by Beth K. Vogt
“I’ve had a difficult time keeping up with things at work. I’m tired. I find it hard to multitask like I used to. You know what I mean . . .”
And there was Johanna’s invitation to step in.
“Yes, those are all common complications after chemo and radiation—not to mention the medication you’re on.”
Her response was an echo of our recent argument, but I only wanted to deal with one thing at a time. I needed to be wise and choose my fights with my older sister. I preferred not to fight with her at all.
I swallowed back the desire to respond. “Exactly.”
“When are you going to tell the rest of the family?”
Now that question I hadn’t anticipated.
“Um . . . they already know.”
“They already know? Mom and Dad? Payton? Even Zach Gaines, I suppose?”
There was no need for Johanna to list off the members of the family as if to remind me of whom I needed to talk to.
“Yes, they were all at Mom and Dad’s last Sunday, so I told everyone then.”
“You didn’t tell everyone, Jillian. You didn’t tell me.”
“You weren’t there, Johanna.”
“I know I wasn’t there, but you couldn’t call me last Sunday? Text, maybe? Did you—oh, I don’t know—lose my phone number or e-mail address?”
With every word she spoke, Johanna twisted our conversation more and more out of shape—from what had happened to me to some supposed offense against her. Her voice softened, going lower and lower, almost a whisper.
This was all wrong. Why was Johanna acting like the wounded party?
“I’m sorry, Jo—”
“At least you realize you owe me an apology.”
“That . . . that wasn’t an apology.” I sucked in a breath.
“What do you mean by that, Jilly?”
“I mean . . . I am sorry you’re upset. And yes, maybe I could have called you sooner.” I wavered for a moment, knowing that what I said next was a turning point of some kind in my relationship with Johanna . . . possibly a point of no return. “But maybe . . . maybe you could understand that being fired is a bit of a shock? And that dealing with a renovation is hard enough without problems—even if I should have expected some? And you know I’m dealing with side effects of my medication because you’re telling Mom all about them.”
Words stumbled out of my mouth—a halting explanation ending with an accusation that fell into an abyss of silence that grew louder and louder.
For a moment, I wanted to declare victory. But that would be gloating. Immature. Besides, if I said anything else, I might unlock something even darker and hurl it at my sister.
“I know you need to call Beckett, so I’ll let you do that. Good-bye, Johanna.”
The mideighty temperatures were giving way to cooler evenings as the sun slipped behind Pikes Peak, but the warmth would return tomorrow, refusing to abdicate its seasonal position quite yet. Leaves were starting to drift down from tree limbs, dotting the grass with bursts of color.
“It’s a perfect night to grill out.” I carried the quartet of premade burgers I’d purchased at the grocery store out to the backyard. “All the better, since we don’t have a working stove.”
“We don’t have a working kitchen. Period.” Geoff accepted the paper plate from me. “But this is an improvement over takeout. Or peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Who knows? Maybe by the time the renovation is over, I’ll be ready for some sort of barbecue championship—win us some cold hard cash.”
“Right. Forget cybersecurity and take your grilling skills on the road. Maybe challenge Bobby Flay. But for now, we’re eating together. At a normal time.”
“It’s okay to eat dinner without me during the week, Jillian.” Geoff stood in front of his preferred method of grilling—a charcoal grill—waiting for the charcoal to heat up. He was a purist when it came to his burgers and steaks. No electric grill for him.
“I know. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty for working late.”
After my talk yesterday with Johanna, the last thing I wanted was to be anywhere near guilt. I didn’t want to be blamed for things or make someone else feel that way. And if anything, it should be the other way around. Geoff had a job. I didn’t. His long hours might create some stress on our married life, but I’d known about Geoff’s work hours before we got married. He wasn’t causing financial problems by not having a job.
I should be cooking, not Geoff. I wasn’t doing my fair share around the house.
More and more, my faults were piling up like some invisible block tower that would come crashing down, burying me beneath all my “I can’ts.”
I needed to think about something else.
“Did you ever talk to your boss about that speaking opportunity?”
“What?” Geoff squinted his eyes against the smoke rising from the grill as he placed the hamburgers on with a soft sizzle of meat against metal. “Oh, that. Yes. I told him I wanted to do it. That still okay with you?”
I wrapped my arms around his waist, resting my head against his back. “I think it’s fantastic. I’m so proud of you.”
“I haven’t done it yet.”
“I know you’ll do great.”
“Thanks.”
“Has Zach contacted you about the estimates for the plumbing or electrical jobs?”
“He called today and said he hopes to have them by early next week. Asked if I wanted him to go ahead and pull permits. I said yes.”
“Okay.”
Geoff twisted around to face me, removed his glasses, closing his eyes and pressing his fingertips against the bridge of his nose before saying anything else. “This is what I get for buying this house ‘as is.’”
“I guess I didn’t realize you did that.” I rushed to soften my words. “Allen Thomas did say it’s a nice little house.”
“Except for the pipes and the wiring . . .”
“I love this neighborhood.”
“And all this work will be great when we sell the house.”
