Yes. I had a plan B. Just like I had a list of reasons and a husband who abused me. Oh, and I was an orphan who kept secrets from the one person who loved me and treated me like family. I hated lying to Evelyn, but she would forgive me … eventually.
“What is plan B?”
“Hannah Ellis. A young girl in foster care with cancer. She thought I was beautiful … that I looked like a princess. I told her she was the princess, but she said she didn’t have the hair of a princess. I said hair didn’t make a princess. And to prove it, I shaved my head and swore to not let it grow long again until Hannah could grow long hair again too.”
“You said that?”
I smiled, in spite of the ache on the right side of my face that needed some ice. “No. But if you believe me, Evelyn might too. Right?”
He groaned. “Lila … we need to tell her. She’s stronger than you think she is. A phrase she has said to me many times during our marriage.”
“Tell her what? That I have cancer? That I could die? Or we tell her that the only thing that stops you from feeling my pain is when we’re together?” I couldn’t say “holding each other” or “touching.” It felt too intimate.
Ronin’s arms made me feel safe. I needed that. I made him feel whole and normal. He needed that. We needed each other in a way that nobody else could understand. Not even Evelyn. In a small way, I already felt the devastation of a husband needing something from another woman that his wife couldn’t give him. Except Graham didn’t simply need something from Evelyn; he thought he needed all of her. I could be like her, but that wasn’t enough.
“It will destroy her, Ronin. She will never look at us the same way again. Even if she manages to put on her favorite brave face, I’ll see through it. And it will eat away at my relationship with her. It will eat away at your marriage. This won’t last forever.”
“What does that mean?” he whispered. “What won’t last forever?”
“This pain. Either I’ll get better—you’ll get better. Or I’ll …” I couldn’t say it. I thought it. I thought about it a lot. Saying it, though … that was different. Words had many powers. They shaped perception. Sometimes they cut. Sometimes they healed. But every once in a while, words brought actions to life. The law of attraction.
Even if my fate felt unchangeable, I couldn’t put it out there and give it life before its time—before my time.
“You’re not dying.”
With my heart in my throat and my lips trapped between my teeth, I nodded. A few tears spilled over, tiny drops of fear I let go. “Of course not.”
“Can I …”
I didn’t make him finish. He could feel me. And as crazy as it seemed, I wondered if a part of me could feel him too.
“Yes,” I whispered.
He needed to see me, to touch me. I needed it too. That need carried its own pain because we loved Evelyn. That was why she didn’t ever need to know. That was how I knew it wouldn’t last forever. It couldn’t. I wouldn’t let it.
“When?”
I wiped my tears and swallowed a bitter dose of my new reality. “Graham will be out of town this weekend.”
“I’ll figure out something to tell Evie.”
A lie.
Ronin had to lie to Evie because of my pain. I may not have had cancer, but in many ways, I’d become a cancer in their lives. And I hated it.
“I will protect you.”
“Protect me?” he questioned.
“You and Evelyn … Franz and Anya. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Lila, you don’t need to protect anyone. You need to take care of yourself. Get better. Let’s never have to tell Evie.”
“Okay,” I sighed.
“Ice your face more. I’ll see you this weekend.”
“What about your face?” Yet another thing to add to my guilt list: my predicament caused him an untreatable pain.
“Nothing some hugs from my kids and a kiss from my wife can’t heal.”
“I hope so.” I frowned.
“Goodnight, Lila.”
“Night.”
I wrote several more raw, painful pages in my journal before tucking it back into its place and digging a scarf out of my closet. With a renewed sadness, I brushed my hand over my shaved scalp as if I had to touch it to truly believe the lie and the great lengths I went through to sell it. After a few seconds of acquainting myself with the stranger in the mirror, I tied the black and yellow floral scarf around my head and headed to the stairs to get some ice and something for the pain.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Graham’s voice startled me just as I made it to the top of the stairs where he climbed the last two steps to tower over me. Loose tie. Wrinkles around his concerned eyes. And a frown aimed at my scarf-covered head and red face.
“Ice. I wanted to get some ice for my face,” I murmured, unable to keep from shrinking as he glowered at me.
“Elaine is in the kitchen. Your face raises too many questions. And don’t even get me started on your head.”
“A bookend fell onto my cheek. I shaved my head in support of a young child I met who’s battling cancer.”
Graham blew out his signature breath of frustration. “Christ … I can’t believe how well you’ve planned this out. Go. I’ll get you ice.”
You should. You did this. You. Did. This!
“Thank you,” I whispered, nearly choking on the words. Planned? I couldn’t believe he had the nerve to act like my excuses for the things he did made me the unbelievable one.
We pivoted in opposite directions. I waited in the bedroom for him to bring me ice and something for the pain … like divorce papers. No such luck. A few minutes later, Graham returned with a bottle of ibuprofen and a gel cold pack.
“Come here.” He sat in the chair by the fireplace, gesturing to his lap.
Once upon a time … I used to love his lap, his embrace, his affection. He used to scoot back in his desk chair at the office and pat his leg for me to climb onto his lap where I’d nuzzle my face into his neck and inhale him. One thing often led to another, and we’d turn into a frenzy of torn off clothes, desperate hands, and passionate kisses. Afterward, he’d hold me once more in his arms, like a small child.
I felt loved.
I felt cherished.
I felt like the most important person in his life.
Feelings changed. I no longer wanted to crawl onto his lap or get anywhere near him. Too bad I didn’t have a long list of other options, so I gave in, submitted, confirmed to him that I was weak in that moment. But I wouldn’t always be that weak. One day, I knew my confusion—the guilt—would lift. And he wouldn’t be able to hurt me anymore.
I would be free.
“That’s my girl.” He pressed his lips to the top of my head, against my scarf, and held the ice pack to my swollen cheek while my opposite cheek rested against his chest, giving me a brief reminder that he still had a heart—or at least a beat.
“I have a lot of stress in my life …” He began his usual spiel. It fit as an excuse for many things—headaches, sleep issues, the occasional grumpiness, maybe even snapping out a few regretful words with a raised voice in a heated moment. I gave him a pass for storming out of a room. Driving off and not returning for hours. Hanging up on the phone with me.