“They’ll be fine, Gwen. Charley will be fine,” John assures me and then places a gentle peck on my cheek, running his thumb over my furrowed brow. This small gesture reminds me to take a breath and relax, an unspoken message that John has mastered over the years.
As if on cue, the doorbell chimes and Max squeals, “Aunt Charley’s here,” as he barrels out of the kitchen toward the front door. A moment later, Max is pulling Charley back into the room with a huge grin on his face.
“Hi,” she says, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She’s wearing ripped jeans rolled at the ankle with worn black booties and a sweatshirt. Her dark hair is down and windblown into a frenzy around her face that bares no makeup. And still it’s hard to ignore her beauty.
“Hey,” I say, giving her a hug while John kisses her on the cheek and mumbles, “Good to see you.”
It’s hard to miss the way Charley avoids looking John in the eyes as she says, “Great to see you too, John.” And then she quickly focuses on Olivia.
“Hey Olivia, how’s my favorite niece?” Charley asks, making her way around the kitchen island to hug Olivia.
“I’m your only niece,” Olivia reminds her in a tone that instantly fills me with shame.
“Right, you got me there,” Charley frowns. “But still my favorite,” she says in a sing-song voice.
“Okay so here’s the kids’ schedule and some ideas for meals and snacks,” I say, wasting no time as I slide a stack of papers across the counter. “Also, the number to the place we’re staying and our emergency contacts. You know our neighbor Kristin, and my friend Colleen. Also the number to the...” my voice trails off as I suddenly think of the pediatrician. I look at John and he gives me a nudge. I have to leave the number to the pediatrician’s office in case of an emergency. I send out a silent wish that Charley will never need to call this number for all our sakes. I pull myself together while Charley stares at me, completely puzzled. “Um, the number to the pediatrician’s office and the hospital.”
“Jeez, Gwen, I think you forgot poison control and the police department,” Charley teases.
“Very funny,” I smirk.
“Gwen, we’ll be fine. I got this,” Charley says confidently, lowering her chin and looking me straight in the eye.
I try to relax. I try not to think about the last few times that I left Charley with the kids. The time Max wandered through the woods to the neighbor’s house during a game of hide-n-seek. Max was missing for two hours before Charley called me in a panic. When I told her that the Gentrys had called my cell phone to let me know that Max was at their house, all she said was, “Whoops.” Or the time Charley took Olivia to get her ears pierced, both fully aware of my rule. I had firmly denied Olivia for years, making her wait until she was nine. I had been furious at Charley but she had waved off my anger, saying, “It’s not that big of a deal, Gwen.” To be honest, it wasn’t that Olivia was too young that upset me. What bothered me the most was that it was supposed to be something special that Olivia and I did together, and Charley had taken that moment from me. It was always like that though. My whole life, I was the responsible one, and Charley was the life of the party. Beautiful, fun Charley.
“Alright, let’s get out of here so we can make the ferry,” John says as he lifts a giggling Max and throws him up in the air, catching him just in time. “Be good, my little man,” John says as he sets Max back on his feet and gives him a high-five.
“Okay. Bye sweetheart,” I say, wrapping my arms around Olivia and kissing her cheek before she can move out of my reach.
When all our goodbyes are said, John grabs our suitcase and disappears into the garage. Charley winks at me and mumbles quietly, “You can do this, Gwen. We’re all going to get through this, you’ll see.”
“I hope you’re right,” I whisper and hug Charley before joining John in the car.
We drive in silence to the ferry terminal, arriving just in time to board. The sky is dark, filled with endless gray, rolling clouds, but without the usual rain. The clouds shelter the coast from the cold, warming the air to the point where I almost don’t need a jacket. Even in the gloom of fall and winter, Puget Sound boasts beauty, and John and I both admire the view from the slow-moving ferry as it glides across the dark water toward the islands.
I rest my head on John’s shoulder as we lean against the railing of the ferry.
“I can’t believe we have an entire night away from the kids,” John says.
