The Words We Leave Unspoken(64)

I nod my head slowly as if it’s made of lead. I manage to whisper, “I’m okay.”

John kneels down next to me, places his hands under my arms and drags me up until I’m sitting on the couch.

“Honestly, Gwen, tell me, do I need to take you in?” John asks, sitting beside me.

I catch my breath and say, “No. I’m okay. It’s passing. I just got winded.” I lean back on the couch, now drawing in big breaths, feeling almost normal again.

“Kids, Mommy’s fine. But I need you to go upstairs for a bit, okay,” I hear John say.

They both hesitate for a moment, watching me, but I say, “I’m fine. Go on,” and I wave them away.

When the kids are out of earshot, John says quietly, “What were you thinking, Gwen?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“With the vacuum. It could’ve waited. You could’ve asked me to do it.”

My anger is brewing, even though I know he’s right. I should’ve waited.

“It was no big deal. I just got winded,” I say.

John leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hand down his face.

“Gwen, it’s more than that. It’s your heart. You need to wait until it gets stronger.”

“I said I was fine, John,” I say through clenched teeth.

“You’re not fine, Gwen. I almost lost you. Dammit, why do you have to be so stubborn?”

Something snaps inside me and all the tension and anger breaks free and I can’t stop it even if I were to try.

“Maybe if you’d stop hovering over me, treating me like a child, maybe I wouldn’t have to be so stubborn. Jesus, John, it’s like I can’t breathe without you needing to know about it,” I yell.

He stands up and paces in front of me. “Maybe if you would just once, ask me for help. JUST ONCE. It’s not that hard. Like, ‘Gee, John can you get me a glass of water?’ when you’re thirsty instead of trying to get it yourself. Then maybe I wouldn’t have to ask you if you’re thirsty every five fucking minutes.”

“I can get my own water, John. I don’t need you to wait on me,” I snap back.

“Exactly. You don’t need me. That’s the whole problem here, Gwen. You couldn’t even tell me you were sick. Who does that? Who doesn’t tell their husband they have cancer? Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

I watch John rake his hand through his hair, dragging in long, frustrated breaths and blowing them out through his nose. The volcano of tension has erupted and I fear the aftermath. He’s right. I was wrong to keep it all from him, but where does that leave us?

“I want to be so mad at you Gwen, but it seems like such a waste of time. I refuse to live like this another day. You have to stop hating me for loving you, for wanting to take care of you, for wanting you to need me.” He sits down next to me and holds my hand between both of his. “I don’t know how much time we have left and that scares the shit out of me,” he says calmly with tears in his eyes. “But you have to let me in. You have to let me take care of you, Gwen. Being in a relationship, being in a marriage is about being there for each other, especially in the worst of times. You have to let me be there for you.”

I hear what he’s saying. I cry at his words and the pain in his voice. Why is it so hard for me to let him take care of me? Why is it so hard to admit that I need help?

I cry harder, shedding all my anger when I feel John’s arms around me. I lean into him completely, letting him hold all my weight, hoping he feels the significance.

I fully surrender.

“I love you, John,” I say through my sobs. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I look up into his eyes and he wipes my tears away with his fingertips, leaning in and kissing me on the lips.

“I love you too,” he says, pulling back just enough to tuck my hair behind my ear, reminding me of all the reasons I fell in love with him in the first place.

That night, after John tucks Olivia and Max into their own beds, he climbs into our bed beside me and kisses me madly and then makes slow, sweet love to me. And I forget that I’m sick, I forget that we were fighting, I forget that I was ever angry. I forget my own name.

And in my postcoital bliss, I vow to be a better wife, to tell my husband everything, even when it makes me feel weak. I know that he’ll be there to raise me up and love me strong. I vow to show him every day how much I need him. Because at the end of the day, in sickness or in health, I do need him.





Chapter 35





Charley


“It’s snowing,” Max squeals from the glass doors that lead out to the back deck. “Aunt Charley, come look,” he calls. I make my way over to the window, cup my hands around my face and look out. Sure enough, fluffy white flakes are falling softly from the dark sky. It hardly ever snows in Seattle. I get caught up in the idea that the snowflakes falling outside the window are some sort of Christmas miracle.

It’s Christmas Eve and we are all under the same roof again, at Gwen’s house. This is the first Christmas in a long time that I can remember feeling like a real family. My mother and I have slowly been getting closer. Gwen has completely recovered from her episode. She is starting her new cancer treatment the first week of January. John and Gwen have been acting like long lost lovebirds, it’s almost enough to make me sick, but it beats the crazy tension from before. My job has been going well, so well in fact that I just received a big, fat raise. The end of the month will mark the longest I have stayed at the same job in three years. It feels like a small triumph. Especially when working in the same office as Grey has been awkward to say the least, tempting me to jump ship every time that we are in the same room. I don’t do awkward. But I’ve hung in there. Avoiding Grey at all costs. We haven’t spoken since the day he saw me kissing Ben. Evidently, the scene was the final knife in the back that he needed to cut me loose for good. I’m not proud of myself. I’m heartbroken. I realize what I felt, or still feel, for Grey is significant, but I just don’t know what to do about it. So I do nothing. I haven’t been seeing anyone else either. For once, I’ve been alone, spending time with my family. Denying my need to escape every time I feel something, denying the need to run into the arms of a man.