by Renee Dyer
Numbness settles in. A veil falls over my heart and I tell myself it’s for the best. I’m sure he’ll tell me he wants a divorce soon, I might as well feel nothing now. He screams he’s going for tools and I shake my head at his continued performance. He deserves an award.
When I hear him walk down the stairs, I unlock the door, go to our bedroom, turn off the light, and climb into bed. Rolling so my back is facing his side of the bed, I close my eyes. Sleep will not come tonight. I know that, but I have nowhere else to go.
“Jesus, Bren. You scared me.” The bed sinks behind me and I cringe as he climbs in at my back. His arms go around me and I tell myself to stay still, even though I want to push him away. This may be the last time he holds me. “I’ll make this right, babe. I promise. What you said is not true. I love you. All of you.”
I don’t know if he expects me to answer, but I don’t. There’s nothing left to say. I lay there in the dark with the arms of the man I love around me. If only I were still me, he would love me too.
Chapter Thirteen
Nick
Sleep eluded me. Around five, I snuck out of bed. I don’t think Brenna was asleep either, so I’m not sure how stealthy I was, but she didn’t move or ask me to stay. I wish she had, but I didn’t expect her to after last night. There was so much more I wanted to say, but I didn’t think she would listen. I’m hoping she’ll be more responsive this morning. In the kitchen, I set about making her favorite breakfast: Belgium waffles with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. I’ve started making it a habit to keep the ingredients on hand since she pulled through the second surgery.
It was a promise I made to God. If he gave her back to me, I would spend every day showing her how much I love her.
I fucked up last night, but today, I plan to set us back on the right track. There are things that need to be said. Things I’ve been avoiding. I can only hope our relationship is strong enough to withstand the truth. I don’t know what I’ll do if it isn’t.
I pull bacon and eggs from the fridge next. If she can’t eat them, I’ll be sure to take care of her leftovers. Who am I kidding? The bacon and eggs are for me. I may be trying to make amends with Brenna, but there’s no way I’ll walk away from a home cooked breakfast. If only I had potatoes for home fries, my morning would be complete.
Well, home fries and Brenna forgiving me.
I’m lost in the rhythm of preparing food, the smells of bacon, and what I’ll say to my wife, “You have no idea how much I wish I could take back last night,” I say into the empty room, needing to hear the words out loud.
“You’re right. I don’t.”
I jump around, my heart nearly flying from my chest. “Bren! Shit. Don’t sneak up on a person like that. Especially when he’s working with hot grease.” Allowing myself to calm for a second, I examine her, and I don’t like what I see. It’s in her eyes. Sadness. Loss. I fear what she feels she’s lost…who she feels she’s lost, is me. Today, right now, I’m going to start doing everything I can to show her I’m not going anywhere. “I made your favorite breakfast.”
“I see that. Why? Why bother?” Her voice is devoid of emotion and above all else, that frightens me the most. It’s like she’s given up.
“Because I love you, Bren.”
She shakes her head, a small sigh escaping her lips. “Such easy words to say.”
Thoughts no longer rule me. I rush her from the across the room, my hands cradling her cheeks, lifting her face as much as it can go, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Damn it, Bren! I know I fucked up last night, but there is no way…no way, you can look in my eyes and not see the love I feel for you. They are not meaningless words. Let me explain what happened. Please,” I beg.
“The food is burning.”
“I don’t care about the damn food. I care about you. Don’t you get it? The food can burn. This whole house can burn to the ground. It means nothing to me without you. What can I do to make you understand?”
“Good thing I like my bacon a little crispy.”
It’s not a direct answer, but this is how Brenna handles confrontation. She deflects with jokes. I’ll take it. “Why don’t you go relax on the couch and I’ll finish getting breakfast ready?”
“I’ve relaxed for weeks. I think I’ll help.”
