The Words We Leave Unspoken
by L.D. Cedergreen
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Words We Leave Unspoken
Copyright © 2016 by L.D. Cedergreen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author/publisher.
Interior Design by Penoaks Publishing, http://penoaks.com
Cover Design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc. at http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/
ISBN: 978-0-9893783-5-2
ISBN: 978-0-9893783-4-5 (ebook)
To my sister, Christina
Of two sisters one is always the watcher, one the dancer.
– Louise Glück
Chapter 1
Gwen
I can almost hear each second tick by from the round clock on the wall that I stare at over Dr. Rand’s shiny bald head. He’s speaking to me, his mouth is moving and yet his words, words like cancer, stage four, and terminal are beating a distant drum in my head, almost in time with the second hand of the clock. Or is that my heart?
“Gwen? Gwen? Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Dr. Rand asks as he stands, leaving his chair and moving around his desk to kneel in front of me.
“Gwen? Are you alright?” he asks again, this time his voice is loud, like a beacon penetrating the dense fog that I am lost in. My eyes venture from the clock to his kind, weathered face that is now only inches from mine.
“What?” I whisper through the knot sitting in the back of my throat.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you? We’re dealing with more then one tumor this time. I’m sorry, but the cancer’s back. Only now it has metastasized.”
“So what’s the plan this time? More surgery? More chemo?” The thought alone of more chemotherapy makes the room spin and I instantly feel queasy. But I’ll do it again, if that’s what it takes.
“Well, we can try an aggressive approach if you want, but I’m not going to lie. It will be hell and the chances of beating this, at this stage, aren’t likely.”
“So what then? What are you saying?”
He stands and leans back on his desk, crossing his ankles. I watch him remove his wire-rim glasses and rub his eyes, waiting for him to tell me the plan, the treatment, the solution.
“I’m saying, Gwen, that there’s not much we can do. We wait. We monitor your condition and, in the meantime, you spend time at home with your family. I’m sorry. We just didn’t catch it in time.”
Time. After the first cancer diagnosis, I told myself that I would never take another day for granted. That I would wake each morning and remember how precious time is, that I would truly live my life to the fullest. And I did just that, for a while, but I realize now as if I’m stuck in a very bad déjà vu moment, that I have once again allowed myself to get swept away in the rat race, relying on the “later” in life, as if my existence had no expiration date. I had underestimated just how fleeting life could be. Time. That word resonates in my head, louder and louder as my mind flashes to Olivia and Max. To John.
Olivia, my sweet girl, is ten years old, but when I think of her, I still picture her round toddler face framed by short wispy strands of blonde hair. Her eyes were so big for her tiny face back then. She was born stubborn and strong-willed, much like me, but with pure tenderness on the inside. She has ruled our world since the day she was born, a princess in her own mind. But she needs me the most, even though she is the oldest and fights me tooth and nail for her independence, hell-bent on doing everything herself. Deep inside she needs me. And Max, my baby boy, just barely turned five. He still has those big, chubby hands and pudgy cheeks, not quite rid of his baby softness. I know that it is only a matter of months before it will be gone, lost to the leanness of boyhood. He is the one who relies on my snuggles, always in demand of a physical closeness, a mama’s boy through and through. John often accuses me of liking Max more, but I deny it. It’s not that I like him more; he’s just easier to love – if that makes any sense. And yet, I have loved Olivia longer and possibly more fiercely, as if she needs me to fight for her affection in order to prove my love for her. In contrast, Max is completely uncomplicated. He is more like his daddy; he even resembles John with his blond curls and big blue eyes. And then there’s John. My one, my only, true love. Not many people are fortunate enough to have what we have. It’s the real deal. He’s the one person, the only person, I want sitting in the empty chair beside me. But he’s also the one person I didn’t want to burden with worry until I knew for sure.
And now I know.
Recently celebrating thirteen years of marriage, I can’t imagine my life without him. And I can’t begin to picture his life without me. On the occasion, thirteen years had seemed like such a big chunk of time, but now, in this moment, it feels like so little. Time. How much time will I have left with them? How much time is enough? Why is this happening to me?
“Of course, the choice is yours. If you want to try an aggressive approach, we can start immediately.”
“Choice? I have a choice? Like what kind of choice? Make myself so sick that I actually want to die or pretend like everything is fine until the cancer eventually kills me? Either way I’m dead, right? Is that what you’re saying?” Tears make their way down my cheeks as I try to keep myself from shouting. I am suddenly so angry. I did everything right the first time around. I survived the lumpectomy, the chemotherapy, the radiation. I went to my follow-up appointments. I ate healthy, I exercised, I even prayed. I’m a good person, a faithful wife, a devoted mother. I think of all the numerous selfless things that I do, ticking them off one-by-one in my mind. I volunteer on the PTA at the kids’ school not because I am desperate to be involved but because I took over from my best friend Lucy when she gave birth to twin boys; her third pregnancy she labeled a “whoopsy” that overwhelmed her to the point of near insanity. I drive carpool nearly every day of the week for my two neighbors who have children in separate schools, feeling grateful to be able to lighten their morning chaos. I coach Max’s soccer team, having no soccer experience myself but mainly because no one would step up to fill this role, not even John with his busy work schedule, and let’s face it, someone has to do it. I bake six extra items each year for the school bake sale, excusing the working moms in Olivia’s class from this annual fundraiser. And I am happy to do it. And yet as I scroll through this do-gooder list in my head, I know that this will not help my case. I know that it will not matter how many cakes I bake or teams I coach or kind gestures I perform; it won’t change the fact that I have cancer and that I am very likely going to die. This isn’t supposed to happen to me. I’m only thirty-six years old.
