The Words We Leave Unspoken(14)
“Jeez, Gwen, I think you forgot poison control and the police department,” Charley teases.
“Very funny,” I smirk.
“Gwen, we’ll be fine. I got this,” Charley says confidently, lowering her chin and looking me straight in the eye.
I try to relax. I try not to think about the last few times that I left Charley with the kids. The time Max wandered through the woods to the neighbor’s house during a game of hide-n-seek. Max was missing for two hours before Charley called me in a panic. When I told her that the Gentrys had called my cell phone to let me know that Max was at their house, all she said was, “Whoops.” Or the time Charley took Olivia to get her ears pierced, both fully aware of my rule. I had firmly denied Olivia for years, making her wait until she was nine. I had been furious at Charley but she had waved off my anger, saying, “It’s not that big of a deal, Gwen.” To be honest, it wasn’t that Olivia was too young that upset me. What bothered me the most was that it was supposed to be something special that Olivia and I did together, and Charley had taken that moment from me. It was always like that though. My whole life, I was the responsible one, and Charley was the life of the party. Beautiful, fun Charley.
“Alright, let’s get out of here so we can make the ferry,” John says as he lifts a giggling Max and throws him up in the air, catching him just in time. “Be good, my little man,” John says as he sets Max back on his feet and gives him a high-five.
“Okay. Bye sweetheart,” I say, wrapping my arms around Olivia and kissing her cheek before she can move out of my reach.
When all our goodbyes are said, John grabs our suitcase and disappears into the garage. Charley winks at me and mumbles quietly, “You can do this, Gwen. We’re all going to get through this, you’ll see.”
“I hope you’re right,” I whisper and hug Charley before joining John in the car.
We drive in silence to the ferry terminal, arriving just in time to board. The sky is dark, filled with endless gray, rolling clouds, but without the usual rain. The clouds shelter the coast from the cold, warming the air to the point where I almost don’t need a jacket. Even in the gloom of fall and winter, Puget Sound boasts beauty, and John and I both admire the view from the slow-moving ferry as it glides across the dark water toward the islands.
I rest my head on John’s shoulder as we lean against the railing of the ferry.
“I can’t believe we have an entire night away from the kids,” John says.
“I know. I’m looking forward to sleeping in.”
John places his lips against my ear and I feel his warm breath on my cheek as he says, “Don’t plan on getting too much sleep. You nearly killed me the other night, but I’m hoping for a repeat.” I bump his hip with mine and shake my head, smiling at his suggestion. His breath on my face as he kisses me shoots chills down my spine and I suddenly don’t want to face my reality. I don’t want John to look at me any other way than the way he’s looking at me right now.
The first time I was diagnosed with breast cancer – over four years ago, John was sitting right next to me, his clammy hand holding mine, squeezing my palm so tightly that I lost feeling in my fingertips. I didn’t have to tell him; I didn’t have to say the words to his face. I remember the exact moment I felt the lump in my breast. I was nursing Max in the middle of the night, who was just a tiny baby at the time, when I noticed it. I considered waking John that minute to show him, to ask if it was worth mentioning to the doctor. But instead, I waited until the appointment was scheduled before confiding in John. John had been there every step of the way from my initial mammogram to the biopsy, even though I kept telling myself that it was nothing, assuring John that there was no reason to worry. It was just precautionary, routine. And despite my protests, he was also by my side when I met with my doctor to discuss the results of the biopsy. Deep inside I think I knew it was bad news, why else would they not tell me over the phone. I think John predicted bad news as well. And so we were given the life-changing news at the same time, we faced it together from the very beginning, from the moment my doctor told me I had cancer. They had found it early. The best possible scenario. A lumpectomy, a few rounds of radiation and chemotherapy and I should be fine. Just like that. I felt nothing but determination at the time. I focused on the solution, not the problem. I felt strong, as I always do, maybe even stronger given the circumstances. My mantra, That which does not kill us, only makes us stronger, sang in my head through the thick of it, urging me forward, keeping me focused. John, however, was a mess. For months he fussed over me, worried himself sick over my diagnosis. He looked at me with pity and worry written in his eyes, and at the worst of the side effects from the chemo I could hear him crying quietly in the next room. And I remember thinking as I was hunched over the toilet, my own tears spilling from my eyes, desperately wishing the pain to end, I’ll be strong for both of us. I’ll be strong for all of us and this will all be over soon. When it was all over and I reached the coveted “remission” status, I worked hard to regain my place in John’s eyes. I needed him to see me as his wife, a woman that he loved and hungered for, rather then a cancer-stricken patient. But most importantly, I needed him to see my strength once again. I had beat cancer. That had to count for something. And with time, John stopped treating me as if I was a fragile piece of glass that would shatter at the slightest touch.