“I know. I’m looking forward to sleeping in.”
John places his lips against my ear and I feel his warm breath on my cheek as he says, “Don’t plan on getting too much sleep. You nearly killed me the other night, but I’m hoping for a repeat.” I bump his hip with mine and shake my head, smiling at his suggestion. His breath on my face as he kisses me shoots chills down my spine and I suddenly don’t want to face my reality. I don’t want John to look at me any other way than the way he’s looking at me right now.
The first time I was diagnosed with breast cancer – over four years ago, John was sitting right next to me, his clammy hand holding mine, squeezing my palm so tightly that I lost feeling in my fingertips. I didn’t have to tell him; I didn’t have to say the words to his face. I remember the exact moment I felt the lump in my breast. I was nursing Max in the middle of the night, who was just a tiny baby at the time, when I noticed it. I considered waking John that minute to show him, to ask if it was worth mentioning to the doctor. But instead, I waited until the appointment was scheduled before confiding in John. John had been there every step of the way from my initial mammogram to the biopsy, even though I kept telling myself that it was nothing, assuring John that there was no reason to worry. It was just precautionary, routine. And despite my protests, he was also by my side when I met with my doctor to discuss the results of the biopsy. Deep inside I think I knew it was bad news, why else would they not tell me over the phone. I think John predicted bad news as well. And so we were given the life-changing news at the same time, we faced it together from the very beginning, from the moment my doctor told me I had cancer. They had found it early. The best possible scenario. A lumpectomy, a few rounds of radiation and chemotherapy and I should be fine. Just like that. I felt nothing but determination at the time. I focused on the solution, not the problem. I felt strong, as I always do, maybe even stronger given the circumstances. My mantra, That which does not kill us, only makes us stronger, sang in my head through the thick of it, urging me forward, keeping me focused. John, however, was a mess. For months he fussed over me, worried himself sick over my diagnosis. He looked at me with pity and worry written in his eyes, and at the worst of the side effects from the chemo I could hear him crying quietly in the next room. And I remember thinking as I was hunched over the toilet, my own tears spilling from my eyes, desperately wishing the pain to end, I’ll be strong for both of us. I’ll be strong for all of us and this will all be over soon. When it was all over and I reached the coveted “remission” status, I worked hard to regain my place in John’s eyes. I needed him to see me as his wife, a woman that he loved and hungered for, rather then a cancer-stricken patient. But most importantly, I needed him to see my strength once again. I had beat cancer. That had to count for something. And with time, John stopped treating me as if I was a fragile piece of glass that would shatter at the slightest touch.
Pulling me closer to him, bringing me back to this moment, John wraps his arm around my shoulders and I think, Later. I’ll tell him later.
Chapter 10
Charley
Okay. Now what? I think to myself while I stare at Max and Olivia, the reality that I’m alone with them for over 24 hours finally sinking in. And then I think of the things I used to do in this town when I was little.
“Okay, kids. Bundle up, we’re going out for a bit,” I proclaim, clapping my hands together to rally the troops.
“Where we going, Aunt Charley?” Max asks, craning his neck up at me.
“We’re going to th
e harbor before it starts raining and we’re stuck inside.” I brush my hand through his hair, admiring his adorable chubby cheeks.
“Can we get hot cocoa?” he asks, his blue eyes wide with excitement.
“Sure,” I say.
“Yes,” Max says as he pumps his fist in the air and runs off to get his coat and shoes.
“You in, Olivia?”
“Do I have a choice?” Olivia snarls, catching me completely off guard.
“Whoa. Where’s the attitude coming from?” I ask, throwing my hands in the air, adding my own flair of drama. “That’s not going to fly with me, young lady. Do we understand each other?”
“Whatever.”
“Okay, this can be easy and fun or this can be hard and ugly. What’s it gonna be?”
“Fine,” she concedes and slips off the barstool slowly. I stand in front of her and place my fingers on her cheeks, gently lifting her mouth into a forced smile as I flash her one of my own. She rewards me with a small grin, ducks around me and trudges up the stairs. I might have my work cut out for me. What happened to my sweet little niece?
