You’re a failure.
You’re not a Christian.
You’re giving up.
You’re just like your dad.
I wonder if Jack knows that those stories aren’t true, that they never have been.
There’s a big, long, silent thinking that happens, and then I speak.
“Jane, will you leave us?”
She touches Jack’s shoulder. “Is that okay?”
He nods. It feels strange when she asks for his permission, but I understand. She rises from her chair, straightens her shawl, and walks outside.
I have never been able to love Jack, not really, not the way he needed me to. When I walked toward him in that low-backed $250 bridesmaid’s dress, I carried with me the promise of partnership, family, respite, and support, but what life delivered to us was so different from what we expected. There was no partnership. I was the ward and he was the keeper. I was the patient and he was the caretaker. I was a puzzle with too many missing pieces that for years he refused to put down. He was sick—probably the whole time—but my sickness dwarfed his. My life dwarfed our life. My desire to be a mother swallowed my desire to be his wife. I treated him like a sperm donor. Even still, through what had to be misery and anger, he showed up for me, he loved me as best he could for as long as he could. Today, in this room, where for months we’ve invited our anger to speak for us, it’s just me and him, two people who will always know each other a little bit, who will be twisted together by memories, deep love and deep sorrow. For the very first and very last time, I love him the way I never could before.
I move from my chair to sit next to him and I pull his warm, weeping body into mine. I rock him and shush him like the child we never had together and I love him like the woman I hope he’ll find one day. He melts into me and his hot-water tears drip down over my shoulders, I’ve been closer to him before, but I’ve never seen him so clearly as I do right now. I see all the goodness in him and all the grief; I see somebody who deserves healing and hope. I see so much beauty in him and I smile, it’s a real smile.
“Jack, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t show up for you the way you showed up for me. I didn’t know how to give you the love you needed. I didn’t even know how to love myself. You’re such a good man and I feel so lucky that it was you. I’m so happy that you were the one who was there for me. You’re going to be an amazing husband to someone and an amazing dad. Everything’s going to be okay.”
I’m holding him up. His big body begins to bob and shake, and both of us wobble. The love seat groans under us like an old bed frame—it might tip over.
“You’re so good, you’re so kind, and you’re so loved. I will never, ever speak ill of you. I’m so thankful for everything you’ve done.”
I can hear Jane’s shoes scraping across the drive outside. There’s one more thing I need him to know.
“Jack, you’re not your dad.”
He pulls his bloated red face back from my chest and looks at me. He’s so beautiful, so pure, and so loved. God is written all over him.
“I’m sorry too. You’ll be a great mom one day and I hope you find somebody who can love you fully.”
I just keep holding on to him and the tender ending of us until we run out of time.
* * *
Moving forward is peaceful but sad. I don’t miss being married to Jack but I mourn the loss of him. We’re getting divorced. The knowledge is hefty to lug around. He won’t see our niece, Kitty, graduate high school and I’ll never learn to fly-fish on the Colorado River like I said I would. When his parents get cancer, nobody will tell me.
I stay busy all summer working my body too hard on photo shoots, spending too much time on Instagram, and drinking. I’m a glutton. I cover up the hurt and confusion with whatever I can find that feels good, and eventually, I cover myself up completely. I convince myself that social media is an inventory of my blessings, but just like my bed, it becomes another comfortable place to hide. Every year since the surgery at Mayo, my pain has gotten worse; every day since Jack left, my heart has felt empty. Instead of honoring my pain, sharing it, I detach, disconnect, and refuse to let my world be anything but skies of melted sherbet, seven different kinds of wildflowers in my grandma’s milk-glass vases, and friendships. The silence hurts, so I make as much noise as I can. My body hurts, so I hang stylish clothing on it, keep it busy, and take pictures. At thirty-four years old, I’m still performing for company, my thousands of followers, like a gangly little girl. Beauty and adoration are effective medicines and I consume, consume, consume, cutting flowers from the bushes I pass, having another taco, another drink, buying this and that. I cover everything that hurts with anything that doesn’t. I know that you can’t treat the wound unless you let it breathe. Defiantly, I try to smother it.
* * *
When I wake up, my mouth is dry and tarry from secondhand smoke and my nighttime makeup is curdled gunk on my cheeks. It’s August 2013. Amber took me dancing and drinking last night. I’m dehydrated and my muscles are tight and angry. It’s only 5:15 a.m. but pain is an early riser, so God’s morning sky gets the audience it deserves in me and the chatty brown birds outside. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and the nerves clench together into a ball on my back when the weight of me sinks to the floor. I grab onto the bed, holding myself up with a handful of sheet, and wonder how many more years I’ll be able to dance, or walk, or live alone. The countdown to frailty has already begun. Still woozy, I hear ticking and tocking in my temples.
Broad, aching waves radiate up my spine as I walk to the kitchen for water. The lights are too bright but I’m not strong enough, steady enough, or willing enough to go to the switch across the room. I lean over the counter, smack the faucet on, and lift the glass to my lips, letting its contents spill all over and into the fancy apron sink we paid extra for. The shuffle back to the bedroom is slow and humiliating; the too-bright lights and chirpy birds blink and snicker at me from the branches outside.
A sadness settles in during the three-minute climb from the floor to the bed and I grab for my phone. I need to see something different, something sweet and beautiful, so I open up my Instagram. Amber and I are tipsy in the pictures. I must have posted them last night. Our hair is suspended in the air, our mouths are stretched wide open, and our limbs are too fast-moving and fuzzy to be anything but swipes of pale pink. There are twenty-two comments already.
“I want your life.”
“What a dream.”
“You’re so beautiful.”
“I wish I was there!”
Another big, aching wave hits. I shut my eyes hard, grab onto my heating pad, and wait for it to pass over me. It never quite does though. I read the next one and clamp my molars together.
“Can we trade places?”
I feel sick. Don’t they know?
Don’t they know that I suffer? That I hurt and ache and grieve?
Don’t they know?
I swipe back through my cheerful daisy chain of pictures. There I am, smiling big and saying nothing. I’m pretty and fun and happy all the time. I’m hiding.
The scar that runs up my spine is soft and pink. It climbs up my neck completely concealed by an undercoat of curly hair that never grew back in right. Everything that hurts is hidden. It’s always been that way: scars that slide effortlessly under clothing, dependencies legitimized by prescriptions, duty disguised as marriage. I reach back and run my hand up to find the place where new skin meets old.