Then She Roars

by Vanessa Evetts

  “Well Mr Sexy Toy Boy turned up, didn’t he, Tracey?” Sammie teased the older woman.

  “He did not,” I said in feigned shock. “On the one Monday I wasn’t here … now that's just rude.”

  “Now hang on there a second, Avery Bishop. Hands, eyes and thoughts off – you’ve already found your Prince Charming,” Sammie countered, which caused another outbreak of laughter.

  I couldn’t argue with that, so I threw my hands up in the air in surrender. “Carry on – I’ll keep my eyes closed, hands off and thoughts decent when and if I ever meet him, I promise.”

  Tracey laughed then shook her head. “For the record, ladies … Mr Sexy Toy Boy …” She cupped her mouth as if she’d said something scandalous. “Oh, you two are a bad influence.”

  “And you love every minute of it, Tracey,” Thomas said as he wandered around the room, checking bags and lines. “So, don’t get all prim and proper on us now. What were you saying about Mr Sexy Toy Boy?”

  “Not you too?” She raised her brows at Thomas.

  “Oh no, honey. I’m a happily engaged man.” He winked at Annie. “But I have two eyes to see with and two ears to hear with, and that boy of yours does like to draw my attention.”

  “Well, he has got a girl. In fact, the way he’s talking, I think he just might be off the market indefinitely.”

  “Way to break a girl’s heart, Tracey. You could have let me down easy, let me have the fantasy for a few more months,” Sammie interjected, looking positively forlorn.

  “He’s over twenty years older than you, darling.”

  “He’s hot enough for me not to care.”

  Tracey shook her head while the rest of the room nodded their agreement. I was quite looking forward to meeting this ‘sexy toy boy’ of Tracey’s, even just to watch the ‘ladies-gone-wild’ chemo edition live.

  By the end of the session, I’d been asked a myriad of questions, and all the ladies had shared some of their wildest fantasies and bucket lists, most of which I knew would never be ticked off.

  I didn’t talk about waking up alone or the fact that our passionate affair ended when the clock struck midnight. I didn’t talk about how empty and lonely I felt, because that part of me had been silenced.

  By the time I walked out of the hospital – in my flats – I was buzzing with gratitude despite the deep pit of sadness in my gut.

  I had my people back. I was going to be okay.

  27

  The weeks flew by, and I wasn’t sick, which was unsettling. I moved some clients around to fit them all in while I was able, knowing this reprieve wasn’t going to last, and I managed a walk, jog or run most days.

  Harry turned up a week later as I was getting ready for bed.

  “It's not the weekend,” I said, satisfying the sensible part of my brain that demanded I protest, while at the same time opening the door wide to allow him access.

  “Shh.” He brushed the camisole strap off my shoulder and left a trail of kisses over my skin.

  I did shh. That night we made love in sweet silence in the dark of the night, then I tucked myself up in his strong arms and slept peacefully.

  When I woke up alone and found no sign of him, I knew I’d imagined it all. Disappointment reared until I accepted that the memory of him, whether real or fantasy, had to be enough.

  Tuesday night was the same; I woke to find Harry sliding into bed beside me in the early hours of the morning. This time I pressed my lips to his and breathed him in before I had a chance to protest his presence in my bed or ask how he’d got in.

  “I miss you,” I whispered to the ghost of him that lay next to me. I knew he wasn’t real, but I would take it … all of it, and I did – even when tears trailed down my cheeks with the intensity of how deeply I’d fallen for him … how much I needed him in my life. I savoured the way he loved me so tenderly.

  When I woke on Wednesday, I wasn’t surprised to find myself alone. I’d always had a vivid dream life, and in this season, it was serving me well. I closed my eyes and absorbed the memory of it for a second before I dragged myself out of bed and into reality.

  “Has he turned up?” Sally blurted out as soon as I arrived.

  “Only in my dreams,” I answered.

  “I really thought he would.”

  “He’s respecting my choice, Sally. It was only ever about the weekend.”

  “Well, I think your choice is stupid,” she shot, and I spun around to challenge her.

  “Are you serious? You’re mad at me for choosing to focus on me?”

  “No, Ave. I’m mad at you because you’re neglecting you and focusing on cancer.”

  “Well, someone has to, don’t they? I can’t walk around in a fantasy pretending I’m not sick.”

  “No, but you can choose to live until you die!” She stomped behind her desk.

  If I wasn’t so angry at her, I would’ve seen the pain etched on her face and known she was pushing because she loved me, but I didn’t. My anger blinded me to her pain. How the hell would she know a bloody thing about it? I walked into the office, slammed the door and roared like Abi had done … deep and terrifying. When I was done, I freshened up in my private bathroom and sat in silence, spending some time in the savannah.

  By the time Stuart and Jasmine walked in, I was ready to be Dr Avery Bishop.

  “Well hello there, lovebirds,” I said as they walked in hand in hand. I regretted the words as soon as I saw the sharp edges of their smiles.

  “Sorry we cancelled on you last week,” Jasmine said as they took their seats.

  “Is everything okay? Sally said there was a family emergency.” The glass veneer of their composure shattered before my eyes. Oh crap!

