Thursdays (The Wait Book 1)

by Harper Bentley

  “Beckerhead. What’s up?” my old roommate Paul answered with a snort. He was still in Pennsylvania but now in med school. When he’d called two weeks ago and I’d told him about Sonya, he’d been as shocked as I was.

  “I need to know if you can tell me which rehab center nearest me is the most exclusive. Meaning no one would ever find out someone’s been there.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “It’s Sonya. Found her with a fucking needle in her goddamn arm. Can you help me?”

  “Exclusivity is the priority, right?” he asked.

  I definitely wanted the most exclusive place. Yeah, they’re all supposed to protect your privacy but I didn’t trust that. That would’ve been just what I needed, my working at a pharmaceutical company, for them to find out my wife was an addict. Even though I wasn’t around the drugs, I envisioned the process clearly:

  Secretary #1: We’re missing such-and-such drug from the warehouse/shelves/shipment. Wasn’t that the one Beck Griffin was pushing with that app of his?

  Secretary #2: Yes. And his wife is an addict. I’ll bet he stole them for her.

  Secretary #1 calling the CEO: We have a problem.

  CEO: Griffin? I need to see you now.

  I’d be fired and blacklisted never to work in the field again.

  I didn’t know if that shit could happen but those were my thoughts.

  “Yes. Top priority. Find one a celebrity’s gone to that not even the fucking paparazzi knew about. I don’t give a shit how much it costs.”

  “Okay, man. I’ll make some calls and get back with you. Hate this for you two. But she can beat this shit. I know it,” Paul declared.

  “Guess we’re about to find out,” I mumbled.

  After hanging up, I sat on the bed watching Sonya in her drug-induced state wondering why in the hell I’d believed her. I felt like the world’s biggest idiot.

  Paul called back five minutes later, giving me the name of a center and their number. We hung up and I made the call.

  “Is she passed out?” the woman on the line asked after I’d explained how I’d found Sonya.

  I now looked at my wife who was slowly blinking her eyes, her lips moving as if she was speaking to someone who wasn’t there but no words were coming out. “When I came in, I think she had been,” I answered.

  “Sir, when someone passes out after an injection of an opiate, that could be a sign of an overdose. Is she breathing? Did you call 911?”

  “No, I didn’t call because she was breathing and she responded when I first moved her. I’m not sure how long it’s been since the injection but she was somewhat coherent when I found her, maybe fifteen minutes ago,” I answered.

  “Oh. Okay. That’s good.” I heard computer keys clicking. “Yes. Bring her in. We’ll have the paperwork ready. I need to let you know she’s allowed no visitors the first week as it’s an adjustment period.”

  “I’m not worried about that right now. I just want her better,” I replied.

  “Of course.”

  After hanging up, I almost had Sonya’s things packed and ready fifteen minutes later. She’d come-to and was now sitting up against the headboard, watching me collecting her things and putting them in the bag I’d set at the foot of the bed.

  “Are we going somewhere?” she asked, still in a haze.

  I nodded as I got her out of bed. “Let’s get you cleaned up some,” I told her, leading her into the bathroom.

  I washed the dried blood from her arm where the needle had been then watched as she brushed her hair then put it up in a messy bun.

  “Should I touch up my makeup?” she inquired, her reflection looking at mine in the mirror, her eyes clouded as if she was still in a fog.

  Up until then, I realized I’d been on autopilot, probably in shock after finding her, but that question woke me up. I glanced back at her through narrowed eyes and knew I’d hate this moment for the rest of my life. I’d given her the benefit of the doubt after catching her snorting coke at the club. But right then at that very moment, my wife became just another person. She was no longer the woman I held so high above others. The one I thought could do no wrong. She’d suddenly become...ordinary.

  Yeah, I know it wasn’t fair, but I’d held her in such high esteem up to that point, and the disappointment I felt at knowing she was just like everyone else was fucking killer.

  “No,” I responded. “You look fine.”

