by Hart, Staci
I only wanted to be whole enough to give myself to her. For so long, I'd been in pieces, and in my darkest hour, she'd been my only light. But I'd laid waste to the gift she'd given me before I'd told her what it meant to me.
The kitchen — and the rest of the house — was spotless before long, and Ben was at Lou's again as he spent all the time with her that he could before he left. I'd walked the equivalent of the length of Manhattan in the time since I'd stepped off the airplane, and now that I'd found my bearings, I didn't want to run anymore. But being downstairs in the house, all alone, in the quiet … Dad's absence was loud, deafening.
I decided to read and made my way up the stairs, not able to sit in the library. That room was almost more his than his room. But when I heard the sound of my name as I approached his room, I paused.
Elliot and Sophie sat by the window, the light streaming in around them, illuminating them, leaving them with halos of sunshine. Boxes surrounded them as they worked through a pile of his clothes.
"Wade and I got this for Dad for Christmas a few years ago," Sophie said, running her hand over the front of a sweater that lay in her lap. She sighed. "It's so hard to choose what to keep and what to donate. Almost everything here has sentimental value."
Elliot didn't respond right away, but finally said, "It's okay if it's too soon. We can put all of this away and go for ice cream instead. Or whiskey."
That elicited a chuckle from Sophie. "Both sound nice. But I've got to do this. I haven't been able to stop thinking about his things in here, just waiting to be sorted through."
"All right." She looked around. "Well, let's say you can keep ten things. Fifteen, if you really need to push it, so if it's not important enough to make the top ten, it goes in the donate pile."
"Thank God you're here, Elliot." Sophie shook her head. "It's silly to love a sweater in place of a person."
Elliot reached for another sweater and held it up. "Oh, I don't think it's silly at all. Especially this. You can put it on when it's cold, and it'll keep you warm. He would have appreciated that."
Another sigh from Sophie, heavy and sad. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Do you think that there's an end to love?"
Elliot considered for a second.
"What I mean is," Sophie continued, "the longer someone's gone, do you think the love … diminishes? Is there a limit to its length?"
Elliot laid the sweater in a heap in her lap, her hands buried somewhere inside of it. "I think that every day the answer to that question is different. Some days the loss is as fresh as the day the love left. Some days, you can breathe, not think of it for a stretch, sometimes just for an hour or a few minutes, sometimes for days. Sometimes you'll go a day or a week without breathing once because the loss is suffocating. It takes different faces: anger, hurt, longing. Sometimes it's bittersweet joy, because for a moment, you had it all. I want to tell you the pain gets easier, but it doesn't. You only learn to bear it. But there's comfort in knowing you loved and were loved in return, even though it's no consolation. Only a truth you carry around with you forever."
Sophie sniffled, and Elliot leaned in to hold her.
"There is no length to love; it's infinite. It lives in you always. Hold on to it."
"But it hurts," she sobbed.
"That's how you know it was real."
I leaned against the wall without the strength to stand on my own for a long moment, and I pressed my forehead to the cool surface, eyes closed. Those words — her words — were meant for me, not my father. They were about me, an echo of what I felt, what I'd felt every day since the day I left.
And now, now that I knew what I stood to lose forever, what was in my grasp, I felt the truth of it, of her, of my heart. I heard my father telling me to live. And for the first time in seven years, I knew exactly what to do.
To survive
Inch by inch,
Second by second,
Pulling yourself from the wreckage,
Leaving it behind you
To survive.
M. White
Elliot
The afternoon was up and down as we worked slowly through Rick's things. Sophie and I vacillated between reminiscing and laughing to bearing the pain of our loss and the tears that always seemed to follow. Wade had stayed away, thankfully. I was too bruised, too worn to take any more. He'd tapped me dry.
Charlie had texted me that morning to ask if I'd come by the house at some point, promising me that my family was nowhere near. So after we'd finished for the day, I left for home, not sure what I'd find.
The only sound in the house were the sounds of the kids playing and the rumble of Charlie's voice. I smiled when I heard him laugh, thankful for even a small show of happiness after everything he'd been through.
And of everything that had happened with Mary, Charlie was the one I felt most guilty about — putting him through all of that was the end cap on the horrible damage I'd done.
"Hello?" I called from the entry as I closed the door, wondering if I should have knocked instead.
"Elliot?" Charlie called. "Up here."
I hung up my things and made my way upstairs, my heart lighting when the kids jumped up and ran for me.
"Hi, guys," I said, smiling and crying, just a little, their joy bringing me joy. I pulled away, holding them at arm's length, feeling like I hadn't seen them, really seen them, in ages. "I've missed you."
Sammy bounced. "Where've you been? Mommy's gone. Grandpa too, bye, bye, bye," he crowed, flapping his arms merrily.
Charlie looked older than he had a few days before, the lines in his face speaking of a sleepless night and his sadness. "I don't think they even miss her," he said, defeat heavy in his voice. "I don't know how this happened, Elliot."