Once everyone is bundled in coats and rain boots, and Olivia has helped me secure Max’s booster seat in the backseat of my small car, we climb in and head toward the harbor.
I once loved walking up and down the docks, looking at all the fishing boats and upscale yachts. My dad had been a fisherman and I can remember sitting on the docks, watching him unload bin after bin of fresh fish. When I was finally old enough to go out on the water with him, bundled in my rain coat and bright orange life preserver, I puked all over the deck of the boat. Without a moment’s pause, my dad had grabbed a bucket attached by a thin rope, leaned over the edge of the boat and scooped it full of water which he poured across the deck, washing away my breakfast.
When I started to cry, he patted my back and said, “Sorry Charley, you just weren’t born with sea legs is all.” I wasn’t sure, exactly, what he meant or what my legs had to do with it, but I stuck to the docks after that, inserting myself in my father’s life in any way I could.
I swallow the lump in my throat and shake off the memories that come flooding back as I drive the familiar route to the harbor. We park the car and decide to hit the café first. The café sits at the birth of the docks, a popular place for breakfast or lunch and known for its fresh pastries. Usually in the late morning, after first catch, the red vinyl booths are filled with fishermen desperate for a cup of hot coffee. Although, today the place is practically empty. Olivia and I follow Max into a corner booth next to the window that faces the water. The kids order a hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon rolls and I order a cup of coffee.
When we’re done, we stroll out to the docks where Olivia and I follow Max up and down each row, admiring the boats, calling out the names of each one. The Blue Fin, Crabby Lady, The Office, The Cod Father, and my personal favorite, Rosalita. Something about it leads me to believe that love exists somewhere, even if that love is only for a boat.
The cold air fills my nostrils with the thick scent of salt and fish, the smell of Puget Sound arousing scenes of my past. Standing on the dock, beneath a sky of rolling dark clouds, I feel the weight of a thousand moments spent here. I imagine a life where no matter the problems my parents were having, my mother loved my father, loved our family. I imagine a life with my father, a life that he never left. A life where my days continued to be filled by moments here at the dock, counting fish and learning how to tie a slipknot. I imagine coming here when I had a bad day or needed advice. And my father would make it all better in the way he always seemed to, spinning the scenario until it didn’t hurt so bad. I can almost hear his voice on the breeze now. I imagine he would say something like, Sorry Charley, it’s not fair, what’s happening to Gwen. But life’s not always fair, and neither is death. He was a simple man with a simple explanation for everything.
We stop and watch as silvery salmon and crates of snapping crab are unloaded off the boats. And when we pass slip 21, I pause. I kneel down and trace my initials that are etched into the wood slats. CB. Right next to Gwen’s initials. I remember the day we carved them.
“What’s that Aunt Charley?” I hear Max ask.
“See these letters?” I ask. Max kneels down next to me. “These are your mom and I’s initials. Your mom and I used to spend a lot of time here when we were your age.”
“I didn’t know that,” Olivia says.
It doesn’t surprise me. Gwen closed the door on that part of our life. It’s a wonder that she can live in this town and not fall prisoner to the memories, but Gwen’s strong like that. She can close herself off to things. I’ve always envied her ability to keep things simple. My life always feels messy and complicated. When I try to close the door on things, I end up feeling as if the walls are closing in all around me. Like right now in this moment. I close my eyes and I can see it all like an old movie, an old reel projecting on a screen, as it plays in my mind. I can hear the soundtrack, my desperate cries as I run down the tree-lined street, chasing his old pick-up truck like an abandoned dog. No, Daddy don’t leave. Don’t leave me. My voice growing hoarse the longer I scream and the harder I run, until his tailgate is out of sight, never to be seen again. Endless tears pouring down my little face. Gwen had watched it all from the porch, her eyes dry as dust, before she came and picked me up where I had finally collapsed in the middle of the street, crying hysterically. That empty, hollow pain in the pit of my stomach carving out a place where it would live for decades to come. Gwen had stroked my hair away from my damp face and held me for hours and all the while my mother was locked away in her room.
