I worked the next day—Wednesday—and took my time coming home, stopping at a bookstore to buy The War of Art since I hadn’t gotten around to ordering it, and then going to the mall for a new pair of work shoes. I didn’t really need them, but I was still reeling from last night and the fact that I’d taken an early lunch in order to withdraw fifteen hundred dollars out of our savings account, which I’d then taken home to Keisha. She’d hugged me and left for work, texting me later to tell me it was done.
I’d just paid off a drug dealer. Whose life was this?
I called the cell phone company and got Keisha a new number, effective tomorrow, then texted it to her. I waited for a few minutes for a response, but when she didn’t reply, I went back to my job as a medical professional and counted out legal drugs that would help people control their pain and misery, regulate their chemistries, and give them a greater quality of life.
I was shaking and nauseated most of the afternoon, and so confused about how I felt toward my husband and how to explain my reaction last night. It hadn’t made sense and what I’d said wasn’t entirely true, but it was as though I’d been holding in all this frustration and it had come out in a big, spewing rage. I didn’t have these kinds of rages. It wasn’t me. And yet it was me, and I stood behind what I said, which meant I couldn’t apologize, and yet the idea of facing John tonight made my bones hurt.
I needed clarity. I needed to be centered, so I bought a CD of flute music at the mall and put high expectations on it as I listened to it on my way home. It was not the magic pill I’d hoped for, and yet I couldn’t stay away from home much longer. It was almost eight o’clock.
I considered forcing a smile when I entered, but I was tired of all the falseness—most of which I had no choice but to continue playing along with. So when I pushed open the door I let myself look as tired and drained as I felt, steeling myself for either the silent treatment from my husband—which was what we’d done that morning—or another argument, which I did not feel capable of doing. Then again, maybe another argument was what I needed. I’d already let him have it last night. If it came up again, maybe I could just tell him everything—everything Keisha had told me, and everything I’d done to help her. He should have done better by her, if not when she was little, then now.
For the split second before I entered the house, I was overcome with relief at the idea of telling him the truth. I hated keeping secrets. There would be healing that would need to take place, for sure, but I wouldn’t be burdened with this alone. That was where my anger came from last night—guilt and shame and frustration all scrunched together like a big wad of tinfoil. If I put it in front of him, I’d have a better chance of untangling it, right? But would he kick Keisha out? Was I willing to take that chance?
I entered the kitchen with these thoughts beating my brain, then stopped in my tracks. Instead of an angry husband and tense household, Landon, Keisha, and John were sitting around the kitchen table playing Settlers of Catan—our family’s favorite board game. Keisha had just stolen the longest road from Landon and had her hand out for the card while he writhed in pain at having to give up the two points.
John met my eyes and smiled. I didn’t know what to do with this scene, and then I saw the bouquet of flowers on the counter. A sudden lump in my throat caught me off guard. John and I had only had a few big fights in our marriage—fewer than most couples, I was sure. On the times when it was his fault, he would bring me flowers after taking the time to realize his mistake. When it was my fault, I bought him a new power tool.
I stared at the flowers and then looked at him as he stood up from the table. Keisha sent a quick glance our way but then went back to the game—it was Landon’s turn. John came to me and put a hand on my shoulder, guiding me into the living room, away from our children. Then he faced me and managed a small smile. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I couldn’t talk, my resolve shaken up like a snow globe. I’d been almost ready to tell him, but now I had to rebreak the bone if I wanted to follow through on my decision to put it all on the table. Did I dare do that? Contrary to what people said about bones mending to be stronger than they were before, it wasn’t usually true.
He reached up and touched my face. “I’ve thought about what you said, and you’re right.” He gave me a small smile with such tenderness in his eyes that I winced inside. His voice was soft, at least partly so as not to be overheard by the kids, I assumed. “I’ve let you take the lead, and in the process I haven’t stood up for my daughter the way I should. She’s done everything she can to prove herself, and I haven’t allowed her to grow in my eyes.” I understood how painful it was for him to admit that out loud. “That was wrong, and I’m sorry. She doesn’t deserve that from me, and you deserve me to do my part. I’m sorry for not seeing it on my own.”
I stared at him, taking in the scruff of his beard, the way his pale eyelashes were almost invisible. I loved this man—he was the beginning and end of all the great things I had in my life, and yet as I stared at him, I thought of the night Keisha hadn’t come home until four in the morning. I thought of the gift card I’d purchased to cover her theft, and the money I’d withdrawn from our savings account this morning to pay off a dealer. Where anger had overcome me last night, now I was stunned with the burn of shame. I’d blasted him last night, and he’d forgiven me, just like that. I’d underestimated him. Had I underestimated him with those other things too?
I couldn’t speak. All my words stuck in my throat as I tried to anticipate what he would say when I told him the truth. There was suddenly no doubt in my mind I would have to tell him eventually. Why had I ever thought I could hide it? Why had I wanted to? What kind of wife was I?
He took a step toward me and cupped my face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs beneath my eyes. With the tenderness of a man who had kissed me a million times during our lives together, he gently touched his lips to mine, held them there, then pulled back in order to wrap his arms around my shoulders. I couldn’t help but wrap my arms around him as well, wishing I’d never have to let go, that we could exist in this state of doesn’t-matter forever. I laid my head on his chest, closed my eyes, and wondered what on earth I was supposed to do now.
I opened my eyes to see Keisha standing in the doorway. She wasn’t smiling as she looked at us; instead, she looked . . . sad. Why? And then Landon popped his head out from behind her and started making gagging noises. I felt the rumble of John’s laughter in his chest before I heard it, then he pulled away and looked deep into my eyes again. “Are we okay?” he whispered. Landon writhed on his deathbed behind us, flopping on the floor in agony.
I still couldn’t speak, so I just nodded. John’s soft smile grew a little more, and he leaned in to kiss me once more while Landon said “I. Am. Dead!” before giving one last death spasm and going still, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. John turned to look at him, at which point Landon’s eyes popped open, narrowed playfully. “It’s your turn, lover boy.”
John laughed again, and when I looked at Keisha again she smiled slightly. I knew she couldn’t understand the weight of what I hadn’t told John; maybe she thought I had told him, but I hoped she understood the sacrifice I was making for her.