The Words We Leave Unspoken(50)
I open my eyes slowly, feeling disorientated, until I feel my own quilt under my chin. I draw in a deep breath, relieved that I’m in my own bed as I let my head sink back into my pillow. The room is bathed in darkness and I glance over at the clock to see that it is morning, but too early for the light of day. It is then that I remember falling asleep in Grey’s arms and a quick glance around the room confirms that he is no longer here. His clothes are gone. I instantly feel a sense of longing which confuses me more than anything. Sadness lingers on the periphery, but from what? Did I want him here when I woke up? Did he leave because he knew I wanted him to or because he wanted to, needed to? I should feel relieved that he’s gone, that I dodged the awkwardness of waking up next to him and having to make excuses of why he should go. This is the way I like my relationships with men. Easy, uncomplicated, clear. But my feelings for Grey are anything but uncomplicated, anything but clear. It’s as if my head and my heart are conspiring against me, taking advantage of my vulnerabilities, kicking me while I’m down and so focused on Gwen that I can’t see straight.
Which makes me think of something else that’s bothering me. Visions from my dream last night dance through my mind, a recreation of real life moments that have resurfaced in an unfamiliar setting, the way that dreams sometimes do. I try to make sense of them but all I can see is the back of my father’s truck as he drives away for the last time. I can feel Gwen’s arms around me like I’m there in that moment, my heart breaking into a million pieces.
Her voice in my ear, muttering, “It’s okay Charley. I’ll never leave you. I’ll never leave you.” I can’t recall if Gwen ever actually said those words to me or if that’s part of the dream, the illusion. I can’t recall how I was so sure that he wasn’t coming back. Bits and pieces of memories have flooded my mind lately, haunting my dreams and filling me with the strangest sense of nostalgia for a time that was so long ago, I’m surprised that I remember anything at all. All I have are these fragmented images and sensations and no matter how hard I try to piece them all together, I’m still left with more questions then answers. But one thing is always constant, a bubbling resentment toward my mother. And that seems to be the one thing that I hold onto, the only thing that makes any sense. For years, Gwen and I never talked about my father, or the past, and I certainly don’t discuss it with my mother, the one person who seems hell-bent on sweeping it all under the rug. But now it’s all coming back, the past crashing head-on into my present like a highway collision. I can’t ignore the feeling of helplessness that weighs on my heart, as if I’m a casualty in an ageless war, reminding me that eventually everyone leaves.
Chapter 28
Gwen
I slowly peel my eyes open and the first thing I see is John’s face. The room is dark with the exception of a small fluorescent light on the wall behind the head of the bed. John’s eyes are open, staring into mine with an unreadable expression. I’ve never had to guess what John’s feeling, as if his eyes were a direct window to his heart; I’ve always known instantly. I know that when he’s sad, his eyes droop slightly and he gets this extra crease underneath. Or that when he’s angry the dark rim surrounding the blue of his eyes morphs into a thick, black line and when he laughs, when he’s happy, the gold flecks stand out more, lighting up his eyes with a kaleidoscope of color.
But his eyes are silent.
Seated in a chair, bent forward with his elbows sinking into the side of the bed and his chin resting on the back of his hands where his fingers are interlaced almost in prayer, he says nothing. Just continues to stare directly into my eyes. I reach up and pull the hard, plastic mask from my face and set it aside. The room instantly grows quiet without the noise from the flowing oxygen. I feel my breath grow heavy and I’m not sure if it’s from the loss of the oxygen or from the sudden awareness that John knows. He knows. I can see it in his eyes now. The pity, the sadness, the fear... the anger. It’s all there.
Tears well in my eyes as I watch him cup his hands over his mouth and take a deep breath. But rather than exhale, he releases a sob as tears spill down his cheeks. He lowers his face to my chest as he reaches over and grabs my hand, interlacing our fingers. His body shakes against mine and I feel all his emotions mixed in with my own feelings of guilt and shame. I reach my other hand up, with difficulty, and rest it on the back of his head, my fingers slipping through his blond hair in comfort. Tears stream down my face quietly, but I hold back my own sobs, giving John this moment. He needs it more then I do.
When he finally looks up and shifts back in his chair with red-rimmed eyes framed by dark circles, I take a deep breath and whisper through a dry throat, “I’m sorry.” And then, unable to hold it back any longer, I gasp and begin to sob like a child. I cry for all the moments I felt scared and alone, feeling regret for not telling John sooner, overwhelmed by the relief I feel now that he knows. I cry for the reality that I won’t always be here for John and Olivia and Max. The fear gripping my heart so tightly that I can hardly gain a breath. I don’t want to leave them. I don’t want to die. I cry for that as well, the unfairness of it all. The fear of the unknown, the fear of the pain, the end. I let it all out. Everything that has built up inside me for months now, everything that my denial has suppressed.
John strokes my hair back and holds me until I begin to cough and my breath becomes raspy. He reaches for the oxygen mask and places it back over my nose and mouth. I inhale greedily for a few moments before moving it aside again.