by Julia Blues
I love my wife. At the same time, she made major decisions without including me. I’m her husband and knew none of this. Knew none of her pain or the suffering she was experiencing. All I know is she made me feel less than a husband, father, and friend, and for that, there’s no coming back. Even as she breathes her last breaths, I can’t help this feeling of anger from staining my heart.
Rene shifts in the bed.
“You okay?”
She says nothing.
I rub her shoulder lightly. When there’s no response, I rub a little harder. “Rene, are you in pain?”
“If you keep nudging me like that, I will be.”
She hasn’t been in the best of moods lately. One day, she’s quiet, the next, she’s biting my head off. Then there are days she just wants to be held. Today doesn’t sound like it’s going to be one of the latter days, but some things have been plaguing my mind since the night we shared in Reggie’s room. Things that keep this angry side of me dominant. “I need answers.”
She shuffles, turns away from me. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
I think about what she’s asking. No matter how hard it is for me to say it, the words fall from my lips anyway. “You may not have tomorrow.”
My wife’s silence reminds me of how the last few years have been in our marriage. Unbearable.
My heart skips a beat, then skips two. All of a sudden, it feels like my heart’s trying to pump blood for a village. “Rene?” I shake her.
“I’m still here,” she says in a tone that lets me know I’ve struck a chord.
I wrap my arm around her waist, scoot her body closer to mine. Spoon her. “I didn’t mean it like that, babe.”
“But it’s reality.”
“Maybe so, but there’s no need in me reminding you.”
Her hand sweeps across mine a few times before resting on top.
My eyes close. Maybe now isn’t the time for Q & A. Tomorrow may not come for her and I could wake up a widower. Right now is all that matters, and I want to make the best of it for both of us.
• • •
The sun peers through the blinds, tells me a new day is upon us. Slowly, my eyes open to embrace reality, see my wife’s eyes staring back at me.
She blinks.
I smile. “Morning, beautiful.”
“I’m sorry.”
I thumb a tear running off course from her face. “For what?”
“For not letting you be my husband and for not being your wife.”
Those words sit in the air like smoke in an unventilated room. I breathe them in, let them filter to my soul.
“What are you feeling?” she wants to know.
I don’t answer right away. Need to make sure my words come from a place of love and understanding, not anger and blame.
She reaches under the covers, finds my hand, wraps her pinky around mine. A simple gesture with a lot of meaning.
“How did it get to this point?”
Her eyes stay focused on mine. “I beat it once. Thought I could beat it again.”
My finger loosens its grip to hers. This is news to me. The way I feel right now, I want to knock out all the walls in this room with my fists. What would that solve, though? My wife’s condition wouldn’t change and the past would remain the same. Only difference is I’d probably be without my hands and that would just make me even madder.
“I should have told you,” she says, jerking me from a place of anger.
“You think?”
“Brandon, I’m sorry.”
Another apology to fill a void.
Her pinky hangs on to mine tighter, tries to bring life back to mine. “I was scared to go to the doctor at first. Didn’t want to get the same results as my grandmother and aunt. I thought about my grandfather and my cousins; couldn’t fathom leaving you and Reggie like that. He was getting older, starting to walk. He made life complete for us. I wanted to give you more babies, fill our house like we planned.”
All I can do is watch my wife bare her truth as her eyes mirror the emotions flickering through mine.
“The lump was getting bigger. Didn’t want to miss any more moments, so I went to the doctor. A mammogram was done and it confirmed my fears. A biopsy was done a few days later. When I got the call, the first thing I did was call you at work. You’d gone to lunch and weren’t answering your cell. By then, I had lost the courage to tell you.”
I hate that she only tried to reach me twice before giving up and deciding to bear the pain alone. I don’t tell her that. No need in making her feel any worse.
“My gynecologist told me breastfeeding can make cancer spread faster. I guess that’s why the lump had grown from a pea to a grape in a couple of months.”
She stops talking. Gets caught up in the unpleasant memories of the past three years of her life.
There’s nothing I can say to alleviate her discomfort in this moment. I tighten my pinky around hers, hoping it helps in some way. It works.
“Reggie had just turned two when I began treatment. They removed the tumor, then I had radiation.” She raises her nightgown and grabs my hand from under the covers. She takes my index finger and traces it across a long scar underneath her left breast curving upward.
My finger feels like it’s being drawn across a freshly sharpened butcher knife. I quickly pull my finger back, look at it to make sure there’s no blood. When I see Rene’s brows turned inward, I realize I’ve made the wrong move.
She snatches her gown back down. “And you wonder why I’ve kept this to myself.”
Seeing the anguish in her eyes, I want to take my actions back, but I can’t. And neither can I find the words to apologize. “Where was I when these treatments were going on? Shouldn’t I have been there to sign papers for your surgery?”
“Told them I was separated and told you I was going out of town for a conference for funeral directors and morticians. Checked myself into the hospital and did what I had to do. Two treatments a day for a week. I was making sure I’d be around for my boys.” A tear balances on her eyelid before falling onto the pillow.