Wiping the tears from my eyes, I stand and thank Dr. Rand, although I really want to punch him in the face.
“Are you okay, Gwen? Can I call someone for you?” he asks, empathy written all over his face. I know that he’s trying to be nice. I know that he really is sorry this is happening to me. But for some reason, the look of pity in his eyes makes me even angrier.
“I’m fine,” I say a little too harshly, as I sling my designer handbag over my shoulder and march out the door.
I reach my car in the parking garage before the dam breaks and the floodgates open. I rest my forehead on the cold, leather steering wheel and sob. I feel guilty for feeling s
orry for myself and then I instantly feel angry for being so damn selfless at a time like this. I’m overcome with so many different emotions, so many different worries, but I keep coming back to the same fear. Telling John. How am I going to tell John? How do you tell your partner in life, your soul mate, that you won’t be growing old together after all?
I am suddenly afraid to go home. I can’t go home and pretend that everything is okay and yet I can’t bring myself to tell John this devastating news. Telling him will make it all real and I’m just not ready for it to be real. Not yet.
I’m not ready to die.
Chapter 2
Charley
I hit the Bluetooth button on my steering wheel console as I weave through Friday morning traffic. I’m late, again.
“Hello?” I yell into the car’s interior, fighting against the noise of the rain beating on the windshield and the Seattle traffic that encompasses my small car.
“Charley?” I hear my sister’s voice. I am stunned that Gwen’s calling me. We haven’t spoken in over three months, which is the longest we have ever gone without talking.
“To what do I owe the honor of this call?” I ask.
“Look, I know that I haven’t been returning any of your calls, and I’m sorry about... you know... the incident,” she says. “I’m in the city and thought maybe we could spend some time together. I could ask John to deal with the kids for a night or two and we could... I don’t know... go out to dinner or something. Have some fun? Just you and me. What do you think?”
This doesn’t sound like Gwen. She doesn’t just make plans on the fly. These things were scheduled weeks ahead of time, methodically outlined on the family calendar that hangs on the side of her refrigerator. And she hardly ever leaves Olivia and Max overnight. But, just hearing the sound of her voice now reminds me of how much I miss her and so I snatch up her offer like a ravenous dog chomping at a dangling piece of meat.
“Okay, sure. Do you want to stay at my place? I mean, it’s not much, but you’re welcome to stay.”
“That would be great,” she says. “I might need to borrow some clothes and maybe a toothbrush. This was kind of spur-of-the-moment.”
Just as I am about to speak, some guy in an SUV cuts me off.
“Asshole,” I yell while I flip him off. Gwen is silent on her end of the phone and so I mumble an apology. “You can borrow whatever you need.” I glance at the time on the dash of the car. Damn, I’m so late. “I’m on my way to work now, but I’ll be home by five.”
“Works for me. See you at five,” she answers quickly and a little too upbeat. Something is definitely off, but I push it aside and say goodbye, feeling genuinely excited about spending time with my sister.
Minutes later, after paying a hefty twenty-five dollars to park in the garage across the street from the office building where I work as an assistant in a top-notch financial firm, I collapse into my desk chair and boot up my computer.
“Charley?” I hear his stern voice through the intercom and immediately my heart starts to race.
“Yes, Mr. Preston?” I respond, my breath still short from my morning rush.
“Can you come into my office, please?”
“Yes.” The way he says “please” makes me worry that he’s angry.
I grab my iPad from my desk drawer and hit the power button with my index finger as I walk gracefully to his corner office, straightening my black pencil skirt along the way.
I knock softly before opening the door and stepping inside.
“Close the door behind you,” he says.
I do as he asks and move to the leather chair near his desk as I look out the wall of windows that are slightly fogged and streaked with rain.
“Charley, you’re late again,” he says with disappointment.
“I know, I’m sorry. Traffic was a bitch.” I smile and shift my attention to his face, where I watch his furrowed brow soften. Anyone else might be intimidated by Grey Preston.
He pushes his chair back from his desk and stands. “I thought you took the bus,” he questions with suspicion and I suddenly feel like I’m in the principal’s office. I usually do take the bus, but I was running late. I am about to say this out loud, but as he walks slowly toward me, his brown eyes darken and I know without question that he is not mad. My breath hitches in my chest as I take in his perfect, masculine features. His freshly shaven jawline, his glistening dark hair cut short around his neck and ears, but still a little long on top. The way his body fills out his dress shirt, giving just a hint of the sharp definition that hides beneath the fabric. His dark slacks hang just right from his hips, shaping his perfect rear-end.
