by Leger, Lori
“Mr. Broussard, are you okay?”
He nodded, pushed himself up from the wheelchair to stand over the body of his wife, a woman he’d assumed the heavy burden of caring for. She’d made the last thirteen of their fifteen year marriage a living hell for him. Any love he’d felt had long ago been replaced with pity. But he’d never hated her.
Everyone thought he’d been crazy for staying with a woman who generated unhappiness like the sun gave off light. Her temper tantrums, violent mood swings, and overall nasty character had been hell to bear. But he knew the root of it—her inability to conceive the child they both wanted so badly. He’d seen what she considered to be her failure eat at her for years. The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with her, she’d said. He’d had all the necessary tests run, and his count was fine, his swimmers weren’t lazy.
Friends had urged him to leave her, find someone who wouldn’t torment him with false accusations, public displays of temper, and affairs she’d never admitted to, and he couldn’t prove. He’d stayed in hopes that the baby they’d one day have would change her back to the woman he’d fallen in love with so many years ago.
Jackson’s nod accompanied the solitary sigh of a man faced with the difficult task of closing the door on a part of his life. “It’s my wife. Chloe Stansfield Broussard.”
After filling out the necessary forms and releases, he gave them the name of a funeral home to contact. The nurse wheeled him back to his room where he called Chloe’s mother in California. He’d just ended the call when the doctor came in to discuss his x-rays, and subsequently, release him.
Jackson made his way back to Giselle’s room, and stood over her bed, watching her brow crease even in her drugged sleep. Remembering her cries from earlier. Even as his own personal hell had just come to a dramatic end, hers was about to begin. He reached out to touch the bandaged cut on her forehead, a minor injury compared to what could have happened to her. Her right hand was in a splint, but that, too, was minor. He stared at her perfectly symmetrical features, marred only by a light spattering of freckles along the bridge of her delicate nose and a tiny scar above one eyebrow.
A light touch on his arm disrupted his thoughts and observations. He turned to meet Carrie’s worried gaze.
“Jackson, I’m so sorry.” Teary eyed, she hugged him tightly. “I thought you’d be here, so I brought someone up with me.”
Jackson caught the movement at the doorway and turned as his uncle walked in, Stetson in hand, looking unsure of what to say to him. He stepped toward the man who’d loved him since birth and treated him as his own for over thirty years. “Uncle Bill.”
“Are you okay, Jackson?”
“A few bruises and a sore knee … nothing.” He embraced his uncle, pulled away and shrugged. “It could have been a lot worse, obviously.”
“I guess Chloe wasn’t wearing her seat belt,” Carrie said.
“She might be alive if she had.”
Bill shook his head. “Senseless. Have you called her mother yet?”
Jackson grimaced at the memory of that particular conversation. “Oh, yeah. She said she was sorry for my loss but couldn’t make it to the funeral.”
Carrie gasped. “For her own daughter? Lord, it’s no wonder Chloe was disturbed.” She reached out to touch his arm. “Are you all right? I know how bad it was for you at home.”
Jackson shook his head slowly. “I don’t know how I feel yet. I mean, who are we kidding? We all knew Chloe was—difficult. I doubt either of us felt any love for each other in years, but to have her die like that.” He lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “God, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forget that. I wouldn’t have known it was her if I hadn’t recognized her clothing.” He cleared his throat to keep his voice from breaking.
“I’m sorry, Jack.” Carrie hugged him again.
Jackson held on to her, fighting back the tears that threatened. Besides his Uncle Bill, Carrie was the closest thing he had to family. At forty-eight years old, twelve years older than himself, she was more like an older sister to him than co-worker of ten years. She was his right hand at the office, and he’d vented to her often when life with Chloe seemed unbearable.
Carrie had also been his buffer zone when Giselle had declared him the enemy four years earlier. One careless moment of stupidity on his part and she still called him ‘Satan’ behind his back.
Her reaction to him walking away from an accident when Toby had not. No way would that be good.
Carrie’s next statement jolted him to attention.
“Jackson, I’m fairly certain I’m not alone in this. But, I’ve seen you miserable because of Chloe for so many years. I can’t help but feel that you’re free now. I feel guilty about it, of course, but there it is.”
He stared down at the woman who’d always been so supportive of him, even when he was a wet-behind-the-ear engineer, brand new to road design. “Have I ever told you how much I appreciate you?”
“Yes, but it’s been awhile.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Seriously, Jackson. I’d love to see you happy.”
“Thanks, Carrie.” He turned to gaze at Giselle, sedated and sleeping. “I wish I hadn’t been here when the doctor told her about Toby.”
Carrie’s jaw dropped. “You were here?”
“I volunteered to be here, but if I could do it over …” Then he remembered her asking God to take her too. Maybe he would do the same thing.
He walked out of the room, over to a window at the end of the hallway and stared blankly out at the parking lot below. “The doctor wanted someone present that she knew. She thought it might be a comfort, but I should have known better. I know she despises me.”
Carrie put her hand on his arm. “What happened when the doctor told her?”
“It was terrible. They had to sedate her.”
