Last night I laid in bed just staring at John while he slept soundly, completely oblivious to the ticking time bomb wedged between us. I wanted to wake him so many times and just confess, whisper it all quietly in the dark. But in the end, I couldn’t wrangle enough nerve.
Earlier this morning I had mindlessly slipped on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, pulled my hair into a ponytail and finished off my disheveled look with a pair of camel-colored Uggs. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t bother with my appearance, regardless of whether or not my day consisted only of carpool and housework. I dropped the kids off in the turn-about, something I have never done, and asked Olivia to walk Max to his classroom. Olivia had rolled her eyes at my request, but rather than pitch a fit, she had grabbed her brother’s hand and marched him across campus toward the kindergarten wing. It broke my heart to ask her to do something for Max, when it should have been my responsibility. With their five-year age gap – the same as Charley and I – I try hard not to burden Olivia with taking care of Max.
I hear the doorbell ring, startling me, and I slowly make my way to the front entry. I open the door to find my mother standing on the front porch in a straw visor, her short wavy blonde hair spilling out the top. She’s dressed in her usual attire of loose fitting leggings and a draped, cotton sweater, all in neutral shades. Her oversized, black vegan-leather handbag is hanging from one shoulder and a Whole Foods reusable shopping bag is dangling on the other.
She pulls her tortoise-shaped sunglasses from her face and smiles at me.
“Mother, what are you doing here?” I ask her.
“Well, you haven’t returned any of my calls, so I thought I’d come check on you.” She looks me up and down with a frown and asks, “Are you sick?”
I take a deep breath and give her a closed-lip smile. My mother is the last person I want to see right now. She’s pushy and talks too much and I just want to spend the day alone. I’m not in the mood for her interrogations or her opinions.
“Yeah, just feeling a little under the weather today,” I reply. She pushes her way past me.
“You poor thing. You need to take better care of yourself, Gwen. You do too much. Sometimes it’s okay to take a break,” she says, making her way down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Here we go, I think as I push the door closed and follow her to the kitchen. She has the shopping bag on the counter as she unloads its contents one at a time. Cellophane wrapped boxes of tea, a jar of rainbow-colored gummy vitamins, a bottle of apple-cider vinegar, cranberry juice and several tiny dark bottles of essential oil line the dark marble countertop.
“Mom, I can buy my own groceries, ya know?”
“I know, but you don’t have a Whole Foods in Seaport. And Felicity just told me about this new tea that’s suppose to energize you and build-up your immune system. And of course, you can never have too many vitamins for the kids.”
I just stare at my mother with my signature closed-lip smile that I use only for her. She has recently become a vegan and is obsessed with her new lifestyle, not to mention her obsession with her spiritual advisor, Felicity. My mother has had several obsessions over the years. At one time it was knitting and Charley and I were showered with scarves, hats, sweaters, and an assortment of Barbie clothes made entirely of yarn. When she finally gave that up it was yoga and meditation, which led her to Buddhism. Our house looked like a shrine for eight months until she gave that up and moved on to something else. It was always something though. After my dad left, it had been men. Luckily, that phase had lasted only a year or so. My mother started out the perfect homemaker and mother, but once my father left, she crumbled. Most days she locked herself in her room, barely able to take care of Charley and I, let alone hold down a job. We got by on what little we had but I slowly grew to hate her. I can remember my anger building each day, resentment taking root as I watched her wallow in her weakness, while her daughters fought to be strong. But then one day, three years after my dad left, I came home from school and she was fully dressed with her makeup in place and the house was clean. She behaved as if she hadn’t abandoned Charley and I all that time, like it never happened. That same week she got a clerical job and life got better, but by then it was too late for all of us. Charley and I were robbed of the bond that so many of my friends had with their own mothers. At thirteen, I felt more like an adult, completely independent. And Charley felt more comfortable coming to me for things than our mother, who at that point felt more like a stranger. Since having my own children, my mother and I have grown closer and I can see her unfailing effort to be a good grandmother, as if she is trying to make up for lost time. I fear that Charley will never have a relationship with our mother, but then again, she doesn’t have a relationship with anyone, with the exception of me, John and the kids.
“Thanks Mom. You shouldn’t have,” I say, placing my hands on the counter and feeling like I need its support to stay upright.
“I don’t mind,” she says and then she pauses, sets down a box and looks at me.
“What’s wrong, Gwen? Are you okay? Maybe you should go lie down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Because Felicity told me I should check on you, but she wasn’t sure why. And now that I see you, I’m worried. Should I be worried?” she asks, with her hand on her hip.
My head is spinning from all her questions. Maybe Felicity’s not completely full of shit. That thought alone gives me the chills. But I certainly can’t confide in my mother before coming clean to John and so I say in my most reassuring voice, “I’m fine, really. Max just had the stomach flu, maybe I’m coming down with it.”
“Poor Max. You should really be taking probiotics. You could avoid these kind of things.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I deadpan. “Ya know, I think I will go lie down. You’re welcome to stay,” I call out behind me as I make my way toward the stairs.