  Telling her I’d be back, I carried her things to my Jeep, and when I came back into the apartment, she asked, “Where’re we going?”

  I was tempted to lie but she was a grown woman so I told her the truth. “I’m checking you into a rehab facility.”

  Of course, she threw a fit, screaming that she didn’t need help, that I was delusional and she didn’t have a problem. I didn’t argue with her, only told her she needed to come with me, and when she wouldn’t budge, I’d literally had to carry her ass to the car, but I didn’t care. She needed this.

  We needed this.

  The facility was an hour away, so the drive was a load of fun.

  “You hate me! You never loved me!” Sonya spat from the passenger seat.

  “Keep telling yourself that shit, babe.” I turned and looked at her. “You’ll realize I’m doing this because I love you.”

  She let out a humorless laugh. “Right.” Then she grabbed the door handle. “I’ll open the door and jump out, Beck! You can’t make me go!”

  “You fucking try it and I’ll duct tape you to the fucking seat.”

  She let out a scream of frustration. “You’re such an asshole! I hate you! I never should’ve married you! You’re such a loser!” she spewed hatefully then crossed her arms. “We live in a shitty apartment and we’re never going to get a house! You said you’d take care of me! You’re doing a superb job, babe!” She gave me a slow clap as she mumbled, “Bravo, Beck.”

  Nice.

  I already felt like shit thinking I should’ve done something, anything, to avoid this happening to her, and that just topped it off.

  She was quiet for a moment then things got even worse.

  “You know how many men I’ve slept with to get drugs?” she coldly tossed out.

  Punch to the goddamned gut.

  Not quite sure I’d heard her and sucking in a breath as I narrowed my eyes, I turned to see her staring out the windshield. “What?” I whispered.

  She nodded slowly.

  I looked back at the road, stomach churning as I asked, “Since we’ve been married?”

  When she didn’t answer, I glanced over to see her head ducked while a tear rolled down her cheek.

  “You fucking kidding me?” I rasped, all the air gone from my lungs.

  Her head came up suddenly and she backtracked. “What? No! I haven’t been with anyone since we’ve been married!” she pronounced, but I didn’t believe her. When Sonya lied, she ran a hand over her neck as she was now doing.

  “How many?” I bit out.

  “How many what?”

  “How many fucking times!” I yelled making her jump.

  I watched as her body curled into itself making her appear smaller as she openly cried. “None, Beck. None,” she whimpered, hand still at her neck.

  Jesus Christ. My wife, whom I’d loved with everything I had, was a cheating, lying, drug addict.

  Fuck!

  We drove on in silence, me in shock and gripping the steering wheel so hard I thought it’d break as I tried controlling my anger, praying she was telling the truth about not cheating, and her sobbing the whole while.

  That is until five minutes later when she started spewing her vitriol again.

  “I can’t believe you! I’d never cheat on you! How could you think I could do that?”

  Because you’re holding your goddamned neck.

  “Huh? How could you think I’d do that? Yes, I did it when I was younger when I didn’t have money and needed a fix but I wouldn’t do that to you now! And it was only li
ke seven guys! And I knew all of them!”

  Only seven. Christ!

  “I’m shocked you’d think I’d sleep with someone else now! You’re horrible for thinking I’d do that to you! To us! I hate you for even thinking that! That’s such a shitty thing to think about your wife, you fucking bastard!”

  Yeah, I’m a bastard.

  Another sign of her lying? Going on and on about shit, just digging that hole deeper.

  Holy hell.

  I felt a place in my heart close off the more she talked.

  I didn’t want it to happen.

  It just did.

  I’d never forget that feeling.

  And I knew things would never be the same.

  “I can’t help that I’m this way, Beck.” More sobbing. “My parents and brother died!” she wailed. She snatched a tissue from the console, wiping her eyes and nose. “I just don’t know what to do.” She sat for a couple minutes, her breath hitching as she cried.