I nod, afraid to piss her off again. She pours two glasses of orange juice, gets plates and silverware, and walks to the dining room. Her usual sway isn’t there and I despise being the reason her swagger is gone. If I have to brush her hair twenty times a day for the next ten years, paint her toenails, or any other thing society deems girly, I will. I will make her see she is my everything.
Even if it makes me look like less of a man.
People talk about what makes you a man. You have to be tough. Never show emotion. Be in control. Never admit weakness. I think it’s all bullshit…well, most of it. You’ll never see me cry. But I’ve seen the way a lot of men treat women, and real men don’t break their women or control them. They don’t make them cry just because they can. They don’t try to change them into something they aren’t. If these are traits that constitute being a real man, I’m going to tell them I’d rather be a pussy.
Most of the men I know probably think I’m a pussy anyway because I like spending so much time with my wife. Why is it so unnatural to enjoy time with your spouse? I mean, I like beer. I play video games. I scratch my nuts, burp, and fart like a damn champion. Don’t even get me started on bonfires—I’d light one every night in the living room if it wouldn’t burn down the house. Destroying shit is fun. But, being with Brenna is more fun. And saying lame ass stuff like that is what gets me in trouble with everyone…except her.
Throwing myself back into the job at hand, I arrange the food on a platter and bring it to the dining room. Brenna already has the strawberries, whipped cream, and syrup set up. She doesn’t look up when I enter and it deflates all the good feelings I had a minute ago
“It smells good,” she says, spearing a waffle with her fork. Her stomach grumbles and it reminds me of the first time we went to dinner together. She was never afraid to eat in front of me. I found that so attractive. Still do.
“I hope I didn’t overcook them.”
“The bacon looks perfect.” Her voice stays low. It’s uncomfortable and I hate the tension between us.
I fill my plate and start eating. It would be nice to enjoy some food before we get into what is bothering us. I know I’m easier to deal with on a full stomach. A hungry Nick is a cranky Nick. I chuckle at myself and Brenna looks at me. Regret fills me. I shouldn’t find any humor in our situation, but I’m tired of feeling like shit all the time. We went to hell, got burned by the devil himself, and came out on the other side, isn’t it time we start feeling some relief?
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“For what?” she asks, her eyes unable to meet mine.
“Everything, Bren. I’m sorry you have Chiari. I’m sorry you had to have surgery. That you got sick. I hate that weeks of your life—our lives—were taken away from us. I wish I could give all that time back to you. I’m sorry about last night. You have no idea how bad I feel. Please, let me explain.”
She puts her fork down and pushes her plate away. She still doesn’t look at me, but it appears she’s giving me her attention. I’ll take it. I mimic her movements and think for a second of how best to tell her what’s on my mind and in my heart. I’m not good at this emotional crap. I wish she could place her hands on my head and read my thoughts. It would be so much easier.
“I have to ask you a question, Bren, and I need to tell me the truth. Do you really believe I’m disgusted by you?”
She looks at me now and I hate what I see there. There’s no doubt in her face when she nods her head. Her normally sparkling hazel eyes look browner, sadder, resigned to being heartbroken. We have a lot of mending ahead of us.
“I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“Did think,” she whispers, �
�before you saw it the first time.”
“Saw it?” I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about. Riddles are not my thing. “Babe, you need to spell it out for me.”
“I saw your face. In the mirror, when the staples came out. It was similar to how you looked last night when you touched the scar.” Hostility enters her tone, and I deserve it for last night, but I know I didn’t do anything at the appointment.
“You’re wrong about the appointment. If I was making any face, it was a face of curiosity. I had about ten questions I wanted to ask Dr. Wendell, but I was afraid to ask them. I wanted you to ask yours first or for him to tell us what he saw. What I was curious about was pretty much covered in those two things. Last night is a different story and I will tell you about it if you’re still willing to listen, but when I say listen, I mean I need you to hear me. No thinking you know what’s going on in my head. Trust me, you have no idea.”
We sit in silence while I let her digest what I said. The longer we sit, the more I fear she’s going to say no. After a few minutes, she nods her head.
