The Words We Leave Unspoken

by L. D. Cedergreen

  “You’re stronger than you think, Charley.”

  “So are you,” she says. We lay in the dark, quietly, lost in our own thoughts. And the biggest fear I own bubbles to the tip of my tongue, begging to be told.

  “I’m afraid to die,” I whisper, so quietly that I think she may not have heard me.

  But after a moment, she squeezes my hand and then I hear her whisper just as softly, “I’m afraid to die alone.”

  Chapter 22

  Gwen

  Well, Gwen, your scans look good. They look real good. The treatment agrees with you,” Dr. Sheldan says as he looks over black and white images on a large computer screen. I can’t make heads or tails of anything that he’s looking at from where I sit on the exam table in a flimsy, cotton patient gown. My bare legs are hanging over the edge, swinging nervously back and forth, as I try to read more from his expression, his tone.

  “How are you feeling,” he asks as he glides toward me from across the small room on his wheeled stool, stopping just inches from the exam table.

  I tell him I feel good, considering the circumstances but confide that the constant nausea keeps me from eating most days.

  “You need to slow down and take care of yourself. You need your strength. Make sure you’re resting. And try drinking vitamin enriched supplement drinks when you can’t eat whole foods.”

  I agree to take better care of myself, feeling defenseless; I have no other choice. He puts his stethoscope nubs in his ears and stands, moving behind me as he peels open my gown and places the disc-shaped end of the stethoscope on the bare skin of my back. I flinch from the raw touch, the cold metal taking my breath away.

  “You’re not having any chest pain?” he asks. I think back to the previous days and weeks and can’t recall having chest pain, at least nothing significant. I shake my head.

  “Your heart looks a little enlarged on your scan and your lung sounds aren’t what I’d like them to be. I’m going to schedule you for a cardiac work-up in the next few weeks just to be safe. Nothing to worry about. Okay?”

  I nod. My mind is racing. All I can think is more appointments, more tests, more lies. It’s getting harder and harder to keep this from John.

  When my appointment is over and I am dressed and walking to my car, I pull out my cell phone and call Charley at work. I give her the update and we both agree that I have to tell John sooner rather then later and, most certainly, before the cardiac tests that will take me away from Seaport for another day. When I end the call, I am determined to tell John. I drive home practicing the words over and over aloud in the car. The words that I have feared telling John for far too long.

  Hours later, after the kids are asleep, and John is in the shower, I sit in my bed with my back against the headboard. The television is on in the background, but my mind is focused on telling John the truth. My heart pounds in my head with anticipation.

  When John finally emerges from the bathroom followed by a plume of steam, I am so twisted up inside; I think I might be sick. I watch him move to the closet in only a towel wrapped around his waist, taking in the cut of his abs and chest.

  “You okay?” he asks as the towel drops to the floor. He pulls on a clean pair of white boxer shorts.

  I realize from the metallic taste on my tongue that I’m biting down on my lip with my teeth, hard enough to draw blood.

  I release my lip and my words hang suspended between us, just floating on air, out of my reach.

  John walks to the bed and slides in next to me, lying on his side with his head propped up on one arm. He looks up at me, his brow deeply furrowed.

  “Is it Charley? Because you haven’t been yourself since you let her back into your life. Did she do something? Again?” His blue eyes are pleading.

  I shake my head, stalling. My thoughts are a jumbled mess like a page of scrambled words as I try to make sense of the ones I rehearsed in the car. My mind is coming up short, empty.

  “It’s not Charley,” I say, my voice catching on her name. I swallow hard and stare at my hands as they mindlessly pull at a loose thread on the comforter that is spread across my lap. I can feel John’s gaze on me, so strong it’s like he’s burning a hole in the side of my face. “It’s…I…”

  In that second, I hear a blood-curdling scream from down the hall. It’s Max. And without hesitation, I leap from the bed and run to his bedroom. I can feel John right behind me.

  I push open the door and find Max sitting up in his bed, his face flushed red and wet with tears.

  I go to his bed and sit on the edge, pulling him into my arms.

  “Max, what is it?” I ask, drawing his face into my shoulder as I run my hand down his sweaty back.

  “I had a bad dream,” he mumbles through a chorus of sniffles.

  John turns the bedside lamp on and says, “It’s okay, buddy. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “There was a bad man and I was running away but I wasn’t fast enough,” he chokes out.

  “It’s okay. It was just a dream. There’s no bad man,” I say, my heart breaking.

  “Can you sleep with me Mommy?” he asks, throwing his little arms around my neck and hanging on as if his life depended on it.

  I look up at John as I run my fingers through Max’s hair, his blonde curls damp with sweat. John nods with a small smile and I say, “Of course, Bubs. Come on let’s get you tucked in.”

  I settle Max on his side and slide in behind him as John pulls the bedding up to Max’s chin. He kisses each of us on the forehead and switches off the bedside lamp, bathing the room in darkness. Feeling Max tense, I put my arm around him, squeezing him tight, willing him to feel safe.

  “Goodnight,” John whispers as he leaves the room. I lie in the darkness with Max in my arms, listening to his breath until I feel his body slump and I know he’s asleep once more.

  I take a breath and blow it out, feeling restless with guilt as I realize how relieved I am at the interruption. I know I have to tell John, and, as ashamed as I am to admit it; I’m glad that it won’t be tonight.