  I was just about to reach a hand out to grab hers when it was like a switch was flipped. She now turned to look at me, suddenly sober, her voice venomous. “This is all your fault! If you’d taken better care of me, I wouldn’t have to try to make myself feel better by taking stuff! You make me feel like I’m nothing!”

  I’d had enough because although I did feel guilty thinking this was partly my fault, I most definitely had not made her feel like she was nothing. She’d been my everything and I’d let her know it every single day.

  “You need to shut the fuck up now, Sonya.”

  “Who are you to tell me to shut up? I can say whatever I want! Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re such a loser! You can’t even keep your wife happy!”

  Fucking hell. That was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do, listening to the woman who was supposed to love me above all others, saying those things. If I didn’t know I loved her before, I figured it out right then. I felt it through my entire being.

  Except for that small part of me that had shut down.

  When we finally pulled into the parking lot at the center, her spiteful words suddenly turned to honey.

  “No! Beck! I love you! Please don’t make me stay here! I love you! I want to be with you! You’re all I need! You’re everything! Please!” she’d begged through her tears.

  And, hell, I teared up too because it killed me to have to leave her there. But I got out and went to the passenger side to help her. When she tried kicking me, I was ready, grabbing her legs and turning her to where I had a hold of her, then I carried her inside with her writhing in my arms, screaming, cursing and scratching the entire time.

  Once inside, the minute I set her on her feet two orderlies, big men, took her by each arm to assist her to her room.

  I’d choked out after her, “I’ll be back to see you next weekend.”

  She appeared so defeated as they led her to her room, turning every few feet to look back at me accusingly.

  I wanted to go to her. Grab her from the men and take her home. But my feet remained glued to the floor as I watched her give me one last disparaging glance before she disappeared around the corner.

  I woodenly walked out to the Jeep to get her bag and setting it on the desk, the nurse behind it gave me a sympathetic smile before handing me a clipboard of paperwork which I filled out in a daze, heart pounding in my ears as I second-guessed myself, wondering if I was right to leave Sonya there.

  Wondering if all of this was even real.

  The drive home was a blur. My mind had shut down. And the silence was deafening. But I was glad for it.

  Back at the apartment, I searched the place finding bags of white, brown, and black powder, bags of rocks, crystals, pills, needles, all kinds of shit, hidden in drawers and cabinets. At the bottom of the laundry hamper. In the vegetable bin in the refrigerator. Under the bag at the bottom of the trashcan.

  And I was dumbfounded.

  Again, how did I not know?

  When I’d swept the place as thoroughly as I could and thrown every bit of it out, I sat on the couch, head spinning.

  Thinking back over the past year, there were many times she’d withdrawn money but she’d always had a seemingly good reason:

  “Oh, I had to take money out because the plumbing went out this morning and I didn’t want to bother you, so I called someone to fix it.”

  “I had to pay for books for my classes. Can you believe they were a thousand dollars?”

  “It’s for a workshop I have to attend.”

  “Aunt Gina needed help because the engine blew in Uncle Roger’s pickup.”

  “I wanted to donate to the center. I hope it’s okay?”

  God. I’d been blinded by love and trusting to a fault.

  The money that’d been missing before the wedding hadn’t gone to the caterers or whatever excuse she’d made. She’d been buying drugs to help her lose weight.

  Then I thought of the times I’d told her no. Were those the times she’d fucked someone for a goddamned fix?

  “Fuck!” I yelled, sweeping a hand out and sending the flower vase on the coffee table flying to where it shattered against the wall.

  Leaning back against the sofa, I stared at the ceiling wondering how I’d missed it. I was a shit husband. I hadn’t done enough. This was all my fault.

  I got up and grabbed my phone on the bar and called my dad, telling him everything.

  “You’re not a bad husband, Beck. You couldn’t have known. And if she’s had this problem for years, it’s not your fault, son,” he’d insisted. “She had us all fooled.”