“I can’t take back how I reacted last night and I can’t tell you I won’t react that way again.” When she starts to say something, I put my hands up. “Please, hear me out.” She huffs, but settles back into her chair. “The scars you have don’t make me see you as any less beautiful than I ever saw you before. In a lot of ways, they make you more gorgeous than ever.” She starts shaking her head and I get up from my chair, moving toward her. I sit on the floor in front of her and take her hands in mine, needing to feel a connection to her. She fights at first, but I hold her fingers tight, refusing to let her go.
“Your scars make you more beautiful because they represent the fight you had to go through to come back to me. For that, I’m grateful. But—and this is a big but—I can’t touch them right now. I don’t know when I’ll be able to touch them without freaking out and I’m so sorry for that, Bren.” I have to stop talking when she looks at me in utter confusion and pain. I don’t want to lay this truth on her, not when she’s still healing, but we can’t move forward unless I do. “Your scars also represent what I had to watch. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to tell you everything I saw in the weeks you were sick. I was here, caring for you, feeding, bathing—Christ, doing everything for you. You were withering away to nothing in front of me and no one would help me get you better. I didn’t know if you—”
“Stop, Nick. I can’t hear anymore. I’m sorry. I keep forgetting.”
“Forgetting?” I ask, confused by her apology.
“That you’ve been through hell, too. And it was because of me. My body, my brain caused all of this.” Her shoulders slump and she visibly turns in on herself. “You are a good man. You don’t deserve this. Any of it. Brady doesn’t either. I broke everything. I’m so sorry.”
“Bren, no. You didn’t make this happen. You had no way of knowing you’d get sick. Did you know you smiled at me and tried to keep my spirits up when you could?” I try to lift her from the melancholy she disappeared into.
“Stop, please,” she begs. “I just can’t do this right now.”
“You don’t have to do anything alone. We’re a team, Bren.”
She slides off the chair into my arms. We stay cuddled together until we’re sore from not moving. There was more I wanted to say, but this was a good start to us healing.
Chapter Fourteen
Brenna
In four weeks of working with Gabe, I’ve come so far. When I started physical therapy, I didn’t have much faith I’d get my full range of motion back, but in such a short amount of time, I can almost turn my head completely side to side. Most days, I can keep my head lifted, and barely look down at all. I still look at my feet when I get tired, but my muscles are getting stronger. Tilting my head back is an issue, but Gabe says that will take time.
Time used to be my enemy, but now, I’m starting to build goals with it. Week one, I needed to get through five sets of exercises, two times a day with the yellow stretchy bands. Week two, Gabe moved me up to seven exercises, three times a day, and I got to go into the gym at the facility with him. Week three, I graduated to the red stretchy band. I had to step back to the five and two combo, but the resistance was harder. Balance training was added with a fitness ball. I loved the ball. Not only could I sit on it to work on my balance, but Gabe taught me leg exercises from a seated position and ab exercises from my back. I thought I knew how to stretch my body before, but Gabe showed me I was overextending my muscles. With his guidance, I learned how to properly position my body and loosen it up before working it out. Every new gain felt like I was winning a piece of myself back.
Gabe congratulated me every step of the way with a beaming smile and a pat on the shoulder. I could see a lot of women falling for his baby blues and dimples. Not me, though. There is a dimpled smile I fell for, but it’s attached to a brown eyed hottie. We may not be at the happiest place, but he still has my heart. Thinking of Nick causes a pang of guilt. I can’t stand that we’re struggling to find common ground.
Nick has made several sweet gestures over the past few weeks. A surprise picnic for him, Brady, and I in the living room, asking me to dance under the stars through our bay window, sending flowers. He’s cooked me more Belgium waffles than my waistline can handle. I don’t question his love for me. We just can’t seem to find the spark that used to ignite into blazing fires. We’ve yet to be intimate, and snippy remarks fall so easily from our lips. That’s not us. Not the us we used to be. A divide has formed, and I don’t know how to close it.