I toss the covers back, swing my legs to the side. Sit here fuming over the confession lingering in this room. How could I have missed all of this? What kind of husband have I been that my wife could get surgery and I not even know? I turn back around and ask her.
She sighs. “I went into work mode. Hid all of my emotions, even from myself. Just became numb to it all. It became my second job.”
I look down at my finger, remember it rubbing across her scarred flesh. “How come I never saw the scar?”
“I get paid to make death look pretty. The scar was nothing a little makeup couldn’t handle.”
“But what about when we’d shower or make love? Wouldn’t it sweat off?”
“Waterproof. Sweatproof. Idiotproof.”
That last proof was meant for me. “Kick a man when he’s down, why don’t you.”
“They make it for burn victims, people with severe acne scars to make them feel better about themselves. I used it to feel better about myself, to make me feel like I wasn’t a victim. Wasn’t meant to camouflage my truth from you.”
“When did it come back?”
“Months after Reggie passed away. Came back in my lymph nodes. Felt something underneath my arm.” She raises her arm, shows me another scar. “Had it removed, went under radiation again. Was okay for a while. Then it showed up in my lungs. I knew it was only a matter of time. By then, you’d moved out. Started chemo. Lost weight, lost my hair. I didn’t have to hide it from you anymore. Could be sick in my own house and not have to answer to anyone.”
I’m no longer in this room. Can’t listen to her anymore. She reveals her secrets as if she’s reading the beginning chapter to a novel. No emotion, no regret. I get up from the bed and physically remove myself from this room.
I grab a beer out of the fridge. Pop the top, take a long gulp, and lean up against the sink. This is the reality we live in. Alway
s finding ways to appease our broken egos. If only we realized it only prolongs our pain, never eliminates it.
My eyes peer into the living room. Lying in the middle of the floor is Sydney, half naked with me in between her legs. Rene walks into the room, stands over us, then comes into the kitchen. I blink away from my moment of weakness and look at the phone my wife’s handing me.
“It’s Melissa.”
Guilt washes over me as I grab the phone from Rene. “Hey, sis-in-law. What’s up?”
Her weeps let me know this is a serious call. “Andrew’s been in an accident.”
40
BRANDON
Melissa collapses into my arms as soon as I make it through the ER’s doors.
I escort us to nearby chairs. “Got here as fast as I could.”
“He’s in stable condition, but they won’t let me see him yet.”
Her shaky hand is in mine. “What happened?”
“He was ran down by a truck on eighteen wheels.” The paramedics brought my twin to the hospital covered in blood. His car had to be sawed in half in order for them to get him out. He’d been scared to drive since his first accident years ago where he nearly died. Now this. It’s crazy how your fears have a way of catching up to you.
“Damn.”
“Oh, Brandon. I freaked out when the hospital called. I called you first, then your parents. Said they’ll be on the next plane out.”
I pat her hand. “He’s stable, right?”
She bobs her head. “Well, you know how the first accident had him. This will make him paranoid to even look at a car.”
“Let’s not worry about that now.” I repeat my question as to how my brother ended up in the hospital.
Her hand slides out of mine. “I’ve heard different stories and none of them make sense. There were witnesses at the school who saw two men approach Drew. One guy was agitated while the other stood off to the side, watching the crowd forming. They said something about him sneaking around with one of their wives. I know that’s not true because Andrew is always at that school, with me, or with you. I can always account for his absence.”
“Exactly. Andrew wouldn’t do anything like that.”
She looks at me with a hesitated expression before continuing. “Things got a little out of hand, Drew got in his car and they sped after him. But the cops told me the men involved in the accident were two off-duty police officers who happened to see him driving out of control, swerving lanes like a maniac. When these two cops tried to pull him over, a diesel got in the way and they all crashed. What I don’t understand is these cops weren’t in uniform and just happened to be together driving the same route as Drew, but they match the description of the men from the school.”
Every single pore in my skin opens and floods me with anxiety. It. Can’t. Be.
Andrew told me from the beginning not to get involved with another man’s wife, let alone a cop’s wife. I refused to listen because my heart was hurt, my pride shattered, ego blistered. I was in a bad way. Couldn’t hear my brother’s warnings. He knew I was headed for danger. We were split from the same egg. He had a responsibility to me, an accountability to my livelihood. But I failed to listen, failed to realize my danger would be his danger.
It’s hard for me to look at my sister-in-law because I’m the reason her husband’s lying in a hospital bed.
Mel sees the trepidation written on my face. “Did these men confuse my husband for you?”
Before I can offer up an explanation to the guilt she sees in my eyes, a man with a long white coat comes out and summons her. “You can come back and see him now.”
We both get up to follow the doctor back.
He stops me, says, “Only Mrs. Carter can see him right now.”
“This is Andrew’s brother,” says Mel.
He nods my clearance.
• • •
My brother looks how I feel. A broken, battered man whose life has been broken into a million pieces.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he manages to say without looking at me.
Mel stands by his side, her hand on top of his bandaged hand.
