Seventy-Two Hours

by Stringham, C. P.

  I smiled at the memory that seemed to happen so long ago, but really wasn’t. Funny how things changed so drastically between us in two year’s time.

  “You were persistent,” I replied.

  “It started on the kitchen counter, went to the floor, and then ended in our bedroom,” he said. “We were left so spent, so satiated, we fell asleep in each other’s arms for the better part of the afternoon. In answer to your question, that was the last time we made love. Not had sex, but made love.”

  He was absolutely right. That was the last time. The last honest, soul-touching time. Any that came after between us was our way of filling an obligatory need. Going through the motions of what married people did.

  “I remember.” And I did. It was a rather fond memory. I woke up from the nap later thinking how magnificent it was and I wondered why we hadn’t done something like it much sooner. Afternoon sex and then a long, leisurely nap with not a care in the world.

  But then reality came back. We were the parents of three teen boys and we seldom had the house to ourselves. Even if they were out of the house, Chris wasn’t always home for us to take advantage of it.

  “You’re still smiling,” Chris accused.

  “Was I? I’m sorry. I suppose I shouldn’t be, but it was a really good memory,” I told him. “And I don’t know what was better; the part about making love or napping together afterwards.”

  “That entire afternoon was wonderful.”

  “Yes, it was,” I agreed before throwing my last stone.

  The ripples settled and I turned my attention to the scene on the lake. Just like on Saturday, different types of boats were on the water.

  “You know,” Chris began, “We do have access to the boat this weekend. Care to take it out?”

  For the first time that day, things were looking a bit up. “Really?”

  “Full tank of gas I was told.”

  “Do you think we can still salvage this day and make this our first positive step into a peaceful break-up coexistence?”

  “I do.”

  I’d never paid mind to the boat house off to the right of the dock. I had spent the entire time stewing over my predicament. The little clapboard building that partially hovered over the water was immaterial to me.

  Following Chris over as he withdrew a set of keys from his pocket to the side-rear door, he selected a shiny silver key and unlocked it. He motioned for me to precede him with a bit of gentlemanly flourish before switching on an overhead light. I walked along a U-shaped section of decking where a pretty decent-sized boat hung in dry dock over the water below.

  “Wow. This is bigger than Jim and Nancy’s boat,” I said as I reached out and touched the starboard side.

  “It’s a cabin cruiser and it comes with the cottage.”

  “How did you find out about this place?” I’d paid extra attention when we returned from the hospital; there wasn’t a realty sign I’d missed previously.

  “It belongs to Curt Welliver from production.”

  At the mention of his name, my thoughts returned to the Louis Lamour book from Saturday. “Have I ever met him?” I asked as I searched my memory attempting to think back over every work-related function we’d attended in the past. I drew a blank.

  “Not that I recall, but it isn’t beyond the realm of possibilities,” he replied before sharing, “Curt’s wife died in February after battling cancer for almost a year or so. He tried to come back here this past spring, but he said it wasn’t the same without her. It’s not listed yet. He thought he’d post it on the board at work and let word of mouth sell it. He’s not in a hurry or anything.”

  My brows knitted together and I had to fight to swallow before I asked, “What kind of cancer?”

  “She had breast cancer.”

  “That’s too bad, but I guess I can understand his reluctance to be here. Once you share so many good memories of a place with someone and you lose them, it would be hard to return.”

  “And I think holding on to the place with all of the memories would help you feel closer to the person.”

  “I suppose that would depend on each individual. You wouldn’t know what works best for you unless you’ve actually experienced it. Reminders may prove to be too painful.”

  He shrugged. “You’re right. Until you’ve worn the other person’s shoes, you really can’t presume.”

  I shook off the chill our discussion had given me.

  “Should I drop her into the water then?”

  My attention returned to Chris and I couldn’t help but notice the glimmer of hope on his face. “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

  I’d watched Chris and Jim do the same thing numerous times in the past and it was relatively easy. The electric winch did all the work. Chris made certain the boat was safely secured to the dock before the hull hit the water.

  “If you want to run up to the cottage and grab some bottled water to take along, I’ll take the time to do a safety check.” He looked down. “And a shirt. I need a shirt.”

  “I can do that.” I started for the cottage and stopped short (not an easy task with my cumbersome aircast) as the doctor’s warning came back to me with his shirt request. “Chris, take it easy. You’re supposed to be resting.”

  “I will.” He rolled his eyes stubbornly.

  “Well, we’re not in a hurry so just take your time.”

  “Fine,” he gave in with, “I’ll leisurely do a safety check.”

  Within a half hour, we were on the water and cruising along at a steady clip. The late day sun was an hour or so away from meeting the horizon and had managed to spill a golden glow over everything. Making the moment on the water feel almost enchanted.

  I wouldn’t allow myself to get caught up in that illusion though. Nothing had changed between us. We were still the same people, only a short while ago, trading the nastiest of barbs. No. This was nothing magical. This was merely a cease fire.