  “I screwed up,” Stuart admitted, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees. I looked from his face to Jasmine’s, which was pained by his admission of guilt. What the hell had he done?

  “We didn’t come because we’d had a fight.”

  “Okay, just on a side note, I’ll take you however you come. You don't need to fix your car before you take it to a mechanic, do you? Going to the mechanic helps you fix it. It’s the same with me. If you find your way through on your own, that's great, but don’t ever think you can’t come in here when something is broken. That’s my job.”

  “Got it … our relationship is the car, and you’re the mechanic,” Stuart said.

  “Of sorts, though I’m not nearly as impressive with my hands,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “And what you learn in here will teach you how to fix your own car.”

  They both nodded.

  “So, what’s going on with the car?” I asked, thinking maybe the analogy would help Stuart open up.

  “I went out drinking with some boys from work.”

  “And …?” I asked, knowing there was more to Jasmine’s heartbreak.

  “A few of the guys headed to a strip joint afterwards.”

  “The single guys,” Jasmine added. Her disgust was evident. Oh, Stuart … you’re in trouble.

  “And you went?” A rhetorical question.

  He nodded.

  “And …?”

  “See, even she knows there’s more,” Jasmine interjected.

  “I screwed up,” he repeated, and I saw that nylon in play again pulling at his top lip, the words he needed to speak trapped inside.

  “This is a safe place, Stuart. I’m the mechanic, remember? If you don’t lift the hood, I can’t help you fix the problem.”

  He launched off the couch and started pacing between us. “I screwed up.”

  “How?”

  “I never should have gone there in the first place. I knew it, and I still did it.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was drunk.”

  I glanced over at Jasmine to see angry streaks of grief glistening down her red-hot cheeks. She was seething. “Why do they always blame it on the alcohol? ‘Oh sorry, baby – I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was doing,’ as if the alcohol made them
do it. It’s bloody ridiculous. No! Being drunk is not an excuse – it’s a consequence of making bad decisions!” She spun around to her husband and pointed an angry finger at him. “You chose to get drunk and you chose what came next!”

  The room was electric with anger. I offered Jasmine a glass of water before turning my attention back to her husband.

  “What happened, Stuart?”

  “I got a lap dance.”

  I could see there was more. “And …?”

  Jasmine clenched her teeth, bracing for the impact of the truth.

  “I kissed her.”

  “Who?”

  “The dancer, hooker, chick … I don’t know what she was.”

  “Did you have sex with her?” I asked.

  His eyes darted to Jasmine’s then back to mine. “No. A mate grabbed me and put me in a taxi home.”

  “And if he hadn’t done that?” I probed.

  “That's the problem, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “Who knows? I was …”

  “Drunk … he was drunk!” Jasmine seethed, rolling her eyes.

  Damn. I thought for a minute about how I would feel if I found out Harry had done the same thing, and I knew even after a few days together and not officially being in a relationship, it would be devastating. I didn’t know if I’d forgive him. And here Jasmine was, betrayed by the man who shared her life, her home, her future and her children.

  “Are you okay, Jasmine?” I asked.

  “No.” She shook her head and then laid it in her hands.

  “Do you need a moment?”

  She inhaled a deep breath, brushed the tears off her face and stared at me resolutely. “No. I just want it over with.”

  I nodded. Brave woman. “What happened when you got home, Stuart?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t go home. I got the taxi to drop me off at a motel.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I couldn’t go home drunk again … not after everything. I knew she’d hate me. So, I got sober and went home the next afternoon.”

  “And how did that go down?”

  “She was mad I hadn’t given her notice I’d be away, but she forgave me, and it made me feel worse.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d lied. I’d told her I had to go away for work.”

  “Obviously you found out,” I said, drawing Jasmine back in. I didn’t want this whole session to be focused on Stuart. And his stupidity. Again, those thoughts I kept inside.

  “There were photos,” she said, narrowing her eyes. I watched her and couldn’t help wondering what the hell had happened. Last session, they’d walked in here all loved up, giddy about the fact they’d had sex. And now … it was like their whole marriage had collapsed around them.

  “Oh dear,” I said. I’m sure I could’ve thought about a more appropriate and professional response, but this transformation stumped me for a moment. I was kind of hoping they’d suddenly burst out laughing and say, ‘Ha, we gotcha … no … seriously, we’re great. That book was amazing, and we feel like we don’t need to see you again.’

  I heard Jasmine talking and brought my eyes back into focus. “Sorry, Jasmine, I didn’t hear you.”

  “I said, would you like to see them?” She held the phone out to me. “I have them right here – one of his colleagues sent them to my phone thinking it was bloody hilarious.”

  I pushed the phone away. “No, I don’t need to see those. I’ll just take your word for it.”

  Stuart slid down the wall, landing on the floor with a thud.

  “Okay, so there were photos … what happened then?” I asked.

  Stuart drew his knees into his chest and covered his face with his palm.

  “I called him at work to tell him not to bother coming home, then I texted him the photos.”

  “And …?” I asked of Jasmine since she’d taken over the retelling.

  “He was home within the hour, begging for another chance. I was too mad to let him in, so I threw his packed bag out the door and told him to bugger off.”