Carrie dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Toby’s poor girls. It makes you wonder what God could have been thinking, doesn’t it?”
Bill, who’d been quiet up to now, stepped up suddenly. “Wait a minute. Is that the wife of your friend, Toby?”
Jackson nodded slowly. “He died in the accident.”
Bill’s head fell forward. “I’m sorry, Son. I didn’t realize. Isn’t she the one you pissed off at work a few years back?”
“That’s her,” Jackson said, giving his uncle another nod. “She already didn’t like me. After walking away from an accident that took Toby’s life, she may never forgive me.”
“She wouldn’t hold that against you,” Carrie told him.
He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t hear her.” He shook his head and pushed away from the window. “She was right about one thing, though. She said I was jealous of their marriage. I was.”
“Come on, Jack. Everyone was envious of those two. They were the perfect couple,” Carrie said. “Now, you need to go home, take a couple of aspirin, and go to bed.”
“I need to get to the Chevy dealership for a new truck. I can’t drive Chloe’s Vette around. I can’t get comfortable in that thing. Are you ready, Uncle Bill?”
“Are you released yet?”
“It’s taken care of. Will you be here all night, Carrie?”
“I’ll be here until they release her.” She reached up to touch a tender spot on his face. “I’m worried about you, Jack. You call me if you need to talk.”
He leaned over to hug her. “If you need anything while you’re here, let me know, and I’ll get it to you.”
“I’ve got your number. Get your new truck then go straight home. Bill, maybe you ought to stay with him tonight.”
“I don’t need a damn baby sitter,” Jackson grumbled. He rose from the seat too quickly and winced at the pain in his knee.
Carrie clucked her tongue. “Now see? That’s good for you, smart ass. Good luck, Bill.”
Bill leaned closer to Carrie. “You can call me at home if you need anything, hon.”
The two men walked into the elevator. “So that’s Gi
selle Granger.” Bill pushed the first floor button as Jackson nodded. “Any children?”
Jackson had to swallow hard to keep his voice from shaking. “Two beautiful little girls, ages six and four.”
“Bad ages to lose their daddy.”
Jackson didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded again. If anyone knew what those girls would have to endure in the coming months, years, decades … he knew. Thirty-one years after losing his parents, he still missed them.
They drove in silence as Jackson attempted to deal with the multitude of emotions bombarding him. He closed his eyes and saw Chloe’s broken body, then pressed the palms of both hands up against his sockets, trying to block it out.
He let his head fall back on the dusty seat of his uncle’s old truck as a sudden wave of sadness washed over him. He would have given anything to have a marriage like Toby and Giselle’s, but Chloe had been difficult to live with, so imbalanced, that any attempt to relax around her turned futile. In the best of times, he felt pity for his wife. In the worst, he had prayed to be free of her, but never this way. Swamped with guilt, he ran his hands brusquely through his hair. He winced as his fingers snagged the strands, still blood-caked and stiff.
He had loved Chloe once. The first year had been good until she began developing symptoms of what became constantly changing diagnoses. Manic depression, chemical imbalance, schizophrenia, bi-polar disorder…one quack had even suggested she was an exceptional actress. Whatever her condition was, it had made his life a living hell. Her threats to kill herself if he left had seemed real enough to make him stay. He couldn’t have lived with himself if she followed through. Jackson lifted his head as his uncle grunted and cleared his throat.
“So, that was Giselle Granger. Tell me again what it was you did to piss that little lady off so bad.”
Glad, for once, to be talking about his major foot in mouth episode, he took a deep breath. “I accused her of being incapable of following directions during a plan in hand meeting.” He puffed out his cheeks as Bill gave a low whistle. “I know. In a room full of engineers and consultants.”
“What happened after that?”
“She…ah…told me I’d better search my steel trap of a mind to remember who I’d given those directions to. She walked out, straight backed, head high, holding a grudge from hell.”
“Hell hath no fury…”
“Like a woman humiliated and blamed for something she didn’t do,” Jackson finished.
“Did you ever apologize?”
“I never got the opportunity.” He stared at his uncle’s incredulous gaze. “It’s impossible to apologize to someone who avoids being in the same room with you.”
“Difficult maybe, but not impossible.”
“Whatever.”
Bill gave him a deep chuckle. “Surely she has to discuss work with you.”
“Yes, when others are present, and always very civil, very professional. Cold as an Arctic frontal system.”
Bill shook his head. “I don’t get it. How the hell did you and her husband get to be such good friends?”
“We met building Sam and Carrie’s deck last year. I don’t know, we hit it off right away. He knew she hated me. Said he’d set a personal goal to ‘patch things up’ between us.”
“You think he’d want you to look after his wife and daughters until they come to terms with things?”
Jackson let his head fall back on the seat again as he thought of Toby and how hard Giselle and her girls would take his death. As much as he’d miss his friend, he couldn’t even imagine how Toby’s family would suffer over the months ahead. “I know he would, but that doesn’t mean she’ll let me,” he admitted.
