised I’d never leave you?”

  She nods, drops her head on my chest. She cries more forcefully than I have ever heard before. Screams are mixing with her tears. The sounds of her desperation are frightening and saddening. She gets up from the floor and walks out the front door. My stomach is nauseous. I have little time before I black out. “Donna, don’t leave me,” I shout.

  I pass out.

  Later, I wake. I have no concept of what time or day it is. The room is dark and cold. My skin is tacky to touch, the perspiration’s residue is hateful. I notice the moonlight cutting in through the kitchen window. The faint light allows me to see the outline of the houseplant to my right, and a chair to my left. Donna is gone, though. Where has she gone? I am without a clue. My heart’s racing. My throat feels dry and coarse. “Donna! Donna! Where are you?”

  No answer. A chilling silence engulfs the room. Wind slaps against the dining room window, a cat meows in the distance, a steel garbage can rattles. I try to move my arm and leg but the pain is too intense. No matter what I try my body refuses to cooperate. A sharp pain in my leg (the healthier one) tells me it’s broken. Exhaustion sets in more profoundly, pain intensifies. I lose consciousness again.

  When I open my eyes I’m staring at the ceiling, still in the same position. It’s a sunny day, strong rays flooding the room where I lie. I still can’t seem to move no matter what I do, so I guess this is it. This is how it’s going to end whether I can deal with it or not. I wish I had a choice but that’s never the case. All I can do now is use my imagination, try to think of the good times Donna and I had before this tragedy ransacked our lives: the places we’d seen, the laughter, the intimacy, the friendship. That seems to make this moment of loss less agonizing, if only for a fraction of a second. I have nothing more to say, and even if I did, it wouldn’t do any good.

  Then the front door opens and the sun is shining in my eyes. Donna stands in the doorway. Her voice is tender. “I can’t leave you…I just can’t. You need me, and I still need you…still love you.”

  MEN AT WORK

  The snow hadn’t let up since eight and was predicted to intensify overnight and continue raging until noon next day. Saturday. Midnight encro
aching. Iridescent moonlight gradually diminished as storm clouds dominated the sky. “Noon?” Ross Albert groaned, steering his newly polished Lexus into The Gas Stop. Had he known a big storm was on the way he wouldn’t have had his car detailed. Nor would he have scheduled an early appointment. How caught off guard, how foolish he thought himself. How un-characteristic of a man brimming with common sense.

  No customers. Not unusual at this dreadful hour, at this out-of-the-way spot on the outskirts of bucolic Brentville. Few stations in the area had any gas left; supplies had been depleted in anticipation of the blizzard. Fortunately for Ross Albert, though, he’d found the right place at an unpropitious time, his gauge blinking Warning: Fuel. Bright orange cones indicating empty tanks stood beside all the pumps except the one Ross had pulled up to. He waited a few seconds, looked around for an attendant, but didn’t see one. He checked the rearview mirror: finessed his hair, smirked, turned his head left, turned his head right, tilted his head back, regarded his neck, stroked his chin with his hand—went through these motions while feeling within himself a great sense of distinction, of class. He took cash from his pocket and put it in the center console, beside which lay a stash of CDs, breath mints, and a tiny envelope—flap open. Having waited an inordinate amount of time for service, he let his patience melt away, unlike the snow now freezing over as the temperature plummeted into the teens. He glanced over at the small booth across the lot, its interior light distorted by a thickening veneer of snow overspreading the glass; shelves of snacks and supplies (belts, filters, replacement car parts) visible against the far right wall; a self-service vacuum, snow-covered, propped outside against the concrete foundation. “C’mon, man,” he mumbled, “some of us have places to be.”