Lightning

by Danielle Steel

  She got up again after a little while, and went to do what she could in the kitchen. She set the table for the next day, and as she did, she realized that each step was an agony. She felt crushed by exhaustion. Her whole body ached, and she wondered if she was coming down with the flu, or just having more side effects from the chemo. Her bladder bothered her too that night, and by the time she got to bed, Sam was asleep and she felt like death and she looked it. He had promised to help her in the morning.

  She set her alarm clock for six-fifteen, so she could put the turkey in the oven. It was a big bird, and it would take a long time to cook. They ate their Thanksgiving dinner at noon usually. But when she got up, she was too sick to move, and she lost an hour throwing up as quietly as she could in the bathroom.

  But by the time Annabelle got up, she was putting the turkey in, and a little while later Sam joined them. Annabelle wanted to go to the Macy's Thanks giving Day parade, and Alex didn't have the heart to ask him not to and help her cook dinner.

  They left around nine o'clock, and Alex was doing the best she could in the kitchen. She had made the stuffing, done the vegetables, and was about to start on the potatoes. They had bought the pies fortunately, but she still hadn't tackled the popovers or the chestnuts.

  And the moment they left, Alex was seized with a bout of vomiting that left her choking and breathless. She was so frightened she almost called 911, and suddenly longed for Brock to be there to help her. She got an ice pack for herself, and finally stood in the shower, throwing up, thinking that might help. She was still in her nightgown, looking gray, when they came back at eleven-thirty.

  “Didn't you get dressed?” He looked shocked when he looked at her. She hadn't even combed her hair, which told him she hadn't even bothered to make the effort. But the turkey smelled good, and everything was either in the oven or on the stove. “What time do we eat?” he asked, as Annabelle went to her room to play and he flipped on the television to watch football.

  “Not till one. I started the turkey a little late.” It was a miracle, considering how sick she'd been that morning.

  “Do you need help?” he asked casually, as he put his feet up. It was more than a little late, and she didn't say anything. She had managed to do all of it, which amazed no one more than it did her. Sam had no idea what she'd been battling to do it.

  She went to get out of her nightgown then, and put on a white dress and comb her hair. But she didn't have time or feel well enough to put on makeup. She was almost the color of the dress when they finally sat down to eat. And Sam glanced at her, as he carved, irritated that she hadn't made the effort to put on makeup. Did she want to look sick? Did she want them to feel sorry for her? Using a little blush certainly wouldn't have killed her.

  But Alex had no idea how bad she looked, although she certainly felt it. She felt as though her whole body were dipped in lead, and she could scarcely move as she served their dinner.

  Sam said the same grace they always did, and Annabelle told her mother all about the parade. And five minutes after they'd started to eat, Alex had to make a wild dash from the table. The work, and the heat in the kitchen, and the smells had just been too much for her. She couldn't do it. She did everything she could to stop throwing up, but she couldn't.

  “For God's sake,” Sam came to snarl at her, desperate to keep up the appearance of normalcy for Annabelle, and himself, “can't you at least make the effort to sit there?”

  “I can't,” she said, between retching and tears, “I can't stop.”

  “Force yourself, for chrissake. She deserves a better Thanksgiving than this. We all do.”

  “Stop it!” she screamed at him, sobbing openly, shouting so loud they both knew Annabelle could hear them, “stop doing this to me, you bastard! I can't help it!”

  “The hell you can't, dragging around all day in your nightgown, wearing that goddamn white face like a ghost so it scares everyone. You don't even try anymore, except to go to work. But for us, you let it all hang out and puke all over yourself whenever it suits you.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” she moaned, and then threw up all over again. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was emotional. Maybe she just couldn't take any more shit from him. But whatever it was, she couldn't stop it. She didn't get back to the table until dessert, and poor little Annabelle looked quiet and sad when she saw her mother.

  “Do you feel better, Mommy?” she asked in a small voice, with big, unhappy eyes. “I'm sorry you're sick.” Maybe he was right. Maybe they all felt responsible. Maybe she was making everyone miserable. Maybe it would be better if she died. She didn't know what to think anymore, or what had happened to him. He was a complete stranger, everything he had ever meant to her, all the gentleness and love he had shown her for years, had totally vanished.

  “I'm okay, sweetheart. I feel better now,” she said to Annabelle, and ignored Sam. And after dinner, Annabelle lay on the couch with her, and Alex told her stories. She let Sam do all the cleaning up, and he looked furious when he was finished. Annabelle had just gone to her room to get a video, when he came out of the kitchen and saw Alex.

  “Thanks for a great Thanksgiving,” he said sarcastically, “remind me to go somewhere else next year.”

  “Be my guest.” He hadn't said a word to thank her for all the work she'd done, or all the effort.

  “You had to ruin it for her, didn't you? You couldn't even sit there for an hour, just so she'd be sure to know how sick you are.”

  “When did you turn into a complete prick, Sam?” Alex asked casually, as she looked up at him. “You know, I never realized what a miserable human being you were before. I guess I was too busy.”