“Not that we’re planning on doing that anytime soon.” I backed toward the house. “What do you want to drink?”
“Tea sounds good.”
I retrieved two bottles of unsweetened iced tea from the mini fridge, handing one to Geoff and keeping one for myself. He was adding salt and pepper to the hamburger patties. Maybe now was a good time to change the topic.
“Remember how I went to see Dr. Sartwell on Monday?” I twisted the metal cap off the tea.
“Yeah.” Geoff faced me again. “You’re okay, right? I thought you said everything was good.”
“Yes. Everything is fine. Dr. Sartwell and I were just talking about things. Getting a consult for reconstructive surgery. The side effects of the Tamoxifen.”
Even with my effort to sound calm, Geoff remained facing me, smoke billowing up behind him.
I knew our address. That we were renovating a one-hundred-year-old house near Memorial Park. But a year past my cancer diagnosis, Geoff and I still lived on the border of “what-if.” What if my cancer came back? What if all the reassurances weren’t enough to hold back something worse? What if my recovery . . . this rocky status of health . . . was only temporary?
I pressed the side of my clenched fist against my forehead as if doing so would force back the pressure building there.
I had a say in how things went in my life. That was what this conversation was all about.
“Something Dr. Sartwell said at the end of the appointment gave me an idea.”
“What kind of idea?” Geoff took a moment to flip the burgers again.
“She reminded me that I can’t get pregnant while I’m on the Tamoxifen.”
“There’s no chance we’re forgetting that.”
“But then she mentioned adopting.”
Geoff stilled. “What?”
“She said if we didn’t want to wait five years to start a family, we could always adopt.” I tamped down the urge to hug m
yself. Rock back and forth. “I don’t know why we didn’t think about this before—”
“No.” Geoff pushed his glasses back up in place. “No, I don’t want to do that.”
What? This was when my husband—my very understanding husband—was supposed to say, “You’re right. Why didn’t we consider this sooner? It’s a great idea. Definitely something worth talking about.”
But instead, Geoff said no—not once, but twice—acting as if I’d suggested we try to get pregnant right then, maybe not even bother waiting for the privacy of our bedroom. Geoff’s voice had gone flat. Devoid of emotion. But he’d still said no, blocking me as efficiently as a left tackle on an offensive line. Shutting me out.
I took a slow sip of my tea, the liquid soothing the dryness in my throat as I composed my thoughts. This just-begun conversation was not over. “You don’t want to do that? What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t want to adopt.” Geoff faced away from me, flipping the burgers again, his back rigid.
“Just like that, end of discussion?”
“What’s there to discuss? You haven’t talked about wanting to adopt before now.” Geoff didn’t even bother to face me again, causing me to strain to hear his words. “I don’t want to adopt. It’s not an option. Do we have buns?”
Do we have buns?
“Wait a minute.” I positioned myself so he had to look at me, the smoke from the grill burning my eyes. “Geoff, just because we haven’t talked about adoption before now doesn’t mean it’s not an option.”
“What about the fact that I just told you I don’t want to adopt?”
“Since when have you been against adoption?”
“I’m not against adoption—”
“Then explain why you won’t even consider it.”
“Look, I think it’s great—for someone else. Not me.”
Which meant not for me. Not for us. It was as if I was talking to a stranger with shuttered, cold eyes. Someone devoid of humor. Compassion.
My Geoff wouldn’t shut me out like this with an unexplained, unemotional no.
“I thought we were having a conversation—”
“We are having a conversation, Jill.”
“A conversation is when two people talk back and forth. When they listen to each other.”
“I listened.”
“You listened until I said the word adopt, and then you said no and that was the end of any real communication between us.”
Silence.
“Geoff.”
He crossed his arms. Stared at me. “What do you want me to say?”
“Tell me we can talk about the possibility of adopting.”
Geoff pursed his lips. Swallowed, grimacing as if tasting something bitter. “I love you, Jilly. You know I do. But I can’t tell you that. I . . . I’ve just never been one of those people who wanted to adopt. I don’t think I could love someone else’s kid, you know?” He shrugged, not quite meeting my eyes. “So there’s no sense in talking about it. I’m sorry.”
With every word he spoke, Geoff seemed to step farther away from me, although he never moved.
I hadn’t realized how much the idea of adopting had become my own personal get-out-of-jail-free card, compliments of Dr. Sartwell. How much I wanted to be able to start a family when I wanted, rather than being on cancer’s timetable.
And yes, I could hear the apology in Geoff’s voice—both the spoken and unspoken one—because it clashed so loudly with the clear message that this topic was closed.
I pressed my lips together, almost choking on all the bottled-up words inside me. Stared at my husband. “Yes, we have buns. I must have left them in my car.”
“What?”
“You asked if we had buns. We do. In my car.” I took several steps back. “If you want them, you’ll have to get them yourself. I—I’m not feeling hungry anymore.”
I sounded childish, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“Come on, Jill. Let’s have dinner—”
“And talk about what? Work? Oh, that’s right, I don’t have a job. Adopting? That’s a non-topic, too.”
