You Are Not Alone(42)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
BETH
Twenty-two months ago
THE SOFT PATTER OF the shower running in the next room was as soothing as a light rainfall. Beth lay in bed, warm covers wrapped around her, listening to its gentle rhythm.
She could stay snuggled here for another two hours, drowsing away the morning; her first court case wasn’t on the docket until eleven A.M. It was a tempting thought. Ever since her chemotherapy had begun more than a month earlier, exhaustion had overpowered her usual exuberant energy.
But she also hadn’t been intimate with her husband, Brett, since she’d started treatments. It had been even longer than that since they’d showered together, which used to be one of their preludes to lovemaking.
So she eased out of bed and pulled her long-sleeved flannel nightgown over her head, catching a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door. She could see the sharp edges of her rib cage and hip bones; her once-curvy body had become almost unrecognizable to her.
She stepped toward the bathroom, wondering why she felt a little nervous. She and Brett had been together for five years, married for three; they’d begun talking about starting a family, although those conversations had been put on hold once her doctor phoned with the results of Beth’s mammogram. This wasn’t the first crisis they’d weathered. Brett supported her when her parents refused to attend their wedding, since Beth had defied their wishes by having a justice of the peace instead of their family priest perform the nondenominational ceremony. When publisher after publisher rejected Brett’s poetry collection, it was Beth’s turn to stand by her husband. She not only encouraged him to keep writing, but agreed to move from Boston to Brooklyn so he could immerse himself in literary circles. He cooked dinner, since his part-time job as an instructor at a writing center left him with more free time, and she covered most of the bills.
They were, she often thought, a beautiful team.
She slowly pushed open the bathroom door. Steam filled the room, and she could smell the fresh, sweet scent of shampoo. Brett’s glasses rested on the edge of the sink, and his pale, lanky silhouette was visible behind the frosted-glass shower door. His head and neck curved down, like a question mark.
He wasn’t moving; he just stood there, letting the water beat down on his head.
Maybe he was concentrating on the perfect metaphor for his latest poem, she thought.
She felt a surge of tenderness for this sensitive, creative man who so loved words and could happily get lost in his own mind on the fifty-mile bike rides he took on his days off. He watched only the History Channel and old black-and-white movies; he did the crossword puzzle in ink. He was so different from her—she hated exercise and loved romantic comedies as an escape from the darkness of her job as a public defender—but that was what also made them work.
She took a deep breath and pulled open the shower door.
Brett was staring at the drain.
Or more accurately, at the clump of bright red hair clogging it.
Beth instinctively touched a hand to her head. Her hair was thinning and patchy, but she still had some.
“Oh, hey,” Brett finally said. His eyes met hers, then skittered away. “I’m about to get out so it’s all yours.”
She knew it pained him to see her struggle. He touched her so gingerly these days, as if he worried she might break. He packed homemade puréed vegetable soup in a thermos for her lunch—it was one of the few things she could keep down—and he’d even taken to sleeping on the couch so she could get better rest.
But she didn’t want him to see her as an invalid or a patient today. She wanted him to see her as a woman.
She didn’t know how to say it; he was the one who was gifted with words, not she. So she simply stepped aside to let him move out of the shower.
When she finger-combed conditioner through her curls, a tangle broke loose into her hands. She inhaled a shuddering breath. It’ll grow back, she told herself. It’s only temporary.
She turned off the water and wrapped herself in a thick robe—she was always cold now—then used a wad of tissues to gather all the hair from the drain and bury it in the trash can.
The next day she met with a few clients—a woman caught soliciting an undercover cop in a prostitution sting, a nineteen-year-old charged with second-degree battery—and while she sipped her soup at lunchtime, she made an appointment to get a wig. Maybe she’d surprise Brett by showing up as a blonde, she thought.
But he surprised her first.
Two days later, she arrived home from work and called out, “Brett?”
There was no answer. None of the Wagner he adored playing over the stereo, no smell of sweet potatoes roasting or bread baking.
In the bedroom, his usually cluttered desk was clean. The antique gold clock that was always atop it was missing.
A note was propped up on the dresser they shared.
Dear Beth,
I’m so sorry. I can’t do this. I can’t be what you need. You deserve better. I’ll always love you.
Brett
She read the words a half dozen times, but they still didn’t make sense.
She hadn’t shed a tear when her parents had railed against her for being so different—for marrying outside the Catholic faith, for being a liberal, for always speaking her mind. She hadn’t broken down when the oncologist confirmed she had Stage 2 breast cancer.