“I’ll just put these things away for you and then let myself out. I’m having lunch with Susan Marcus and then heading back to the city. Feel better, honey.”
I pause on the bottom stair and turn to look at her as she blows me a kiss. “Thank you. Bye Mother,” I say with a subtle wave and then trudge up the stairs.
The next morning after school drop off, I drive to the clinic in Seaport, where Dr. Sheldan has set up my weekly appointments for my intravenous infusions. I’m relieved to not have to drive into the city every week for my treatment and I’m able to drive myself home afterward given the short three-mile distance. It’s easier to keep my secret this way, I think, and I instantly feel sick to my stomach for being so deceiving, for lying to John. It’s as if I’m having an affair with cancer, and for some reason I feel like it would be easier to confess having a secret lover then tell my husband the fatal truth.
I’m sitting in a comfortable chair, counting every drop of fluid as it is slowly infused into my bloodstream, and I am reminded of the grueling months of chemotherapy that I endured before. I always had John or Charley at my side to keep me company, but now I sit here alone, fighting back tears. I’m trying so hard not to feel sorry for myself, to stay positive, but then I think of the uncertainty of my future and I can’t fight the devastation that I feel.
I picture Olivia’s beautiful face and Max’s soft, chubby cheeks to gain perspective. This is for them. I can do this for them. I pull my iPad from my purse and begin my online search for the best nutrition plan, homeopathic treatments, and tips on dealing with the side effects during treatment. I realize that I’ve been feeling out of sorts because I can’t control this situation. But I feel a calm wash over me with every website that I research as I resolve to try everything possible, to do whatever it takes. After an hour of this, I type “how to tell your husband you have cancer” into the search engine. Surprisingly, there is an endless list of sites with advice for this very thing. Although it’s comforting to read other people’s struggles with cancer, it doesn’t ease my fear of telling John.
My phone vibrates in my purse and I shift everything around until I find it and see Charley’s name on the screen.
I say, “Hello,” just in time.
“Whatcha doing?” she asks. Though she knows exactly what I’m doing. She was there when I made this appointment.
“Sitting on the beach, sipping a mai tai. You?”
“I really wish I could be there with you. I can’t stand the thought of you sitting there alone.”
“I’m fine. Really. You can’t miss work every time I have a treatment.”
“I know. You need to tell John, Gwen. This is getting out of control, all this sneaking around. Just tell him.”
I let out a breath that I’ve been holding since she mentioned John’s name.
“I know. I will, I promise. I just haven’t had the right moment.” Tears blur my eyes. Why is this so damn hard?
“There’s never going to be the right moment. Jesus, Gwen. If you don’t tell him soon, then I will.”
“No,” I say in a rush. There is no way that she can tell John. I just need more time. “Charley, you can’t. It should be me. I’ll tell him.”
“Do it, Gwen. He should be sitting there with you right now, holding your hand.”
Tears are now spilling down my cheeks and I can’t speak, my emotions are balled up deep in my throat and one word will give them away.
Charley’s voice is only a whisper. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I am nodding even though she can’t see me. And we stay on the phone until my treatment is through, each of us quiet as I listen to Charley work on the other end of the line, but her quiet presence is exactly what I need.
Chapter 18
Charley
I hang up the phone and look around to ensure that no one can see the emotion written across my face. I want so badly to be there for Gwen. It’s killing me. I have picked up the phone so many times to call John and tell him the truth, but I can’t betray Gwen that way. She needs me right now, and I’m going to be everything that she needs me to be just as she has done for me all these years. But, dammit, I wish she would tell him the truth.
I stare across the room at Grey’s closed office door. I want to go to him. I am wound so tightly with all these emotions, I just need to lose myself in him, to feel free for just a few minutes. But we’re at work, in the middle of the day, and I know the risk involved.
I jump when his office door opens abruptly. He steps out looking every bit the uber sexy businessman in a pastel purple dress shirt and charcoal dress slacks. He moves toward my desk and I notice that he has removed his tie since this morning, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair is a mess as if he has been running his fingers through it. His expression is intense as he approaches me and I can understand why the other assistants are so intimidated by him.
“Charley, can you make ten copies of this on letterhead?” he asks as he lays a sheet of paper in front of me, avoiding my eyes. I find myself biting down on the end of my pen, completely tied up in knots at the sight of him.
He walks back toward his office before I can respond and shuts the door. I go to the copy room and make the ten copies that he has requested. When I reach his office door, I knock lightly and step inside, close the door behind me and discreetly push the lock in place. I toss the copies on his desk and he looks up at me, his eyes meeting mine.
“Here are your copies,” I say, swallowing the knot in my throat.
“Thanks,” he says, running his hands through his hair.
I walk around his desk and push his chair back.
“What are you doing, Charley?” he asks, more annoyed than amused. “I’m in the middle of this proposal.”