I push myself harder, thinking, if I can just get better, get back to the old me, then Nick and I can get back to the old us. At the end of my session, Gabe tells me to up my exercises and sets. He gives me his big smile and tells me how great I’m doing, reminding me I only have one more stretchy band to get through before we move to the dumbbells. I allow myself a second to be proud of what I’ve accomplished. It took a lot of pain and hard work to get here and it’s going to take a lot more before I’m me again, but Nick is worth every second of it.
In the car, I can’t wipe the grin from my face. Today is my first day driving. Janice was nervous when I told her I was ready. There was no time table. Dr. Wendell said to give it a try when I could move my neck and felt comfortable. I put Brady in the car this morning and drove around our neighborhood. There was no issue with turning my head. I could see everywhere I needed to, so I figured it was time to get my drive on. I didn’t call to tell Nick, though, and I’m nervous how the conversation will go tonight. Needing a distraction from my thoughts, I turn on the radio and start singing along to Justin Timberlake’s What Goes Around…Comes Around. I bop a little in my seat and try to let the uneasiness drift from my body.
Thirty minutes of bad singing later, I pull into my driveway. I had every reason to feel uneasy. Janice’s car is gone and Nick’s car is here. He should be at work. Did she call him? Why would she do that? I was capable of driving myself to the appointment, obviously. I’m here now, in one piece. When will they stop treating me like glass?
I think back over the last few weeks, to any time Janice has been here after a physical therapy session. Nick would ask her how it went instead of asking me. Janice would regurgitate the information I gave her in the car. She didn’t do it to upset me. She’s the sweetest woman and answers any question she’s asked. Her kind nature is why we love her so much. She goes out of her way three times a week to drive four towns over to pick me up, bring me to my appointments, hang out at the mall with Brady, and bring me home when I’m done. I don’t get angry with her when she answers Nick, but I do get angry with him. He treats me like I’m incapable of telling him about my appointment, or how I’m improving. It’s infuriating. And it’s widening the gap between us.
But this…why is he here?
I slam out of my car and storm up the steps, ready for a fight. It’s been building and I need to release this fury before I explode. Who the hell
does he think he is?
“Finally,” he says as I slam through the door. “I’ve been worried sick.”
“About what? I was fine,” I sputter, unable to believe he’s even here.
“About you. You aren’t ready to drive yet.”
“Says who? You?” I holler.
“You haven’t been back to Dr. Wendell to get approval,” he replies, acting like he wasn’t at the same appointment I was. He knows damn well I don’t need to go back to the doctor to get permission. I breathe a few times before I lose my shit, but it’s the wrong choice. It gives him time to say something else stupid. “I forgot you had PT today, so when I called and my mom said you drove yourself, I freaked. I couldn’t focus at work. All I could think was I needed to be here. Then I had to ask my mom to take Brady out to lunch because he kept asking me when you’d be home and it just kept making me look at the clock. It was making me crazy.”
“Shut up, Nick.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” He looks like I sucker punched him, but I don’t care. I need him to be quiet. “You sent our son away because I was at an appointment I go to every week? Three fucking times a week?” My voice is harsh, but there is no way to sugar coat this.
“Well…I…look at it from my perspective.”
“I’m trying, but all I see is a whole lot of you not wanting me to get better.”
“That’s not true. I just think you should have called Dr. Wendell or talked to me before you—”
“Goddamn it! Stop treating me like I’m fucking broken. I know I got sick. Really fucking sick, but I’m still here. I’m still here, Nick, and I’m fighting to get better. I swear, you don’t see it—see me. You still see the girl who was sick and stuck on the couch. If you can’t move on from her, then you’re going to lose me.”
I walk past him, feeling defeated. Nick and I don’t yell at each other and the way I just spoke to him devastates me. I can’t look at him. I need to be alone to think. There needs to be a way for us to get past this. Part of me wishes he would stop me, but a bigger part, the piece of me that understands my anger, knows we both need to cool down.