He suddenly found a reason to be grateful that he and Chloe’s marriage had been so miserable. It wasn’t fair that God spared him, but took Toby from the wife and children who desperately needed him. A shrink would probably call this survivor’s guilt.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Bill asked, interrupting Jackson’s thoughts.
He blinked as they pulled into his driveway. “No. Thanks for the ride, though.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
Jackson took the time to shower and grab a change of clothes. He grabbed the keys to Chloe’s Corvette and popped a couple of pain relievers on his way to the dealership.
Jackson pulled his new truck into the garage and turned off the ignition. He sat quietly, listening to the sounds of the engine cool. His head fell heavily against the headrest as he fought to keep his eyes opened. His muscles ached, along with his head, and his eyes burned from exhaustion. Even so, he couldn’t help but remember the last time he and his wife had arrived home together.
The trip to a newly opened restaurant began pleasantly enough, until Chloe accused their waitress of flirting with him. He’d never forget the horrified expression on the poor girl’s face. His own face had burned with embarrassment while Chloe raged on; she had made certain all attention in the room had thoroughly focused on her. Management asked them to leave quietly, but Chloe never did anything quietly, especially when asked to.
On the entire trip home she’d ranted, raved, and rebuked him for apologizing to restaurant personnel, insisting she had deserved the apology instead. The rant ended with a typical snide remark. “Way to show your support—loser.”
Ten minutes after getting home, she performed her infamous “Chloe”…the hundred and eighty degree mood swing that always left him confused and no matter how hard he tried not to be, annoyed as all hell. She had initiated sex for the first time in a month, and he knew turning her down would have caused an all-night bout of crying and suicide threats he’d been too exhausted to handle that night. Sex with Chloe had long since turned into a chore for him because of her emotional blackmail. The only way he could ‘see it through’ was to close his eyes and imagine someone else in his arms, and hope this time she would conceive the child that would make his life bearable. He couldn’t help but wonder. Could she tell? He supposed he’d never know.
Jackson pushed open the kitchen door and threw the bag containing the Vette’s contents on the table. He started a fresh pot of coffee before picking up the phone to call his lawyer. They’d made their wills a couple of months ago and she told him she’d left a letter for him with their attorney if she went before he did. When Neil Ellender answered the phone, Jackson informed him of Chloe’s death.
“She did leave a letter,” Neil commented. “She made me read it before it was sealed. You sure you want to see it?”
“I’m sure.”
“I can’t keep it from you, of course, but I wish you’d let me destroy it. Your wife was—quite disturbed.”
Jackson snorted and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. I still want to read it.”
“To my recollection, it does contain her wishes concerning a funeral service—among other things.” The attorney cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’ll bring it over now if you want.”
“I’d appreciate that, Neil.”
Jackson grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and swallowed two more aspirins. He pictured Chloe in his mind, how she had worn her straight, blonde hair in a short, spiky style that made her light blue eyes look even larger in her gaunt face. She was into being thin; like, way too thin. Uncle Bill had taken to calling her ‘Bones’ when he referred to her. He didn’t call her anything to her face. Jackson had never seen two people so effectively ignore each other as his uncle and his wife had.
He entered the master bath and faced another ghostly memory of Chloe. Just yesterday, he’d stood outside the closed door, listening to her retch. He’d knocked to see if she was all right.
“What do you think, genius?” No niceties there.
He had kept his cool. “Do you need any help, Chloe?”
“What could you possibly do to help but stand there and look stupid?” He’d become accustomed to her rudeness. “Did you eat something that didn’t agre
e with you?”
“It’s a bug or something. Just leave me the hell alone.”
He hadn’t thought about it at the time, but he wondered if she had caught a bug, or if it was something else.
Thirty minutes later Jackson sat reading the letter his ‘loving’ wife left for him. He clenched his jaw as he finished it, cocked his head, and emitted a mild snort. Fifteen years with that woman had lulled him into believing he couldn’t be shocked by a damn thing she did anymore. Well, the hell if she hadn’t gone and done it.
He folded the letter into a neat rectangle, and placed it inside his wallet. By the time he met his lawyer’s gaze, he had already decided to put that part of his life behind him.
“I just made a pot of coffee. Would you like some, Neil?” He stood and walked to the coffee maker, feeling calm, considering this latest revelation about his dead wife.
Neil got to his feet. “No, thanks. As I said, she insisted I read it.” He cleared his throat, uneasily. “I think she just wanted me to know what she was up to. I hope you realize that I will uphold the strict attorney–client confidentiality.”
Jackson turned slowly toward the man who looked enough like Tim Conway to be his brother. “I know. I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if she hadn’t mentioned other people.”
“Of course, I understand completely.”
“Can you handle her cremation for me?” Jackson asked. “I don’t care what it cost, I never want to deal with her again.”
“I can do that. Do you have the name of a crematorium you’d like to use?”
“I don’t know anything about crematoriums. I trust you to do whatever you feel is necessary. Send me the bill and have her ashes sent to her mother in California. No service, as per her wishes,” he said coldly.
“You got it, Jackson. I’ll see myself out.”