"Oh, Charlie," I said, pulling Maven into my lap as Sammy found a dump truck and pushed it around the room making truck noises. "This isn't your fault."
He sighed deeply. "And Jack …"
I shook my head. "This isn't your fault. They made a choice."
"But I didn't see it. It was going on right under my nose, and I didn't see it."
"They're good liars."
He chuffed.
"What happened last night?"
He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Well, I kept Mary in the room with me until you left, and she pulled out all the stops. Begged. Screamed. Threatened me. Promised me. But in the end, I made her leave like I told her to."
"Do you know where she went?"
"Not to Jack's. I went there this morning, early."
"How early?"
"Still-dark early. She wasn't there, and he said he was done with her, that he'd waited too long. He even said he was sorry, but I didn't buy it, and it didn't stop me from decking him."
I gasped. "Oh, my God. Did you really?"
He held up his right hand, bloody knuckles out, looking quite pleased with himself. "Sure did."
"How did it feel?"
"Like vengeance."
I chuckled. "I'm not usually the vengeful type, but in this case … well, he deserved that."
"You can say that again." He shook his head. "I just can't believe this. I didn't sleep at all, just lay in bed in the dark, thinking about everything, wondering if they had sex in our bed, considering every time she wasn't with me, wondering if she was with him. My best friend and my wife. I … I just can't even comprehend it."
My chest ached. "Charlie, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I was the one who told you … I really wanted it to be her."
"She's too much of a coward for that. Her life was a very delicate web, complete with pitfalls she put in place herself. I'm not sure she knows what it's like to be happy — she sabotages every good thing in her life. She'd labeled all of us a burden. Me. The kids. Even you, who's always been there, whenever we need. I just don't understand."
I helped Maven with the puzzle toy she fiddled with in my lap. "She's always been this way, even when we were children. She wanted
it all, and Dad gave it to her, feeding her selfish nature, and when she was older, she did the same to him. They're fire and air, the two of them. Where did Dad and Beth go?"
He sighed. "By the time Mary and I came up last night, they were in their room, and when I came back from Jack's, they were packing their things, spewing bullshit at me the whole way out the door about the sanctity of marriage. As if I were the one who had defied that vow."
Sammy marched around the room like a soldier saying bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. Charlie grabbed him and roared, tickling him until he'd forgotten the dirty word all together.
As I watched him with his kids, anguish filled me again at the realization of what I'd done. "I hate this, Charlie."
His eyes were sad when they met mine. "Me too. But you know what? I've always known it wouldn't work out between us. Is that wrong to say? That I married a woman I didn't truly love and who didn't love me?"
"No. It's not wrong, especially if it's the truth."
He looked away, shaking his head. "I thought she would … I don't know. Grow up. Change once she had Sammy. But I was naive, and now … well, now I'm not entirely sure what I think."
"Do you know what you're going to do?" The question was vague; I didn't know how to ask him anything more specific than that.
"I've already put in a call to a buddy of mine from college to handle the divorce, and I called a nanny agency today looking for someone to help. My parents are coming to stay for a few months from Chicago, to help out and for moral support. Because it's not going to be pretty, this divorce. She's going to fight me for everything, whether she wants it or not, like the kids. Elliot, she can't get them. She … she can't. She won't care for them like I can, like I will. They'll just be something for her to use to manipulate me, to hurt me."
"I know," I said quietly.
"This is early to ask, but …" He watched me for a second before speaking. "If I need a witness, will you speak on my behalf?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat, swallowed the regret that Mary had done so much damage, hurt so many people. There was no question as to what I'd do. "Of course I will."
"Thank you," he said, sighing his relief. "I wanted to talk to you about something else."
"Anything."
"I wanted to thank you for the truth. I know how hard that must have been for you, and I wanted you to know that I appreciate you — I always have. You can stay here as long as you want, and I mean that, even if it's forever. But I don't want you to feel obligated to be here. What I mean to say is that … I don't want you to wait or to hold back. You've sacrificed years of your life for us, for them," he said, nodding to the kids. "So, what do you want? Because I think it's time you did that. You're free — we won't hold you back anymore."
I tipped my chin, pressing a kiss to Maven's crown to hide my face. "Thank you, Charlie."
"No, thank you. For everything." He looked around to Sammy. "Now, who's ready for ice cream?"
Sammy laughed. "But Daddy, it's cold out!"
Charlie grabbed his son and hugged him tight. "Good, then it won't melt."
And I smiled at them, comforted by the knowledge that they'd be all right, no matter what, because they had a father who loved them.
The Constant
In life
(Unlike death)
There are few constants:
The sun will rise;
Your lungs will breathe;
Your heart will love.
- M. White
Elliot
The ice cream was cold, but our hearts were warm as we walked back to the house in the dusk. I reflected over the last few weeks, on the vast changes all of our lives had taken, at the sheer breadth of space between who we were then and who we were now.
