Home for Christmas (Willow Park #5)

by Noelle Adams

  Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was eavesdropping. But she crossed the road and stood on the sidewalk behind him, moving until she could hear what he was saying.

  “I know that,” he said, frustration clear in his voice. “I know that. You’ve told me that now a million times.”

  Obviously, she couldn’t hear what the other person said in response. She was going to have to figure out the context through just one side of the conversation.

  “It’s not as easy as you seem to think,” Mark muttered, after waiting as the other person spoke. “I’ve been trying. I’ve really been trying.”

  There was another pause, and Sophie’s heart ached at the roughness of his voice, a clear sign that he was feeling something deeply.

  Then he said, “I don’t know why I can’t talk to her.” There was just a brief pause before he seemed to interrupt the other person. “No, I don’t know, John. Stop telling me that I do.”

  John. He was talking to his brother.

  In a strange way, it was a relief to Sophie. If he was opening up to anyone else in the world instead of her, at least it was his brother.

  And at least John seemed to be encouraging Mark to talk to her more. That was apparently what they were talking about right now.

  “That’s cheap psychology,” Mark was saying now. “I’m not afraid of being close to her. I want to be close to her. There’s just this block in my throat, every time I try to say something.”

  Sophie hugged herself in the cold, overwhelmed with emotion from what his words implied. About her. About Mark’s feelings for her.

  “Stop it with that.” Now he sounded almost angry. “It’s not as simple as all that. I spent more than two years trying to close out what was going on around me, trying not to see and hear the things I was seeing and hearing. Letting down those walls again isn’t as easy as wanting to do it….I know I can do it with you. You’re not standing there in front of me, staring at me all the time with those sad brown eyes, looking like I’ve done nothing but fail you.”

  Sophie gasped out loud, so openly she was afraid Mark might hear her. Surely he couldn’t think that she believed he had failed her. Surely he couldn’t think something so ridiculous, so far from the truth.

  Mark made a guttural sound as John evidently said something in response. “I know she probably doesn’t think that. But that’s how it feels. I’m not the same guy I used to be, and I know that’s who she wants back. How the hell am I supposed to give her what she wants?” Another pause. Then, “No, she has it all under control. You won’t believe how well she’s done without me. I’m the one who’s a mess. I’m the one who keeps messing things up between us.”

  Sophie was having to fight not to choke on her shock and distress. How could he possibly think that? How could he not know how much she loved and needed him?

  “Okay, okay, fine,” he muttered. “It would be nice if you could manage to think of some different advice to give me. I thought you were supposed to be good at being sensitive. Isn’t that your job?”

  John must have made a joke because Mark gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Yeah, right. Is everything all right there? How is Betsy?”

  Sophie stood while Mark listened to whatever his brother was saying and then ended the conversation. She was trembling, and not just from the cold.

  She had no idea what she was supposed to do now. Part of her wanted to run away, to not let him see that she was so weak and needy that she’d followed him and listened in on a private conversation.

  But she couldn’t leave what she’d heard hanging like that. Not when she finally understood a little more of what he was going through, what was holding him back.

  Mark said goodbye and lowered his phone, sliding it into his coat pocket. If he stood up now and turned around, he’d see her where she was on the sidewalk. But he didn’t get up. He kept staring out at the empty duck pond. The ducks were all evidently huddled up somewhere to protect themselves from the cold.

  Sophie prayed silently, asking God what she should do. Then, unable to think of anything else, she walked across the grass toward her husband.

  More snow was dusting the grass now, and she could see her footsteps as she walked.

  She saw Mark’s body jerk when she came around the bench. He turned his head quickly to see who was approaching.

  His expression was very still as she sat down beside him, her puffy coat rustling with her motion.

  She was almost afraid to look at him, so she stared at the pond like he’d been doing earlier. She bit her lip, trying to be brave, trying to be strong, trying to think of a way to confront what she’d heard, honestly and gently.

  She had no idea what to do.

  Her hands were freezing, since she hadn’t taken the time to put on any gloves. She saw that his hands were bare too, clenched on his lap.

  She hated how bare and tight his hands looked, like they represented all of the ways he was damaged, all of the ways he was trying to hold himself together, all of the ways he was afraid to reach out to her.

  So she reached out to him.

  She took one of his hands in hers.

  His hand was cold, but not as cold as hers, and his grip was strong as he twined his fingers with hers.

  She took a loud, shaky breath, so relieved that he hadn’t pulled away from her that her eyes burned with tears.

  He gave her a quick look. “It’s too cold for you out here.”

  “I’m not that cold. If you’re out here, then I want to be out here too.”

  He gave her another quick look, as if checking to see if she was saying what he thought she was saying. He squeezed her hand again, and she squeezed back.

  After a minute, he said, “How much did you hear?”

  “I heard the end.”

  “I was talking about you.”

  “I know you were.”

  “I don’t want to keep failing you.”

  “You’re not failing me.” She held onto his hand as tightly as she could, as if her grip could somehow convey the strength of her feelings.