“Aunt Charley?” Max’s voice pulls me back from the past as I look at his face and realize that I was exactly his age when my father left.
“Yeah,” I whisper, suddenly breathless from the thought of Gwen leaving Max. Or leaving me for that matter.
“Can we go look at that big boat over there?” he asks, pointing to a huge cabin cruiser at the end of the dock.
“Sure.” I stand up, glancing at my initials one last time before taking Max’s hand as he leads us toward the big boat that caught his eye.
When we have seen nearly every boat docked in the harbor, I take the kids home. We decide on a movie and settle down on the big couch in the family room. Halfway through the movie, I receive a text from Grey. How’s it going, Aunt Charley? Surviving? I smile at his playful words. He’s been calling and texting more and more lately. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t like it, but it also unnerved me. The lines are beginning to blur as they inevitably do, but I’m not ready to end whatever this is between Grey and I. I text him back.
Surviving. The hours are dragging by. What are you doing?
I wait for his response as I try to sift through what I’m feeling.
Just hanging out. Missing you. Counting the hours (yes they are dragging) until I can see you!
I stare at my phone, reading his words over and over again as fear settles into the pit of my stomach. I don’t even know how to respond to that. My phone chimes again with a new message.
Too much?
I smile, thinking that he knows me too well. I decide to be playful and not read too much into it.
Depends?
On what?
What part of me you miss...
Every. Single. Part.
His words send a chill over me as I imagine him saying them as his breath teases the bare skin just below my ear. He throws me completely off balance. I suddenly miss him too, although I’m not sure exactly what it is that I miss. I most certainly just got caught up in the moment. And I miss sex. I miss sex with Grey.
I miss parts of you too. See you soon. I stand and pocket my phone, ending this conversation before it gets out of my control.
“Time for lunch,” I call out and make my way into the kitchen.
I make peanut butter sandwiches, a suggestion from Gwen’s list.
“I’m not hungry,” Max says. I bribe
him with a chocolate chip cookie as a reward if he eats all his lunch. But he doesn’t budge.
“My tummy hurts,” he whines. And before I can ask him what’s wrong, he throws up all over the kitchen floor. It all happens in slow motion and the sudden smell of sour milk assaults my senses. Great. This is not happening.
“Gross, Max,” Olivia yells, snapping me into motion. I grab the trashcan just as he starts to heave again. He’s crying and I feel terrible for him, wishing Gwen was here. Gwen would know what to do. I try to console him, while I lead him to the couch with the trashcan perched in front of him.
“I want my mommy,” he cries.
Shit.
I can’t call her. Gwen needs this weekend. I can do this.
“It’s okay Max. Mommy will be home soon enough,” I say, trying to console the both of us. I rub slow circles on his back as Olivia plops down on the other end of the couch and unpauses the movie.
After a while, Max starts to drift off to sleep and I feel like the vomiting has stopped, for now. When the movie ends Olivia retreats to her room after uttering, “Gross,” nearly fifty times. I don’t blame her; my mind is screaming the same thing, although I don’t say it out loud. I clean the kitchen floor, the whole time wondering how Gwen does this kind of stuff every day.
When Max starts moaning, I go to him. I’m poised and ready with the trashcan and when I place my hand on his back, I realize that he’s burning up. He definitely has a fever. I’m suddenly scared. What if he’s having an appendicitis attack? What if something is really wrong? I can’t let Gwen down. Nothing can go wrong this time, not on my watch. I run to the stack of papers Gwen left and call the pediatrician’s office, only to speak to an after-hours operator for Seaport Pediatrics who refers me to an Urgent Care Clinic where the on-call pediatrician is on staff. I bundle Max, call Olivia to come downstairs and take Max to the car with the trashcan in hand.
The Words We Leave Unspoken Page 5