  He was right. She’d fooled everyone. But, damn, I lived with her. Why had I not seen it?

  “And look. There’ll be plenty of time to talk about the other things. If she cheated on you, let it go for now. Get her healthy first,” Dad instructed. “You love her and it can be fixed. Mom and I are here if you need us. We love Sonya just as we do you, so let us know if you need help. It’ll all work out, son. You’re strong. She’s strong. It’s just going to take some time.”

  I listened to his words not knowing if I could let everything go until she got better. I needed to know the truth. Needed to know if she’d cheated. And as I waited for the hurt to come that should’ve permeated my heart just then, ripping it completely to shreds, it didn’t. No, whatever it was inside of me that had shut down when she’d made her confession, didn’t even budge.

  “We love you, Beck,” Dad said before hanging up.

  I hated that my parents now lived in Indiana, transferred through Dad’s company, but we talked about once a month, and I knew they were always there for me with no judgment for which I was grateful.

  I then stood staring at the floor for a moment, dreading what I had to do next. Blowing out a heavy breath, I picked up Sonya’s phone from the bar and called her aunt and uncle.

  “Hey, baby girl! How are you?” Gina answered.

  “Gina, it’s Beck. Nothing to be too alarmed about but I need to talk to you about Sonya.”

  I told her everything.

  “Oh, God. Honey, I’m so sorry. I thought she stopped all that years ago.”

  “You knew?” I ground out, pissed as hell now.

  “Well, yes. Roger and I caught her smoking marijuana in her room when she was a senior in high school. She promised never to do it again. We thought she stopped.”

  That changed things. I couldn’t be mad at them. How could they have known she’d continued using once she was out of the house, ultimately moving on to harder shit?

  Before we hung up, Gina again told me she was sorry and that if I needed anything to call. She also said she’d be in contact, that they wanted to come see Sonya as soon as she could have visitors, which I thought would be a good thing.

  That night I lay in bed for hours waiting for sleep to come, Sonya’s words bouncing around in my head the entire time. Just as a few rays of sun broke through the blinds, I drifted off.

  The weekend dragged by. I called both days to chec
k on Sonya’s progress which amounted to all of, “She’s having a hard time withdrawing,” which tore me up.

  Monday morning, I called into work for her, making an excuse about her uncle being ill and that she’d had to go back to Pennsylvania for a while. Her supervisor had sounded somewhat suspicious, but too fucking bad. If Sonya lost her job because of her absence, so be it. That was the very least of my worries.

  When the initial week was over, I drove up every day to see her.

  She refused to see me the first day.

  The second day she came out but gave me the cold shoulder the entire time as I talked about work and that Gina and Roger sent their love and would be coming to see her soon.

  By week three, I began to see progress. She started talking more, she looked healthier, more vibrant, and when Gina and Roger came up Thursday and Friday of that week to visit, she’d lit up when she’d seen them.

  She’d beaten it. Thank God.

  At the end of the thirty days, she came home.

  There was no fanfare. I didn’t throw a party. I wanted everything to appear as normal as possible, wanting her to get back to our usual way of life.

  And she did.

  For the first week.

  Chapter 5—Birdie

  I knew this was bad.

  Mason and I sat listening to the third surgical oncologist we’d contacted. Unfortunately, she agreed with the first two.

  “I’m sorry,” she announced, regretfully. She pointed to the X-ray pulled up on her laptop, trailing her pen from the white mass down over the spindles that trailed from it and shook her head. “Because it’s a high-grade astrocytoma, the vascularization is just too great for a complete removal. I know you’ve heard this before, but the glioblastoma’s entanglement with the parietal lobe will eventually cause impaired speech and spatial disorders. We do have several options, though.”

  I wanted to scream.

  I wanted to grab that laptop and throw it out the frigging window.

  I wanted to run away and never come back.

  Terms like astrocytoma and glioblastoma were words I wanted to forget all about and go back to living my happy life with my husband of just over a year.