I felt like I'd climbed a mountain and was nearing the peak; the light glimmered against the edge, promising an end. Or a beginning. Either way, the shift was tangible, and I marveled over the power of my losses and gains, that they contained the means for me to change. And change I had, elementally.
For so long, I had been still and quiet, waiting. Waiting for what exactly, I didn't know, not even as I looked back. Perhaps inspiration to guide me to a profession I'd love. Or maybe I was waiting for the courage to submit my work, realize my dream to write. I was waiting for something definitive to break the chains of my family, something to convince me that they held me back. I'd still been waiting for Wade, even after all those years, after all that we'd been through since he'd come back.
But there would be no more waiting. Not to seek out my career. Not to walk away from my family. Not even for Wade.
It didn't matter how much I loved him; my love couldn't change him. So I'd go on loving him silently through the rest of my days, as I didn't know that I could ever move on.
As we walked up the street, I saw the shade of a figure sitting on the step, shrouded in the failing light. But the moment he stood, his name filled my mind, my soul recognizing the lines of his body.
My feet slowed as my heart sped, betraying my promise not to wait for him. He waited there at the foot of the stairs, shoulders straight, the collar of his peacoat flipped against the cold. As we came closer, I saw that his face was set in determination, his eyes filled with sorrow and apologies. A wooden box rested in his hands, elegantly carved, and my thoughts raced with possibilities.
I reminded myself that he'd rejected me, blamed me, hurt me over and over again. This would only be another version of that cycle we'd found ourselves caught in. But hope sprang despite it all, like a shoot of grass in the snow.
I stopped, though Charlie and the kids kept going, making their way inside. When I looked up at Wade, the nearness of him was stifling.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, girding my heart for the answer.
He looked down at the box in his hands. "You said you didn't owe me anything, and you were right, Elliot. But I owe you everything."
My breath was thin as I stood still, waiting, wishing, hoping, dreading.
"I have been unfair and unjust. I've been resentful and angry. I've been so many things I'm ashamed of, but the one constant is that I've always been in love with you." He met my eyes, pinning me down as he so easily could. I was his, irrefutably. "You asked me why I came to you that night — it's because you have possessed my soul from the start. You were the only one … the only one who would understand, who could show me that there was love still in the world, in my heart."
He took a deep breath, shifting, eyes dropping once again to his hands. "You asked me why I never wrote you back. But I did, Elliot. Every day, to every letter."
He opened the box, and I watched him as my tears chased each other down my cheeks. Inside were my letters, dozens and dozens of them, each in my hand, and in the center was a leather bound journal, fat and bursting with papers.
"When I left, I was angry, so angry. But through boot camp, I didn't have time to think about anything. I got every letter, but I couldn't throw them away. I couldn't open them either. So I tossed them in my foot locker and ignored them. I took them with me when it was over, because I still couldn't get rid of them. And when I got stationed in Texas for training before deployment, the letters kept coming, and every one added to the pile was another log on the fire."
He swallowed, meeting my eyes and dropping them again as the wind ruffled his dark hair. "It wasn't until I was in Iraq, when my mail finally caught up, that I opened one. There were twenty of them, all with your handwriting on the envelope, and where I was, so far away, I … I found I wasn't mad. I only missed you. So I opened one. Then another. Then I couldn't stop, not until I'd read them all."
Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked them back, steeling myself.
"And then, I wrote. Letter after letter poured out of me, the things I'd wished I'd said. Some were angry. Some were happy, some sad. But they were all wrong. I didn't know how to tell you I was wrong, that it wasn't your fault but mine. And I was, Elliot. I was wrong. I was selfish and scared, and I'
ve regretted that for a long, long time." He took a breath. "I thought when I came home, maybe you could forgive me. We could talk, make it all right. Go back to the old plan. I couldn't answer you while I was there because … well, because of no good reason, I see that now. But at the time, I was stuck there. The only concession I gave myself, the only allowance to feel anything, was when I sat down to write you a thousand letters I never sent. Friends died, I saw things that made me feel like I wouldn't make it out. I had nothing to offer you, nothing to give, no promises to make, not until I was home. And when I finally did get back, when I opened your first letters, I realized just how wrong I was."
He met my eyes, and I saw his were sparkling with tears.
"You changed your mind."
My breath hitched, and I nodded.
"I didn't know," he breathed. "I would have come back before leaving for deployment. I would have married you then, if I'd known you'd been begging me to come back that whole time. The answer I wanted was given to me over and over again, piled up in a locker in the dark. And when … when I read them, I knew there would be no going back. I believed at the time that I'd lost you forever without even asking you because how could you ever forgive me? I pushed you and blamed you, and you believed I didn't want you because I didn't come home. I could have married you then, but I had too much pride. I was young, young and stupid. And by the time I realized how wrong I'd been not to reach out to you, it had been years. Your letters had stopped. You were through. But I kept writing you back, every day, even after you stopped. I never stopped loving you, even though I thought you had stopped loving me."
He set the box on the concrete rail and picked up the journal, unwinding the strap, opening it to one of his letters before he offered it to me.