  “That was when?”

  “Last Wednesday.”

  “So, that was your family emergency?” I said.

  Jasmine nodded.

  “Where are you living now, Stuart?” I asked, wanting to invite him back into the conversation.

  He glanced at his wife, apology and shame woven through his features.

  “I’m at home,” he answered with caution, as if afraid those words spoken out loud might change Jasmine’s mind.

  “Only because the kids miss their dad.”

  “Is that the only reason? Is there any hope here?” I asked.

  “Right now,” she looked at Stuart then me, “… I don’t know.”

  “Okay. Stuart, do you want this marriage to work?” I asked.

  His eyes were heavy with the burden of his mistake. “More than anything.”

  “Jasmine, when you walked in here this morning you were holding Stuart’s hand. Does that mean you’re willing to try?”

  “You told us, no matter what, we had to hold hands for half an hour a day.”

  “You're still doing that?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “Is it helping?”

  “I’m still angry and heartbroken … and so friggin' angry, Avery. He’s meant to love me. How could he do that? We were doing so well; we were closer than we’ve been in years … we’d been having—” She swallowed the word sex.

  “This wasn’t about you, Jasmine. You need to know that.” I looked down at Stuart to confirm. “Tell me if I’m wrong.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Now, would you get up here please? I’m straining my neck looking at you.” Stuart did as I asked and sat down on the couch leaving a safe distance between himself and his wife.

  “I’d like Stuart to see one of my male colleagues, one-on-one, if that’s okay?”

  “Now?” she asked.

  “No, I’ll give you a number, Stuart, and you can make an appointment. I’d still like to see the two of you together, and Jasmine, if you want to see me on your own, that’s okay too. You let me know if that would be helpful.”

  “Okay,” she exhaled.

  “What do you think, Stuart?”

  He nodded. “I’ll try anything if it means getting my wife back.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear, because I’m going to lay some truths out for you. Ready?”

  He nodded.

  “Firstly, look at your wife.” I waited for him to obey. “What do you see?”

  “Sadness,” he said, and I agreed with him.

  “Yes, you big oaf, and you put that sadness on that beautiful face.” Unprofessional Avery was coming out, potentially even laced with a little wild Sandy, but I was a firm believer in the way I connected with my clients, and I wasn’t going to back down because protocol told me I should.

  “I want you to think back to the last time you were in here all loved up, when you admitted you’d been having sex, after I’d given you the hand-holding homework. Remember that look on her face when she told me you two couldn’t help it? What did she look like?”

  “Beautiful … content,” he said. The crease in his brow became more defined as he recognised the difference.

  “Well, you put that look on her face too, you know.”

  He looked at me, as did Jasmine. “I told you in our first session that I believed this marriage was worth saving. Despite the current predicament you find yourselves in, I still feel the same way. Marriages can survive this. Heck, if a vehicle can be in a head-on collision and be brought back to life by loving hands working with intention, then this marriage can survive too.”

  “What do I do?” Stuart asked.

  “First things first. Admit you were an idiot when you cheated on your wife.”

  He flinched at the accusation. My eyes flitted to Jasmine’s in time to see rel
ief douse the flame. Just the knowledge that someone understood her was enough.

  “I know it’s confronting, Stuart, but if you don’t acknowledge that you cheated, your marriage will not recover.”

  Tears spilt from his eyes as he accepted the full measure of his mistake and turned towards his wife. He reached out his hand and laid it on her leg palm up, just like during the first session. Jasmine looked at it, then up at her husband, frozen in place.

  “I’m so sorry, Jasmine. I was a bloody fool, and I did … I cheated. I never thought I’d ever be that man, but I am. I’ll do anything to prove how sorry I am … how much I love you.”

  Holding his gaze, she watched as he spoke his piece, as if measuring his sincerity. Then, without any prompting, she lowered her hand and laced her fingers in his.

  “That’s a good start. Next, I need a commitment from you.”

  “We’ll turn up,” he said.

  “No. I mean, yes – that’s important, but this one will be harder.”

  “Okay.” He glanced at Jasmine’s hand and raised his face resolutely. “I’ll do it.”

  I leant in. “You need to stop drinking, and I’m not talking cutting back. I’m talking cold turkey, going sober … with help if you need it.”

  Stuart nodded. “I haven’t had a drink since Tuesday night.”

  “Good. You’ve made a good start, especially with what’s been going on.”

  “It wasn’t worth it. Not once I realised what I’d lose.” He glanced at Jasmine, and what I saw pass between them confirmed my belief about this marriage. Even though the anger and pain were still there, Jasmine was proud of the fact Stuart was digging in – that he’d done it without me telling him to.

  “How long have you been struggling with alcohol?” I asked.

  “About four years …” He dropped his gaze.

  “Around the time the boys were born?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Is there alcoholism or addiction in your family?”

  “My Mum was addicted to prescription pills when I was a kid; she battled with depression my whole life.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Jasmine brushed her thumb over his hand.

  “I don’t talk about it,” he said dismissively. He wasn’t trying to be rude, but we’d definitely hit a sore spot.