My hand throbs.
The doctor speaks, “His leg got pretty tangled. We’ll get him prepped for surgery to make sure there’s no extensive damage. Other than that, a few stitches here and there, but nowhere near what it could’ve been. He’ll be ready to go home in a couple of days.”
“I was so scared when I got the call,” my sister-in-law shares with my brother.
“You’re a lucky guy,” the doctor tells Andrew on his way out.
I reach my hand out to shake his. “Thanks for all you’ve done, Doctor.”
He nods and leaves us to sort out the details.
Mel looks over at me, then back at her husband. “Drew, there’s a lot being said outside these doors. Please clear the air. Are you having an affair?”
Drew makes eye contact with mine this time. Stares me dead in the face like a deer staring into an approaching car’s headlights. “No.”
“Then why were those men confronting you at your job?”
“They thought I was him.” His eyes still on me.
My sister-in-law nods. “Just wanted to hear you say it.”
An identical version of me says, “I told you what you were doing was wrong. But just like when we were kids, you failed to think about what effect your actions would have on me.”
I let my emotions get the best of me. Again. My emotions are what made me miss the real reason my wife was pushing me away, they’re what led me to get involved with that cop’s wife.
Our parents always said I was the more emotional one out the duo. Came out of the womb crying. Was the first to cry in the morning, the last to cry at night. I was told my mother was well into her sixth month when they found out one baby was two. Technology wasn’t as advanced back then and they couldn’t see me hiding behind my brother. We started out so in sync our heartbeats beat as one. Every time Mom’s expanding belly got rubbed, they thought it was just one baby. My brother got six more months of loving than I did. Maybe that’s why I turned out this way.
“Get out,” Andrew tells me.
I look over at his wife for support. “He’s right, you need to go.”
41
SYDNEY
Eric is barely recognizable. Gauze wrapped around his head down to his chin. His face is swollen, looks like he was beaten with a sock full of rocks. All kinds of machines hooked up to him, wires hanging from him like he’s some kind of medical experiment.
“He’s slipped into a coma,” the doctor tells me. “The next twenty-four hours are critical.”
Eric’s head hit the passenger window so hard it shattered. Knocked him out cold. Not sure when he’ll wake up. Meanwhile, Michael walked out of here with nothing more than a few bandages. Why does the passenger always end up worse off than the driver?
Michael.
The reason my husband has lost all consciousness of reality. He instigated this. I know he did, and he had the nerve to threaten me.
After the doctor walks out of the room, I flop in the chair positioned next to Eric’s bed. Tears clog my throat, temporarily prevent me from being able to breathe. I want to scream, want to run, want to be anywhere but here. That always seems to be the case with me when it comes to my husband. And for that very reason, he’s lying here in this bed, not able to say or do anything to make life any different for the either of us.
Rivers flow from my eyes, saturate the fabric of my shirt. Stains the fabric of my life.
“Sydney,” a familiar voice beckons.
I turn to my left to see my mother standing by the door. She points behind her. I get up from the chair with urgency, run out of the room and pick EJ up, hold him tight. Use my other arm to pull Kennedy close to my hip. Hold both of them like I’ve never held them before. Had things gone another way, they would’ve been in the car and things would be a lot different.
My mom called in the midst of
me trying to find out my husband’s status. The school notified her when they weren’t able to get a hold of me. Kennedy went to the principal’s office crying after her dad left her on the curb. She had been abandoned by a man on a mission to find out what was happening to his family. Mom went to the rescue to console her grandchild and pick up her other one from daycare; brought them straight here.
“Why are you crying, Mommy?” EJ questions. He always seems to catch me at my breaking point.
I look to my mom, search her eyes to see if she’s told them anything. She shakes her head. Mouths, “They don’t know anything.”
Kennedy draws away, stands against the wall with her arms folded. “It’s Daddy, isn’t it?”
I put EJ down, look to my daughter.
She points a shaky finger to the ICU entrance. “In there. He’s in there, isn’t he?”
I nod. If I say anything my tears will choke me to death. How do you tell a daddy’s girl her Numero Uno is lingering somewhere between life and death?
“Good.” She shocks me and runs down the hall in the opposite direction.
Life hasn’t been normal in the Holmes’ household for weeks now. Today’s accident magnified things to another level.
It took hours to get my children to calm down enough to allow sleep to do its job. I can’t blame them. Doubt I’ll be able to get my nerves to settle this lifetime.
“Wanna talk about it?” Mom says when I drag myself into the kitchen.
I plop down hard in the cushionless chair. “What’s there to talk about? I messed up.”
She shakes her head. “We were just talking—”
“I can do without the I-told-you-so right now.” I ditch the chair, walk to the fridge. Don’t find what I’m looking for because I have no idea what I’m looking for. I slam the door shut, trot off to the living room. Can’t sit still, feel antsy. Need to lace up my sneakers and run this off.
As if my thoughts have a voice, my mom comes into the room behind me and tells me, “You can’t run from this.”
“Watch me,” I say, and out the door I go.