  Chris half stood/half knelt on the skipper’s seat to give himself extra height because at 30 knots, the nose of the sport cabin cruiser came up. I didn’t take the seat beside him. No. Instead I chose to sit in the corner port-side aft seat. It gave me a perfect view of the lake with the shore to my back as Chris headed south and in the direction of Watkins Glen.

  Twenty minutes into our ride, Chris cut the engine in the middle of the lake and permitted the boat to drift along leisurely. He joined me by taking the opposite aft corner seat.

  “I love it here,” he said with a far off look.

  “Me, too.”

  “We’ve had lots of fun times here with the boys.”

  I chuckled. “Like the time Hudson lost his swim trunks while water skiing?”

  Chris nodded and laughed, “He mooned half the lake that day.”

  “It didn’t bother him or make him lose his form.” And it didn’t. Hudson had been shedding his clothes publicly since he was a toddler.

  “Aren’t you supposed to keep that thing on?” he asked referring to my discarded aircast.

  “I’m stationary. I don’t need it.”

  He bent down and picked it up. “On the contrary, no fashion conscious girl should be without one. It’s the latest style in footwear; Imperial Stormtrooper shoes. Don’t you want to be a fashion maven?” he teased.

  It was nice to see Chris being silly. A side of him I rarely saw anymore.

  “You are such a nerd, Chris.”

  “Why do you say that?” He feigned being hurt.

  “Only a nerd would reference Star Trek for my clunky aircast.”

  He shook his finger at me and corrected, “Star Wars not Star Trek.”

  “And only a nerd would know the difference.”

  “You used to like my nerdiness.”

  “That was when you were younger and wearing a rather manly varsity letterman’s jacket,” I told him. “You were into every sport a particular season had to offer in high school. Now you’re into molecular cohesion and melting points and probably even designer
pocket protectors for all I know.”

  “For the record, I’ve never worn a pocket protector designer or otherwise.”

  “So you say, but there’s no proof. Who knows what you wear at work,” I said with mock skepticism. “You may have a variety of colors to match a multitude of outfits.”

  “You mean to match my color assortment of polo shirts and Docker’s?”

  Chris’ company had a “snappy” casual dress code. The clothing items he mentioned had become his uniform more or less. During the colder months, he mixed it up a bit with rugby shirts or sweaters. He was grateful dress shirts and ties were things of the past.

  “Yes. Your mad scientist uniform.”

  “Yea, well, my days of being a mad scientist don’t seem to happen as much anymore. Instead, I crunch numbers, handhold the up-and-comers, and watch those under me have the scientific breakthroughs.”

  “It’s like that when you’re living on the company’s pedestal. It’s what you worked for. What you wanted.” I wasn’t trying to make trouble. It was the truth.

  “I hope you know I didn’t do all of this for me. While I liked getting recognition for my accomplishments and creating a name for myself in the industry, my family was the driving force behind me. Providing for you and the boys and giving you the life you deserved motivated me. You can’t take that away from me.”

  “No. I can’t take that away from you. You have always been a wonderful provider. Financially. Whatever we needed. Always.”

  “But?” he asked without a hint of animosity.

  I couldn’t believe I was on the verge of sharing a confidence I had vowed never to share with him. Something that had terrified me initially. Became a huge burden for weeks. Actually, a little over two months. Something that was still breathing down the back of my neck even now. Something that affected me so completely and so outwardly that those I worked around and lived with recognized it. But not my own husband.

  It was because of his apathy during those two months, my indifference about our routine and lagging marriage turned into something akin to outright bitterness and resentment. How insignificant had I become in his life? How could he look at me and not know something was wrong? Only someone that didn’t care would ignore the signs. The hurt I felt was indescribable. By the time my trip to Philadelphia came about, there wasn’t anything anchoring me to my marriage. I didn’t throw myself at Steve, but once I knew he was interested, he didn’t have to ask twice.

  Telling Chris wouldn’t resolve anything, but there was this part of me that needed him to know what he let me go through alone. By telling him, the weekend wouldn’t be a complete loss. If anything, we could look back on it as a time of honesty. Chris should have a full understanding of why our marriage was over. Maybe he could grow from it. Meet someone else down the road and have a better relationship with them because of my total honesty. Just because our life together was coming to an end, didn’t mean I wanted him alone and unhappy. More than anything, I wanted us to both be able to move on to something better.

  “Jen, what is it?”

  I realized how long I’d been lost in thought. “You asked me when I’d basically given up on our marriage and I told you it wasn’t one thing, but a conglomeration. That isn’t entirely the truth.”

  “Go on,” he said sitting forward and clasping his hands.

  “First, I need to show you something,” I said as I sat up straighter and then worked the right side neckline of my sleeveless shirt top to expose my breast. I realized that wasn’t going to work so I went through the armhole. Even though we were alone on our section of the lake and it was almost dusk out, I didn’t want to shed my shirt altogether.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” Chris asked almost shrilly as I pulled down on the cup of my bra.

  With the upper side of my right breast visible, you could make out the darker contrast of the ink against my ivory skin. “This is my other tattoo.”