  “It feels like I am. I know I’m not who you want me to be. I know I’m not who you need me to be.”

  “You are. Of course, you are, Mark. How can you think that you’re not?”

  “I’m not who I was before.”

  “Neither am I. So we’re different. Do you think other couples don’t change in the course of a marriage?”

  “Not like I have. Not so…so violently.”

  “It doesn’t mean I don’t love you anymore.”

  He turned to look at her, and this time he didn’t immediately look away. He held her eyes. “Do you?” he whispered hoarsely. “Because sometimes it feels like you love the man I was before, and you’re nothing but disappointed in who I am now.”

  A tear slipped out of her eye, but she turned her head away quickly so she could swipe it away. She wasn’t going to break down. She was strong enough to have this conversation without completely losing it. “I did love the man you were before, and I know he’s not completely gone. But I love you as you are now too. I want to…I want to get to know the…the new man better. If you’ll let me.”

  “He’s damaged. And ugly.”

  “I don’t care. Why would I care about that?”

  He was still holding onto her hand, like it was a lifeline, and her fingers were starting to lose circulation. She wouldn’t let go of him for the world, though.

  They sat in silence for a long time. So long that Sophie finally had to brush the snowflakes off her face and hair with her free hand.

  Mark made a throaty sound. “It’s too cold for you out here.”

  “I’m not going back. I want to stay with you.”

  He made another noise in his throat. This one almost, almost like a sob. He reached out and pulled her into a hard hug. “Oh, God, baby, what did I ever do to deserve you?”

  She was almost crying again, but she held on to her control because she didn’t want to ruin the moment by bawling the w
ay she used to. He’d never liked it when she cried. He’d always said it was manipulative. She didn’t want anything to get in the way of the moment they were sharing right now.

  “Well, you can’t stay out here in the cold,” he said as he released her at last. He stood up and reached out for her hand. “Let’s both go back.”

  She sniffed and nodded and let him pull her to her feet.

  They walked back to the apartment slowly, holding each other’s hand, and Sophie couldn’t help but think that the walk, the night, the snow, the moment was a gift—only ten days now until Christmas.

  When they got back inside and dumped their coats and shoes, they both climbed back into bed. Sophie cuddled up against him, and he wrapped his arms around her, and she slowly got warm again.

  She wasn’t going to say anything or ask him a question, since she didn’t want to say something wrong and have him withdraw from her again.

  So she was surprised when, after a long time, he said out of the blue, “Is there anything you wanted to ask me? About when I was captured, I mean. Is there anything you want to know?”

  She gasped in surprise, since he’d always resolutely refused to tell her anything about his experiences. She controlled her expression quickly though, since she didn’t want to make it seem like the really big deal it was. She asked softly, “Did they...did they torture you?”

  She’d had so many nightmares about what they might have done to him—before he’d returned and even afterwards.

  He tightened his arms for a moment as he said, rather stiltingly, “No. Not in the way you’re thinking, anyway. The guards were sometimes rough, and I got beat up sometimes, but they didn’t just torture me for fun. I was a pawn, a…a tool they wanted to use to get something. So they basically just left me alone.”

  She let out a rush of air, so relieved she was almost shaking from it. “So you were…were stuck in a cell for all that time?”

  “They moved me around, since the camp moved, but mostly I was in a cell. Yeah.”

  “What did you…what did you do?”

  “Pray. Think about home. Think about you.”

  The rough, quiet words hurt her so much she couldn’t stand it. The emotion was so intense it seemed to get stuck in her eyes, in her throat, in her belly. She tried to burrow against him, taking comfort in the fact that he was back now—safe, comfortable, clean, with her again.

  “I don’t…” he began. Then he cleared his throat and started again. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

  “What?” She pulled away enough to peer at his face in the dark. “What?”

  “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

  “I hurt for you. How can I not?” She clung to him tightly. “I love you. I can’t help but hurt when you hurt.”

  “It wasn’t as bad as you’re thinking. I’m not as weak as you think.”

  She could barely speak over her bewilderment and outrage. “I don’t think you’re weak! And don’t try to tell me it wasn’t that bad. I know it was. You have to let me hurt with you. You have to.”

  Mark was so tense he was almost shaking with it, but then he finally let out a long sigh and pulled her back into his arms. “Oh, baby. I never wanted you to hurt at all. In any way. I hate that you’re hurting now.”

  “Now you know how I feel. I feel the same way about you.” She pressed kisses against his chest. “Why don’t you want me to hurt for you?”

  He didn’t answer her, but he pulled her more tightly against him. He seemed to need her—desperately, urgently, as much as she needed him. And it wasn’t just about sex, either. He needed her emotionally. He needed her touch and her presence.

  Neither one of them went back to sleep for a really long time. They just huddled together in the dark, under the covers, while the snow fell outside and covered whatever it landed on with a blanket of white, like it was hiding all that was ugly and broken in the world. If only for a moment. If only for tonight.

  He might not want it to be like that. Who would want their spirits, their relationship, to be broken in the way they had? But he was letting her hurt with him now, and he was letting her comfort him.

