He shrugged and followed her out.
What I hadn't mentioned to Charlie was that he was another reason I didn't leave, besides the kids. He was my only ally in the house, and a thin one at that — he wasn't much more prepared to get his hands dirty than Mary was, though he at least offered.
They'd met years ago on an introduction by me. Charlie and I had a mutual friend who had not-so-stealthily nudged us together. I found him charming, tall and handsome, smart and funny, and the only surprise I felt when he'd asked me out was that I wasn't at all interested in entertaining the idea. He wasn't for me, the moment just another echo of Wade in my heart.
He was terribly gracious about the whole thing, and we remained friends. And when he'd met Mary, they'd started dating right away, then married not too long after.
It had never been strange between Charlie and me — we got along well, finding a little solace in each other given the family we now shared. And he'd always accepted and respected the boundaries between us. We were still friends, though it was mostly because we lived in the same house and were part of the same family.
Mary, on the other hand, had never been silent about her resentment. Charlie had never even held my hand, but she still seemed oddly jealous, though whatever feelings she harbored weren't enough for her to refuse my help. She found ways to dig at me all the same. I just chalked it up to her own feelings — it was less about me and more about her own insecurities. Talking to her about it had proved fruitless over the years. So we were where we were, and that was that.
"Wook, Ellie!"
I turned to see Sammy holding up his picture: oblong people with stick arms and giant, wide-set dots for eyes, and crazy hair that stuck up like they'd all been struck by lightning.
"Great job, buddy!"
"Can you put it on the fwidge?"
"Sure thing, you wanna do it?"
He lit up and slid off the chair, bounding to the fridge.
I plated their sandwiches and one for myself, sitting with them at the table while we ate and talked about colors and numbers, throwing in a song or two for good measure. Once we were finished, I cleaned up the kitchen and took the kids upstairs to bathe, taking my time, hoping it would be late enough that I could duck into my room. By the time I'd kissed the kids goodnight, I was exhausted. It had been a long day, and tomorrow would be even longer.
Everyone was still in the living room by the time I came back down, with the exception of Charlie, who had been able to sneak away, probably holing himself up in his office. My sisters and Dad sat on the couch together with rosy cheeks and smiles on their faces, laughing, probably at the expense of someone else.
Mary looked over. "Kids in bed?"
"They are. I just wanted to say goodnight. I've got to be up early."
She must have been feeling sentimental, because she smiled warmly. "Don't worry about the kids in the morning. I'll get them. You just go help with Rick."
Beth cooed. "You're so sweet to do that, Mary."
She waved her free hand, the motion sending the wine sloshing dangerously in its glass. "Oh, it's nothing. Get some rest."
"Come here, Elliot. Hug your old father." He wiggled his hand in the air impatiently, and I bent to hug him. The embrace was thin.
"'Night, Dad."
"See you in the morning," he said, dismissing me.
I left gladly, descending the stairs and slipping quietly into my sanctum.
I clicked on the light next to my bed and peeled off my clothes, walking naked to my bathroom to turn on the shower. As the steam rose and curled around me, I stood in front of the mirror for a long moment, glancing over my quiet features, my dark hair, small nose, lips like a rosy bow. The only thing loud about me were my eyes, dark and shining, heavy with all the things I didn't say, and I wondered if there would ever come a day where I'd let all those words free.
8
Here and Now
Here
(Not there, not far)
Now
(Not then, not ago)
You will find a way
To love.
* * *
-M. White
* * *
Wade
I had no idea how I was supposed to feel.
My room was cold, my hands rough against the pages as I sat in my bed reading Byron, for lack of anything more constructive to do.
I shouldn't have been reading it, but it was a torture I'd come to find comforting, pouring over the poems she used to read to me like a prayer, an homage. It was like the pain that came from running until my body ached and my heartbeat rushed in my ears, a welcomed pain. A reminder.
* * *
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe.
* * *
I closed the book and closed my heart along with it.
Dad would be home that afternoon, and every moment pressed on me in anticipation of that event, that marker that would set us on the path to the end. It was the quiet before the storm. I took comfort in the fact that once he was home, I'd have something to do, someone to tend to. An objective.
Without an objective, I was untethered.
I'd spent the morning working, filing for extended medical leave, talking to Dad's lawyer, setting up meetings, speaking to hospice to coordinate with the nurse who would help us get set up. The things that needed to be done flapped their wings in my mind like buzzards, waiting. Always waiting.
But I did them, thankful for busy hands and a busy mind. When I was idle, the fear set in, and I had no room in my heart for fear.
Deep down, I knew it was only a matter of time until the fear broke down the door and took over.