  He moved closer. Half the distance between us so that he wasn’t on top of me. I heard him huff before saying, “And you felt compelled to show me that? This is part of the truth?”

  “It’s more than a tattoo, Chris,” I replied trying to maintain my calm demeanor. I reminded myself he was reacting to the tattoo in general and not the symbolism of it.

  “If this is some sort of way for you to make a statement about doing what you want with your own body, I’ve already gotten that message from you the other day,” he clipped with measured disapproval.

  “Did you even notice what the tattoo is, Chris?”

  He stepped closer. Jaw tensed, mouth set firmly into a frown. “It’s a butterfly. On your breast. You had some stranger put a goddamn butterfly tattoo on your breast.”

  “It’s not just the butterfly.”

  I would give him credit. Even though it was taking all of his resolve to humor me, he looked again.

  “There’s a large dimple in your breast,” he said as his eyes came up to meet mine. “Is that a scar of some sort? What the hell happened?”

  “It’s more than a dimple. To me, at any rate, it’s more like a crater. That’s why I got the tattoo. It sort of distorts the size and depth of the scar.”

  Without a second of hesitation, Chris reached out and ran his fingers over it. Feather-light with his fingertips at first as if he were afraid he was going to hurt me and then his touch turned a bit harder. His eyes met mine again as he silently conveyed a question to me.

  “I had a lumpectomy in December. Over winter break actually. You were away on a trip.”

  He jerked his hand back. It was an involuntarily action. I couldn’t be angry with him for it. It wasn’t revulsion. It was fear. And shock. Whenever the “C” word was brought up, people had strange reactions. Reactions against their normal behavior. I fixed my shirt feeling self-conscious even though I thought I was long past that stage. I’d been whipping it out for so many medical professionals. Diagnosis. Second opinion. Third opinion. And so on.

  But this was different. Allowing the person you had a history of intimacies with to see the reality of a surgical scar was quite daunting. The same person, who at one time, claimed to worship that particular part of your anatomy. I felt shame.

  “What? How? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I took a deep breath. “I tried to, Chris. I told you about the lump and you said it was probably a cyst. You were more concerned with handling whatever crisis was happening at work.”

  “But after. When you found out. You didn’t tell me.”

  “You knew I had an appointment. The day of it came and went. You never asked. I doubt my little problem ever entered your mind after our initial conversation.”

  He backed up until his legs came into contact with the seat. Then he sort of dropped into it. He ran both of his hands up over his face roughly and then through his hair.

  “You know I’m right,” I pressed without malice.

  “My God. You must hate me.”

  I looked to the deck and shook my head. “I suppose I came very close to that emotion. Instead, I just stopped caring.”

  He nodded his head as my words sank in. “So it was cancerous?”

  “It was precancerous. Noninvasive.”

  “Why just a lumpectomy? Isn’t a mastectomy the preferred treatment?” he asked as the scientist emerged.

  “They’ve made gains the past few years where treatment is concerned. Between the consultations I had with three separate oncologists, this was the most agreed upon method.”

  “And you went through chemo and I didn’t notice?”

  “Not for what I had. I underwent radiation treatments.”

  “But is that enough?”

  I gave him a lopsided smile and said, “I hope so. They told me it was. I’ll have to wait and see. It really isn’t in my hands.”

  “I don’t like this. Not at all. I should have known everything, Jennifer. I may not have given you my full attention from the onset, but you should have told me the results f
rom your appointment.”

  “It should have been on your mind from the onset. It wasn’t. In light of everything, I got by on my own.”

  “In order to punish me, you were on your own.”

  “I had so much going on at the time. So much to work through. I don’t recall the word ‘punish’ entering my mind at any time. If anything, you’re lack of concern prepared me for what was to come. Both medically and mentally. It wasn’t about you, Chris. It was about what was right for me. Given the opportunity to do it all over again, I’d do the very same thing.” Whether he liked it or not, it was the truth. “And I wasn’t truly on my own. I had Carson.”

  “Do Hudson and Clinton know?”

  “They simply assumed I wasn’t feeling well. Hudson thought I was maybe depressed. I was never completely honest with them. I didn’t want them to worry,” I explained.

  Talking about the boys made me choke up. I cursed myself for it. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to come across as impassive to the subject matter. This wasn’t the time to lose it. I didn’t want comforted by him. It was too late for that.

  I waved my hand in between us to sort of clear the air. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s over.”

  “But not done with.”

  I knew what he was getting at. “The risk of reoccurrence? No. It isn’t entirely done. I will be holding my breath until I reach the five year mark.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “It is.”

  “I don’t want to waste anymore time, Jen.”

  “Chris—“

  “No. Just listen to me.” He sat forward appearing to have regained his fire. “It isn’t too late for us. Let me make it up to you. Everything. You say we can’t go back after what you did. Well,” he said looking at me so earnestly, “I sincerely hope not. I don’t want to go back to exactly what we had before. I want us to grow from this. I need to be there more. Not just for the kids, but for you as well. And I haven’t been. I’m not caught up in this illusion where I think I’m perfect. I know I’m far from it. Please help me be a better person. A better father. A better husband.”