It was the weekend following Labor Day, a holiday known to schoolchildren as the last hurrah of summer. Elizabeth had decided not to attend church this Sunday. Michael was flying home today, and she planned to be at the airport to pick him up. She was tired and still unsettled about what had happened to Thomas. It was tragic and awful and she couldn’t let go of it.
After a very small breakfast, she went into her library to read and think. Randomly, she pulled out a few books to look through, hoping she could find something comforting, something that would make sense of the senselessness.
She glanced through a book by Oswald Chambers, put it down, then opened a book on grief by C. S. Lewis and finally realized that nothing was going to help. She got out her journal and sat, tapping a pen on the table, thinking of how to put into words this swirling confusion of emotions that was setting her on edge.
She prayed. It didn’t help. She moved around the room, trying to walk away from this uncertain place.
By the time Elizabeth pulled up to the airport to get Michael, she was exhausted. It seemed to be the premise underlying life now—being worn out. And it hadn’t helped that she couldn’t let go of what had happened to Thomas. That darkness kept shadowing everything she did, pulling on her and keeping her from seeing anything clearly.
She vaguely wondered how she was going to manage to shield Michael from this, when he was going to be home for several days. It was what she had done all summer. She had tried to rest earlier, but the tension of trying to handle all the recent events wouldn’t allow it.
Of course she had missed her husband, that hadn’t changed, but she also wanted to keep him from what he shouldn’t have to see. The weight of that burden also wouldn’t go away, one more brick to add to the load on her shoulders.
They had seen each other infrequently over the summer, and when they did meet it was expected; she had been able to plan for his arrivals. She rested, she made sure things were done beforehand. In that way she knew she was ready to face his scrutiny and it had worked. According to Carol, he actually thought she was getting better—and why not? Even she believed in those good moments that of course she would get better. After all, Father Wells had just said that all things are possible—with God. But if that were true, what about Thomas?
Later, after they had arrived home, they made love. After all, they had not seen each other for several weeks. Michael left her resting with her eyes open, but he couldn’t lie still. His business done in Canada, he was feeling energetic and buoyant. This summer had been excellent for his firm, and expansion seemed limitless.
Michael emptied his suitcase and garment bag, sorted out clothes for the washer, and gathered things destined for the dry cleaners. While he did this, he often went to check on her. “How are you feeling, Beth?”
Elizabeth had no idea what she should say. She didn’t feel all right, but she didn’t have a fever, she wasn’t hurting . . . What was the correct response? A small wave of her hand seemed to suffice.
He came back a little later. “Stay there as long as you like,” Michael urged. “I’ll order some pizza. Wouldn’t that be good? I noticed the salad in the refrigerator. I’ll get that out, too. Is there anything else you’d like?”
She shook her head slightly, not wanting to make the effort to speak.
It seemed like mere seconds had passed when Michael was again sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Elizabeth, do you want me to bring you a plate?”
She moved slightly to look at the clock on the bureau; she couldn’t believe it was that late. Where had the time gone? She shook her head and began to creep out on her side, but Michael was right there, a hand under her arm—the wrong arm—and she suddenly knew she didn’t want any of this. “No. No, Michael, I’m not hungry. Truly.”
She rested back against the pillows and looked up into his anxious face, and for a moment it was almost enough to make her try again to get up. She was making him very worried. She knew it, wanted to erase that look from his face, but the idea couldn’t make her move. His feelings didn’t matter at this moment because she needed every bit of effort for herself.
For the first time, without realizing it, Michael’s happiness and concern were not her priority.
She was.
Michael left her, worry chasing him like an itch; he went into the kitchen but couldn’t eat. How could this woman, so weary now, be the same woman who was in his arms mere hours ago? A woman who had filled him over and over with desire and completion, participating and giving and giving until he not only thought he would explode but did—with her. The difference was like someone had hit a switch so abruptly she had shut down. He wondered if this was his fault. Had he been too demanding? But she was so responsive, . . . so . . . He shut his eyes, trying to quell a wave of fresh desire. No, no, he knew it was this rotten disease; he knew it caused fatigue, yet it seemed surreal, so . . . wrong. And suddenly he was swept away by the burning question that had no answer: What in God’s name could he do for his Elizabeth?
The whisper of the answer—nothing—slashed him harder than any knife blade. Restless, he kept quietly returning to the bedroom, being careful not to disturb her, but wishing, hoping, he could find a way to help.
With her eyes closed, Elizabeth could hear every time the door was pushed open; the light from the hallway brightened the dark under her eyelids. She knew it because she couldn’t sleep.
Fatigue and sleep had nothing to do with each other; she wondered if he knew that. Probably not. The bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with physical activity didn’t respond to rest—all she could do was stop, keep breathing, and hope.
He had come yet again to stare down at her, then reach out to touch her shoulder, but she was relieved when she heard the door finally shut. She should have been warmed by his concern, but how could she feel a closeness that wasn’t there? Perhaps his concern and worry were real, but wrapped within them was an edge, a hardness she didn’t try to understand.
Instead of feeling cherished by his attention, she felt exposed and vulnerable; all she felt when he looked at her now was— damaged.
Michael woke up at his usual 6:00 a.m., immediately alarmed at the empty space beside him. Concern pounding his heart, he grabbed a robe and went in search of his wife. Please let her be all right, please . . . Words tumbled around in his head, disjointed and erratic. He pushed the door open to the kitchen and found her.
Piano music from a CD filled the air and there she was, mixing eggs and sautéing vegetables for an omelet. He could already smell scones in the oven. His frown wasn’t from anger, though it looked like it. Damn, this made no sense at all. She had been exhausted last night. Of course, he was relieved she wasn’t hurt, but the adrenaline pumping inside him had nowhere to go. He breathed hard and finally said something.
She jumped at the stern “Good morning” that came from the doorway. Then she laughed, throwing back her head. It did nothing to ease the conflicting emotions wrapping him like a prisoner. “Hey sleepyhead, you finally got up.” She set the bowl down on the counter and held out her arms. He moved in closer to hug her and even tried to smile, but failed. He was completely baffled. Michael had a hard time comprehending things that made no sense whatsoever.
“Me a sleepyhead? You’re the one who never gets up before I go to work! And what’s all this? You never ever cook me breakfast during the week.” He tried to keep his voice clean, but even he could hear the clip in it.
She lifted her chin a little higher. “So enjoy it now.”
She turned back to the oven, and all Michael could do was shake his head. It made no sense. Intellectually, he tried to blame the disease. Tried to, but he had to wonder what was real and who was really in charge. He knew it wasn’t him and resented that more deeply than he could admit.