When he is standing directly in front of me, he leans over and grips the arms of the chair on either side of me, bringing his lips just inches from the side of my face.
“I didn’t wear you out too much last night, did I?” he whispers against my ear, leaving a wave of goosebumps down my spine as I close my eyes for a brief moment.
A smile stretches across my face as I think of last night and what he did to my body. This man is going to be the death of me, I swear.
“No,” I drawl, moving my head to the side, away from him, and gently pushing his face from my neck with my fingertips. He’s too close. He shouldn’t be this close to me in the office.
He sneaks in a subtle peck on my cheek before standing to his full six-foot-three height and walks back to his desk.
“Good, because I’m already anticipating what I’m going to do to you tonight,” he says with his back to me and my body already heats at his words. And then in the same moment, I remember Gwen.
“About that,” I say, already regretting making plans with my sister. “I can’t come over tonight. I have plans with my sister.”
“That’s too bad,” he says, cocking his head to the side in disappointment as he takes a seat behind his large mahogany desk.
I suck in a deep breath, remembering the day this whole affair started, right here in this office, on his desk. The tension had built up between us for weeks until Grey finally made the first move. It was late, the office quiet and I couldn’t help myself. He’s just too much sexy all wrapped up with a pretty bow. The truth is, I couldn’t remember ever wanting something more than I wanted him that night.
“Yeah... well,” I agree with a sigh as I compose myself and switch into my work mode, erasing the images of what Grey looks like underneath his shirt and tie. I wake up the screen on my iPad and clear my throat. “You have a lunch meeting with Harold Lidman today and Tom Snyder called after you left yesterday, you should call him. He’s feeling anxious about the new strategy.”
“Typical,” he mumbles, deliberately tapping his keyboard with his index finger. “Can you pull up the Tripp account and get Scott on the phone for me? I’ve got to go over these numbers with him before close today.”
“On it,” I assure him as I stand to leave.
Before I reach the door, he asks, “You didn’t tell Gwen about us, did you?”
I turn back to face him and smile. “I never kiss and tell, Grey.”
As I’m leaving his office, he yells out, “Try not to be late again, Miss Brant.” I ignore him and continue back to my desk, trying to hide the ridiculous grin on my face. And in the same moment, I attempt to shake off the feeling that what I’m doing is wrong. I shouldn’t be sleeping with my boss. I shouldn’t be jeopardizing the best job I’ve ever had. A job that I have, I might add, because Grey is an old friend of John’s – Gwen’s husband. And because John happened to put in a good word for me. Because Gwen was tired of seeing me screw up my life. And now, I’m screwing my boss.
Chapter 3
Gwen
I fill my day with distractions. I manage to call John and work out the details of missing the weekend with the kids without giving him any reason to suspect that I’m keeping something from him. He seems pleased, happy even, that I’m making an effort with Charley. Despite the number of times we have opened our home to he
r, or our wallet for that matter, or helped her in some way, and despite the number of times helping Charley has come back to bite us in the ass, John has still managed to love her, like I love her. The way that you love a sister in spite of her faults. And even when I am so mad at her that I could spit fire, John always has a way of putting it all into perspective. He’ll say things like, “Gwen, at least your sister’s not a drug addict who stole your identity to score her next fix,” or, “Come on Gwen, it’s not like she would intentionally hurt anyone.” He, without fail, helps me to see the bright side of things, but that’s just his way. John invariably sees the good in life, in people. Which is why he probably can’t detect the hitch in my voice or my overly-wordy explanation – something I only do when I’m nervous. It wouldn’t occur to him that something is wrong or that I’m lying to him. He believes in me, unconditionally. Guilt floods my heart at the thought.
Just as I assured John I would, I call my neighbor, Kristin, and ask her to pick the kids up from school. I call Jen Moore, Deklin’s mom, and ask her to fill in as head coach for Max’s soccer game tomorrow. I ask for all the favors that are owed to me, tenfold, and then I call the spa and fill my day with last minute appointments. After a pedicure, a massage, a facial, a body buff with a seaweed wrap – whatever that is – after I rack up a six hundred dollar bill, I sit in the relaxation room wrapped in a fluffy white robe, mindlessly numb, and try to wrap my head around my new found fate. I won’t allow my mind to wander to the future, to think about everything that I will miss. It’s too painful, too real. Instead I think of the present, right now, and how I go about my life with this massive dark cloud hanging over my head. How do I wake up tomorrow morning and start my day? Will I do anything differently? And with these thoughts comes the fear again. The fear is like this big, heavy boulder sitting in my chest threatening to rip me apart. It hurts, this weight on my heart; it hurts like hell. And I know that the source of this fear – this pain – all begins with telling John.
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