I kneel down in front of him and undo his belt and the button and zipper of his pants. He doesn’t say anything. He only watches my face and lifts his hips when I tug at his pants and boxers. As I slip them down his thighs, he moves to the edge of his chair. I grip his length in my hand until he’s ready and then take him slowly to the back of my throat, moving to the sound of his moans as I feel his fingers in my hair, guiding me. Just as I feel him start to lose control, he pulls himself out of my mouth and lifts me to his lap where I straddle him, my dress riding up around my waist. He moves the thin strap of my panties aside and lowers my hips until he’s inside me. I moan at the feel of him and bury my face in his neck where I lick and kiss his skin, stifling the noise that I dare to make.
In a strained whisper, Grey says, “God, Charley you’re so wet. What are you doing to me?” He guides my hips faster and faster until I melt around him, trembling in relief, relishing in the dizzy void that has taken over my thoughts. All tension from before is drained from my body. Seconds later I feel him empty into me, gripping me tightly as if he can’t get close enough though our thighs are skin to skin, our bodies joined as one.
We stay like this while our breath evens out and then I stand and pull my dress back down over my hips and quickly walk to the small, adjoined washroom. I use the restroom and remove all traces of Grey, fix my tousled hair with my fingers and stare at my flushed face in the small mirror.
What am I doing? I ask myself. My emotions are all over the place, though my body is still behaving in the only way it knows.
I open the bathroom door and walk back into Grey’s office. He is sitting behind his desk, his pants back in place, his hair in more disarray than before. My body hums at the sight of him, already in anticipation of more.
He just stares at me, his eyes dark and filled with lust and I can’t get a read on what he’s thinking.
“Well, I guess I should get back to work,” I say, if only to break the silent tension in the room.
I turn to go but his voice stops me.
“Charley. What are we doing?” he asks, a genuine question.
I turn back to face him. And because I don’t have the answer that he’s looking for, I respond by saying, “Working. We’re working. I just... I just needed you.”
He only nods and then says, “Well, I’m here. Whenever you need me.” He narrows his eyes at me as if he wants to say something more. But he must think better of it because he only smiles and says, “Thank you... for the copies.” He picks up the stack of papers and begins to look them over. I take this as my cue to leave.
Stepping out the door, I mutter to myself with a smile, “You’re welcome.”
Chapter 19
Gwen
“I’m sorry, honey, I won’t be home for dinner. Hal and I are meeting with a client for drinks. Tell the kids I love them.”
“Of course. Be safe. Love you,” I say into the phone where it rests between my chin and shoulder while I drain the cooked pasta over the sink. Steam rises up to my face and I turn my head away while placing the hot pan back on the stovetop to cool.
“Love you too,” John says, his voice laced with regret as I slip the phone from my shoulder and end our call. He hates working late and missing out on our family time together in the evenings. I sigh, feeling a sense of relief to not have to face him. Maybe I’ll be in bed asleep before he gets home. It’s too hard to lie about my day and yet I’m not sure that I’m ready to tell him the truth. My fingers go to the bandage on the underside of my forearm, hidden by my sweater. The IV site is still tender to the touch. I’m not sure how long I can keep this from him.
“I’m hungry,” I hear Max say from behind me, snapping me back into the moment, my task at hand.
“Dinner is ready. Why don’t you go wash your hands?” I say. “Olivia. Dinner,” I call out.
Moments later, the three of us are sitting around the kitchen table eating a pasta dinner, chatting about our day.
“It’s down to me and Chelsea Hammitt for the lead role, Mom,” Olivia says animatedly. She’s trying out for the school play, a more modern version of the musical, Annie; she’s been practicing for weeks.
“I’m so proud of you, Olivia. When do they announce the cast?”
> “Right before Thanksgiving break, and rehearsals begin the first week of December.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” I say, crossing my fingers in the air. I’ve already volunteered to help build and paint the stage set for the play, which will be performed at the end of the school year. I try to push the thoughts aside that creep into my conscience, the thoughts that wonder if I’ll be here to paint the set when Max is in the fifth grade play, five years from now. Five years.
“How about you, Max? How was your day?” I ask, turning my attention to Max. He has pasta sauce dripping from his chin while he tries to stuff a huge noodle in his mouth with his fork. I smile and use his napkin to wipe his face.
“Travis pushed me down at recess and took my soccer ball,” he says around a mouthful of food.
“Did you tell Miss LaBorn?” I ask with a frown. This isn’t the first time that Travis has picked on Max.
“No. I played on the swing instead. I don’t like Travis. He’s mean.”
“I know Max. Just use your words to fight back, not your hands and I’ll talk to your teacher and see if we can get this straightened out, okay?”
“Okay,” he says, so easy to please.
Hours later when the kids are in bed asleep, I grasp a hot cup of tea in my hand – one of the organic brands my mother bought – wrap a throw blanket around me and step outside onto the deck. The air is crisp, the dark sky remarkably clear and dotted with thousands of stars. I lay back on a lounge chair and stare at the stars. I trace the big dipper with my eyes and wish that I remembered more constellations, sure that I would be able to see them on this rare, clear night. I spot a shooting star; it happens so fast that I think I imagined it, but then I see another and another. Amazing, I think. And then I instantly wish that Olivia was awake to watch this. The thought occurs to me at the same time that I stand from the chair and before I know it, I’m running up the stairs to her room.
The Words We Leave Unspoken Page 9