  “Maybe we both were,” he muttered, and stalked into the study to watch football. He'd had other Thanksgivings like this before. Years when his mother had been too sick even to come out of her room, or cook a turkey. His father usually got drunk. And once he was at school, he hadn't even bothered to come home for Thanksgiving. The holidays meant a lot to him, and it meant a lot to him to have Alex make the effort. She always had before. But now, she was just like his mother, and all it did was make him hate her.

  After the football game, he went out alone that afternoon. He went for a long walk in the park, by himself, and when he came back, they ate leftovers, and Alex seemed to be in better spirits. Having ruined their Thanksgiving meal, she was free to perk up now, and feel better. Or at least that was his perception of it.

  Annabelle still seemed subdued, and she had asked her mother why she and Daddy shouted all the time, and why they were angry at each other. Alex told her it didn't mean anything, grown-ups just did that sometimes. But Annabelle still looked worried.

  Sam put Annabelle to bed himself that night, and made a point of saying to Alex that she was probably too sick to do it, and remembering what Annabelle had said about their arguing, Alex said nothing to him.

  She went to their room, after kissing Annabelle good night, and lay on her bed, thinking of how miserable their life was. How bitter it all had become. It was hard to believe things would ever get any better.

  And she surprised Sam with what she said when he came back from putting Annabelle to bed. Alex looked over at him with a look of resignation. Maybe she had to finally accept it, that things were never going to be the same again, and it was all over.

  “You don't have to be here, you know. I'm not holding you hostage.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?” He looked more than a little startled, and she suddenly wondered if he'd been waiting for this. Maybe he just didn't have the guts to tell her he wanted out, and he had been waiting for her to end it. He seemed to be looking for excuses lately to hate her.

  “It means that you seem to be pretty unhappy these days, and you don't seem to want to be here. Anytime you want out, Sam, the door is open.” They were the hardest words she'd ever said, but she knew they needed saying. And after all she'd been through in the past two months, nothing was as hard as it had once been. She wa
s fighting for her life. And her marriage.

  “Are you telling me to get out?” he asked, almost hopefully, she thought.

  “No, I'm not. I'm telling you that I love you, and I want to stay married to you, but if that's not reciprocal, if you don't want to be married to me anymore, you can leave anytime you want to.”

  “Why are you saying that?” he asked suspiciously. What did she know? What had someone told her? Was she a mind reader? Or had she been listening to gossip about Daphne?

  “I'm saying that because I'm beginning to feel like you hate me.”

  “I don't hate you,” he said sadly, and then he looked at her cautiously, afraid to say too much, but he knew he had to be honest. “I just don't know what I feel anymore. I'm angry about what happened to us. It's like lightning struck us two months ago, and nothing's been the same since.” They were the same words Brock had used only that week about his sister. Lightning. “I'm angry, I'm scared, I'm sad. You don't seem the same to me anymore. Neither do I. And I can't stand all this constant talk of sickness and treatment.” They hardly ever talked about it, but just the reality of it was too much for him, and Alex knew that.

  “I think I remind you of your mother now,” Alex said honestly, “and that's too much for you to deal with. Maybe you're afraid I'm going to die and abandon you the way she did.” She had tears in her eyes when she said it, but it didn't bring him any closer. “I'm afraid of that, too. But I'm doing everything I can to keep that from happening.”

  “Maybe you're right. Maybe it's all a lot more complicated than it appears. But I think it's a lot simpler. I think we've both changed, something snapped between us.”

  “And? Now what?”

  “That's what I haven't figured out yet.”

  “Let me know when you do. Do you want to see a therapist with me?” she asked. “Lots of people going through what I am see therapists, ours isn't the first marriage that's been on the line because of one partner or the other having cancer.”

  “Christ, why do you have to blame it all on that?” Just her saying the word seemed to make him nervous. “What does that have to do with it?”

  “That's when everything started, Sam. Everything was fine before that.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe this just brought it to a head. Maybe three years of sex on schedule and hormones and trying to have another baby did us in.” It had never seemed to bother him before, but anything was possible.

  “Do you want counseling?” she asked again, but he shook his head in answer.

  “No, I don't.” All he wanted now was Daphne. That was his cure, his escape, his freedom. “I want to work this out myself.”

  “I don't think you can, Sam. I don't think either of us can. Are you moving out?” she asked nervously, afraid he might, but seeing no other answer.

  “I don't think we should do that to Annabelle, particularly before Christmas, and her birthday.” Alex wanted to scream “what about me?” But she didn't. “What I want is more freedom. I think we should go our own ways, without owing each other any explanations. Let's talk about it again in a couple of months, maybe after Annabelle's birthday.”

  “What'll we say to her?” Alex felt devastated, but tried not to show it.

  “That's up to you. As long as we're both living here, I doubt if she'll even notice.”

  “Don't be so sure. She asked me today why we shout at each other all the time now. She knows, Sam. She's not stupid.”

  “Then it's up to us to behave better in front of her,” he said in a voice filled with reproach that made her want to hit him. He was no longer the man she married and loved. But for Annabelle's sake she had to make the new arrangement work.

  “I think this is going to be harder than you think,” Alex said honestly as she looked at him across their bedroom. After nearly seventeen years of marriage, it was going to be impossible to live together like roommates.