  And he was doing the same for her.

  And Sophie knew this was right. She’d done something right. They both had. Because this was what love looked like.

  This was what marriage was about.

  Ten

  At just after one in the morning on Saturday, Sophie was awakened by the sound of Mark shouting.

  It was a muffled, wordless shout, but the sound pierced right through Sophie’s sleeping mind. She jerked awake, breathless as she sat up in bed.

  She heard another helpless, guttural sound and turned to look down at her husband, who was jerking under the covers.

  Terrified, Sophie reached over to turn on the bedside lamp. In the warm light, she saw in relief that Mark was still asleep. He must have been having a nightmare.

  As she watched him, though, her relief vanished quickly. He was still tossing in the bed, making those sounds that were almost like shouts. His skin was wet with a sheen of perspiration, and his expression appeared anguished.

  She’d been told he might have nightmares, but he’d never had one before. Not like this, anyway. It was intense. Violent. She felt helpless, trapped, not sure of what she should do.

  After a minute, her mind cleared enough to remember the information she’d been given on his return about what to expect. If she woke him up now, he might not know who she was. He might accidentally hurt her. But she didn’t want him to keep dreaming like this. It looked like he was in agony.

  She jumped out of bed and turned on the television, turning the volume up loud. It was tuned to an old sitcom with canned laughter that echoed gratingly through the apartment.

  Finally, Mark made a harrumphing sound and sat up straight, his eyes wide. He was clearly disoriented for a minute, staring at the television and then around the apartment until his eyes landed on her. At last, his face relaxed enough for her to be sure he knew where he was, who she was, and that he wasn’t still in the dream.

  She ran to crawl into bed beside him. “Are you okay? It sounded like you were having a terrible nightmare.”

  He mopped at his face with the sheet, clearly trying to pull himself together. “Yeah. Yeah.”

  “I didn’t know what I should do, but I didn’t want you to keep dreaming whatever it was, so I tried to wake you up.” She reached over to take his arm, but he pulled away from her touch.

  “Yeah. Thanks. Yeah. I’ll be right back.” He got up, wincing like his muscles were stiff, and he limped into the bathroom. She stared at the closed door as she heard the shower come on.

  He’d been all hot and sweaty. It wasn’t strange that he’d want to take a shower. She just wanted him to talk to her too. He was suffering. She couldn’t let him suffer alone.

  But there was nothing she could do if he never let her in.

  She glanced down and saw that he’d nearly torn the sheet from the mattress on his side. There was a damp spot from his perspiration. Glad for something to do, she got up and changed the sheets on the bed, listening for when the shower went off.

  She was just pulling the comforter up over the clean sheets when the sound of water stopped. After a minute, Mark came out with a towel wrapped around his waist. He walked over to his drawer and pulled out a clean T-shirt and a pair of old sweatpants. She watched as he dropped the towel and pulled the clothes on.

  She was praying for him silently when he walked back toward the bed. He was trembling so violently she could see it, even from several feet’s distance.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, pulling the covers down to invite him in.

  He got back in bed, drawing the comforter up high over him. “Yeah.”

  “Do you need something? I think they told me that sugar could help—do you want hot chocolate or hot tea or something?”

  “No.” His teeth were practically chattering.

  She did
n’t care if he looked a little closed off. He was hurting, and she needed to help him. She scooted over beside him, trying to wrap her body around him.

  He made a strange, helpless sound and tightened both arms around her.

  It was enough.

  She held him and prayed and tried not to cry as they lay together in the lit room with the television still blaring. She didn’t relax until he stopped shaking at last.

  He lifted his head slightly to press a soft kiss against her hair, and he finally went back to sleep.

  ***

  When she woke up that morning, she was back on her side of the bed, and Mark wasn’t in the bed at all.

  She stretched under the covers, turning her head to see that it was almost seven-thirty. It was Saturday, so she didn’t have anywhere urgent she needed to be.

  “Do you want some coffee?” Mark appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, dressed in jeans and a gray cable-knit shirt.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” She smiled at him, and then she tried to smooth down her hair so it wouldn’t be so messy when he returned.

  He brought her the cup of coffee, which she accepted with another smile. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. Sorry for all the drama last night.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. They said that nightmares weren’t unusual after experiences like yours.” She wished he’d sit on the bed with her, but he just stood beside it, looking down on her.

  “I told you before. I never had that sort of a trauma. I was just imprisoned.”

  “Well, that had to be traumatic enough.” She really wished he’d stopped minimizing what he’d been through. “What was your dream about?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  She was sure he was lying to her. “Everyone said it would help to talk about it.”

  “I’m getting kind of tired of hearing what everyone told you. I’m not a lab rat or something.”

  She gasped. “Why would you think you were lab rat? They were just worried about you and wanted me to be prepared.”

  He bit off whatever he’d been going to say. Instead, he just muttered, “I know.”

  “Do you?” she asked, as gently as she could. “Because it doesn’t seem like you want me or anyone else to help you.”