“Can’t we just have a nice meal together?”
“Apparently not.” Now I did wrap my arms around my waist, holding myself together. “I think I’ll take Winston for a walk.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” I motioned to the grill. “The burgers are burning.”
I COULD GET USED TO the quiet . . . after all, that was normal. But I didn’t want to.
I wanted to wake up because Winston was barking, alerting me to the sound of a truck rolling to a stop out front. I wanted my kitchen to resound with footsteps and hammering and drilling and scraping and men’s voices and somebody’s chosen radio station for the day . . . sounds indicating work had begun again.
I never thought I’d want people and noise in my house, but that would mean things were happening. Instead, everything remained at a standstill.
How ironic.
Progress was evading me in so many areas of my life. And it was all too costly.
I scooped food into Winston’s bowl, popped a pod into the coffeemaker, and peered into the mini fridge, welcoming the tiniest bit of cool air on my face.
A couple of bagels. A tub of low-fat cream cheese. Leftover, overcooked hamburgers from Saturday night. . . .
I closed the fridge door and grabbed a banana from the basket on the dining room table.
“You all done, Winnie?” Coffee mug in hand, I opened the back door—which would probably remain a plain old door, rather than being transformed into classic French doors.
I rubbed sleep out of my eyes, feathering my still-short hair with my fingertips. Maybe I’d keep it this way, especially if it retained the wave that had appeared when my hair grew back in. And maybe one day I’d have decent eyelashes and eyebrows again.
Sometimes it was truly the simple things in life that made all the difference.
“Good morning, neighbor.” Gianna’s voice floated over from her yard, causing Winston to bound that direction.
“Morning. Sorry—”
“Winston is never a problem. Really. Avery enjoys him. And so long as you have a dog, I don’t need to get her one.”
“Oh, is that how it works?”
“That’s how it works with a two-year-old, yes.” Gianna met me at the fence, Avery crouching a few feet behind her, examining a dandelion in the yard. “How’s the renovation going?”
Avery seemed fascinated with that simple yellow flower—a weed really. Her pudgy little fingers touched the bloom, and then she pulled it out of the ground, bringing it to Gianna, a smile lighting her blue eyes.
“For you, Mommy.”
“Thank you, sweetie.” Gianna took the tiny offering with a soft laugh as her daughter wandered off.
I tried to breathe against the tightness in my chest. To smile at the exchange. Make light of it. But Avery’s innocent action showed me what Geoff was denying me with his abrupt no last night.
“Jillian?” Gianna reached across the fence and touched my arm. “You okay?”
“What? I’m sorry. . . . Did you say something?”
“I asked how the renovation was going.”
“Oh . . . I . . . I missed that somehow.” There was no explaining my lapse. “It’s not going. We’ve had a trio of problems. A minor mold issue. And then we found out we needed new pipes and new wiring—for the entire house.”
“Oh, wow.” Gianna leaned against the fence. “That’ll make my husband happy.”
“Why would you say that?”
“He told me not to get any ideas about redoing our kitchen anytime soon. No keeping up with the Hennesseys.”
“Nice to know my house problems will make your husband happy. We blew our budget pretty quickly.”
“We’re going for a walk. Want to join us?”
Avery had found a cluster of dandelions in a corner of the yard and was gathering a tiny bo
uquet of them for Gianna.
“That might be nice.” Not that my neighbor knew I was lying to her. My phone rang in the pocket of my hoodie. “That’s probably Geoff. . . . Maybe next time?”
“Sure.” Gianna backed away with a small wave. “Come on, Avery. Let’s go for a walk.”
“Talk to you later.” I turned away from the sight of mom and daughter heading out for their morning walk. A quick check of my phone confirmed it was Geoff. I was tempted to ignore the call, but that would be immature.
“Hello?”
“Jillian. Hi. I wanted to check on you.”
“Outside with Winston.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine. I’ve been up for a little while. I was talking to Gianna—”
“I don’t want to interrupt . . .”
“It’s fine. She’s taking Avery for a walk.”
A sigh sounded across the phone. “You’re still angry, aren’t you?”
I stopped just outside the closed back door. “I’m not angry.”
“Then what are you?”
I couldn’t . . . wouldn’t toss out my usual excuses. I’m tired. I’m having a hard time processing all of this . . .
“I’m hurt.”
“Hurt? Why?”
“Now that makes me angry.” I cut off his response. “That’s ridiculous, Geoff, and you know it. I’m hurt by our nonconversation Saturday night, when I wanted to talk about adoption. And by how nothing else was ever said all weekend.”
“What else was I supposed to say?”
“You could have asked me how I was feeling before now, when you’re at work and I know you can’t talk long. . . . Or maybe you could have told me what you were thinking or feeling . . .”
“But talking wouldn’t change the result. Wouldn’t have changed my mind.”
“Maybe it would have changed how the weekend went. How this conversation is going. Maybe we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
“Or maybe the weekend would have been worse. Did you ever think of that?”
I leaned my head against the door. None of this was helping. If anything, we were only digging the line separating us deeper into the sand.