  “It'll be as easy as we make it. Besides, I have a lot of traveling to do in the next few months.”

  “Your business seems to be changing dramatically,” she commented, trying not to think of their shattered personal life, “what's that all about?”

  “Simon has really opened things up for us.”

  “I still think you should be leery of him, Sam. Maybe your instincts were correct right from the beginning.”

  “I think you're paranoid, and I'm not going to discuss it with you.”

  “I see. What do we do now? Just say good morning and good evening in the halls? Do we eat dinner with each other anymore?

  “If it works out with our schedules. I don't see why things have to change that much from the way they are now, at least as far as Annabelle is concerned. But I'll move into the guest room.”

  “How will you explain that to her?” Alex asked with interest. He seemed to have it all figured out, and she wondered if he'd already planned it, and she'd walked right into it for him. She didn't trust him anymore either, any more than she did his new partner, Simon. She had drawn up the partnership papers for him, and she just didn't like Simon, or any of the things he'd asked for.

  “With you so sick,” Sam said sarcastically, as though she were faking it, “I'm sure she'll understand that I don't want to disturb you.”

  “That's big of you,” Alex said coolly, concealing all the hurt and disappointment she felt, “this is certainly going to be interesting.”

  “I think it's the only solution for right now. It's a good compromise.”

  “Between what and what? Walking out on me because I lost a breast, and just ditching me because you're tired of me? What compromise are we making? What effort have you made since all of this happened?” She was angry at him, and hurt, and devastated by everything that had happened. He was right. It was like being hit by lightning, and she knew now that they would be scarred forever.

  “I'm sorry you see it that way. But at least we're trying, for Annabelle's sake.”

  “We're not trying,” she corrected him, “we're faking it. We're covering up for her. Who do you think you're kidding, Sam? This marriage is over.”

  “I'm not ready to divorce you,” he announced patronizingly, and once again she wanted to get up off the bed and hit him.

  “That's big of you. Why not? Do you think it would look bad? Poor Alex gets her boob lopped off and you can't just walk out and divorce her? It looks a lot better to wait a few months. Actually, technically, you could wait the full six months of the chemo, and then everyone would think you'd stuck by me. Christ, Sam, you stink. You're the biggest fraud in town, and I don't give a damn who you hide it from. I know it. And you know it. And that's enough. Go do whatever the hell you want. We're finished.”

  “How can you be so sure? I wish I were,” he said honestly. He wanted to be free, but another part of him wasn't ready to leave her. He wanted all his options open with no responsibilities. He wanted it all. Daphne, and the possibility of coming back to Alex, maybe a year later. He didn't want to give up Alex forever.

  “You've convinced me,” she said, in answer to his question. “You've been a complete shit to me ever since my mastectomy. The only excuse I've been able to make for you is that you couldn't handle it, but you know what? That's getting old, Sam. I'm getting tired of making excuses. He's tired …he's freaked out …this is hard for him …this reminds him of his mother … he doesn't get it …it's too threatening for him…. You're a miserable excuse for a human being.” There were tears in her eyes as she said it, and tears in his while he listened.

  “I'm sorry, Alex.” He turned away from her then, and she started to cry softly. What a rotten time they had had ever since they'd discovered the shadow on the mammogram. It wasn't fair, but it still had to be dealt with. “I'm sorry,” he said again, this time looking at her, but he made no move to approach her, or console her, he just couldn't.

  He walked out of the room, and she heard him in the study then, and half an hour later, she heard the front door close. He never said another word to her, he went ou
t and walked for hours, to the river, and then slowly south, until he finally found himself on Fifty-third Street. He knew what he wanted, and he wondered if he had destroyed his marriage just so he could have it. But it was too late to think about that now. He had done what he had to, or what he wanted. It was too late to pick up the pieces, he was only very sorry he had had to hurt her. But she had hurt him too, even if it wasn't her fault. In an odd way, he felt as though she had betrayed him.

  He stopped at a phone booth on Second Avenue, and he knew it didn't make sense. She had gone to Washington for Thanksgiving. But he wanted to call her anyway, just to hear her voice on her machine, and he wanted to leave her a message and tell her that he loved her.

  She answered it on the second ring, and for an instant he was too surprised to answer.

  “Daphne?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was sensual and sleepy. It was after midnight, and she'd been in bed. “Who is this?”

  “It's me. What are you doing here? I thought you were in Washington for Thanksgiving.”

  She laughed, and he could almost see her stretch lazily as she did it. He was freezing in the phone booth.

  “I was. We gorged ourselves on an enormous lunch, and went ice-skating, and I flew home tonight. They were all going their separate ways tomorrow. It wasn't really meant to be a weekend. Where are you?” He hadn't called her at night since Alex's chemotherapy had started and Daphne only called sparingly. He was married after all, and she was very cautious. She was too smart to do otherwise, and she respected his situation.

  Suddenly he chuckled mischievously into the phone in answer to her question. “I'm freezing my ass off in a phone booth on Fifty-third and Second. I've been walking for hours, and I wanted to call you.”

  “What on earth are you doing there? Why don't you come up, at least for a cup of tea. I promise I won't bite you.”