The Words We Leave Unspoken(38)

“Don’t wonder about things that aren’t real, Charley. Just focus on the present and all the good you have in your life.”

“But where he is Gwen? Why have we never tried to find him?”

Because I know exactly where he is. I don’t know why I still feel the need to protect Charley. I just can’t stand the thought of shattering the image she has of our father, the pedestal that he still rests upon in her mind. At times, I feel jealous that I could never hide behind the naivety of a five-year-old. I was old enough to know the truth, never having any other image of my father than the one that he deserved.

“Let it go, Charley. He knows where we are and he’s never come back for us. He obviously doesn’t want to be found.”

She sighs in defeat and stares into the dancing flames of the fire. I watch her expression carefully. I know she wants to tell me something and so I just wait silently for whatever it is.

“Don’t you want to see him? Just once before, you know...?” Her voice trails off into a whisper, as if she’s afraid to say the words. But we both know that just because she doesn’t say the words, they aren’t any less real. And my reality grips my heart once again. I absorb what Charley is trying to say, but deep inside I know for certain that I don’t feel the need for any type of closure. I closed the door on that a long time ago, slammed it shut.

“I have no desire or need to see him,” I answer honestly.

I hear John call out from the house, “Lunch is ready.” I stand and stoke the fire with a long stick. The flames are slowly dying, the logs reduced to glowing embers.

“Come on, let’s go eat,” I say to Charley. She stands and we both trudge slowly up the extensive green lawn toward the house, and I wonder if her heart feels as heavy as mine.



The day has come and gone and after convincing Charley to stay the night, she is now camped out downstairs in the guest bedroom, even though she’ll have to leave the house at the crack of dawn to drive back to the city for work. I could sense that she was reluctant to leave and, selfishly, I wanted her here as if she’s some kind of buffer between John and I. A wall of protection between John and me and the throbbing truth that I have spun into lies so thick, I fear the truth may never surface. The evening was spent playing a mindless game of Monopoly with Olivia and Max; John playing the banker, of course, a job that he takes almost – painstakingly – too seriously.

I lie in bed staring up at the white ceiling, listening to John snore softly beside me. The steady rhythm of his breath soothing in its predictable way. The house is quiet, the wind the only sound as it blows off the shore and rattles the tall trees that surround the house. Every now and then, the French doors that lead from the master bedroom to the balcony rattle as if they might implode with each strong gust. Unable to bear the silence any longer, I step out of bed and tread quietly down the hall, stopping to peer into Olivia’s room where I see her lying perfectly still on her side, her body barely moving with each shallow breath. She is so peaceful in sleep, as if she is still that tiny baby that I brought home from the hospital so long ago. My heart fills with familiar warmth as a smile tugs at my lips. These moments are my favorite, these quiet, stolen moments from which I could never tire. I softly close the door to Olivia’s room and step across the hall to steal a similar moment with Max. The soft glow of his nightlight illuminates his face and my heart aches to reach out and touch his soft cheek. In contrast to his sister, Max is lying on his back, arms and legs sprawled out in every direction, blankets thrown to the floor as if he had a fit in his sleep. His tiny blue blanket with colorful silken tags of fabric surrounding the border – an attachment he formed when he was only four months old – is fisted in his hand as he hangs on for dear life. Although his body screams chaos, his breath is just as quiet and still as his sister’s. I walk quietly to his bed and pick up the bedding from the floor. I cover him and tuck the edges of his blanket into the bottom corners of his mattress, knowing that it won’t be long before the bedding is thrown to floor again. I kiss his cheek gently, careful not to wake him although nothing could wake this boy from sleep. You could set fireworks off near his bed and he would not stir.

I continue down the stairs and push open the guest bedroom door. Light seeps in from the hallway, lighting a path from the door to the bed.

“Hi,” I hear Charley whisper in the dark from where she’s lying in bed with the blanket pulled up to her chin.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.

“No. You?”

“No,” she answers.

She peels back the bedding and I crawl into bed and lie next to her. She pulls the bedding snug around us as we both lie on our backs and stare up at the ceiling. And I am immediately taken back in time when we would do this very thing as children, after my father left and my mother locked herself away, out of our reach. A time when our safety net had been snagged out from underneath us and all we had was each other. Only it was usually Charley who would seek me out in the dark. Lying next to each other, I would take her hand in mine and we would whisper our fears under the veil of darkness, and it was as if nothing else existed.

Charley speaks first, her voice barely louder than a whisper, quiet as a breath.

“I think Grey and I broke up,” she says.

I don’t respond. I just wait patiently for her to explain.

“He transferred me to another partner because he can’t work with me any longer. He wants more.” She lets out a frustrated breath. I have heard this same story a million times, each different and yet the same. They always want more from Charley but she insists that she hasn’t more to give, nor does she want to. But it’s hard to miss the note of disappointment and longing in her voice.