  Chapter 23

  Charley

  The cold of winter has officially arrived, leaving Seattle bare and colorless. Golden leaves lay in soggy piles along the streets, the sky an endless sea of gray that nearly suffocates those who dare to mourn the sharp blue skies and vivid shades of summer. The damp cold pierces my lungs as if the air is made of tiny shards. I place my overnight bag in the back of my car along with two pies that I picked up at the bakery and a box of frosted sugar cookies shaped like turkeys for Olivia and Max. Gwen always hosts Thanksgiving at her house, where she cooks an amazing dinner and I tolerate my mother for a few hours. There are usually a few strays, friends of Gwen and John, who are alone for the holiday or sometimes she invites the neighbors. Whoever their guests might be, it is a welcome distraction from having to hold a conversation with my mother. But this year, I look forward to the holiday. I want to make it memorable for Gwen and the kids. I feel the urge to carve each moment in stone as if I might forget it otherwise. As if I don’t know how many more moments, how many more Thanksgivings, how many more of anything I will have with Gwen.

  I pull the car away from the curb and drive to the freeway, where I head north toward Seaport. I haven’t seen Gwen since the day following my disastrous date and I feel anxious to pull her into my arms, to make sure that she’s still here as if she might turn to ash and slowly blow away in the wind in my absence. I call her every Wednesday morning at nine and we stay on the phone until she is done with her treatment. I have become a pro at disguising our phone calls at work, my new boss not as tolerating as Grey.

  Grey.

  I haven’t spoken to him, other than the cordial moments we share in the office. His phone calls and texts go unanswered. I’m not sure what I want. I miss him so much and yet the fear is stronger, sharper, obscuring all else. I see the look in his eyes, know the hurt that he tries so hard to mask when he sees me. And still I avoid him, stubbornly. I feel
my own hurt, although I’m not sure where it stems from or who it belongs to.

  I exit the freeway and drive by memory to Gwen’s house hidden away down a long and narrow drive. As I walk to the front door, I can hear the seagulls call and the gentle waves lap at the shore, impervious to the cold or change of season. Reminding me that some things are constant.

  I knock loudly and then let myself in, already knowing that Gwen is busy in the kitchen and John is most likely watching a football game in the family room.

  Sure enough, I find Gwen wrapped in a fall-themed apron leaning over a hot oven as she bastes a large turkey.

  “Hey,” I call out as I place my bakery items on the counter.

  Gwen stands, closes the oven door and turns toward me.

  “Hey,” she says and folds me in a hug.

  I can’t help but notice the swollen cheeks and the sharpness of her bones as I hug her. She looks puffy yet thin and frail at the same time. Overall the change is subtle, but I swallow the thick lump that has grown in my throat.

  “How are you feeling?” I whisper.

  “I’m good,” she says as she wipes a trail of beaded moisture from her brow.

  “And John?” I ask.

  “Let’s not talk about it today, Charley.” She sighs. “I’m going to tell him tonight. I’m finally going to do it, I swear.”

  The look of resolve in her eyes assures me that she’s telling the truth. She’s finally going to tell him and maybe now we can both sleep at night. He’s been worried about her and with the slew of tests coming up, including the cardiac workup; we both know that keeping it all from John will be impossible.

  “Okay. Good. Well Happy Thanksgiving,” I say in a pathetic attempt to change the subject.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” she says with a smile. “Now grab that peeler over there and get to work on these potatoes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I move to the sink and begin to peel the potatoes. “Where are the kids?” I ask, noticing for the first time how quiet it is.

  “They’re cleaning Max’s room.” I look at her in shock. “I know, but they built a fort in there yesterday and I refuse to clean it up. It’s a disaster.”

  “Good for you.”

  She takes a peeled potato from my hand and begins to cut it in quarters beside me.

  “Charley, I have to tell you some...” she starts to say something but Max and Olivia stomp down the stairs and interrupt her.

  “Aunt Charley,” Max squeals and wraps his arms around my legs. I put down the peeler and wipe my hands on a dishtowel before picking him up and planting a sloppy kiss on his soft, buttery cheek. “Hey Max. Hi, Olivia,” I say as I pull her into my side.

  “Hi Aunt Charley. Guess what?” she asks with eyes as big as plums.

  “What?”

  “I got picked for the lead part. I’m Annie.” Her face is lit up like Christmas and I couldn’t be more proud of her.

  “Wow! That’s amazing. I knew you could do it.”

  “You’ll be there, right? In May, for opening night?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it. I can’t wait.”

  She turns to Gwen. “Mom, can I watch TV in your room? Dad’s watching football.”

  “Sure Honey,” Gwen says. I set Max down on his feet and he runs out of the room, yelling, “See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya.”

  “Nice. Where’d he pick that up?” I ask.

  “School,” Gwen replies while she continues to cut the potatoes.

  “Anyway, Charley...”

  I hear a knock on the door and a moment later I hear my mother’s voice. I inwardly cringe. “Smells wonderful in here. Hello Gwen,” she chimes as she sets two large reusable grocery bags on the counter and kisses Gwen’s cheek. “Hello Charlotte,” she says and pats me on the shoulder cautiously.

  “Hi Mom,” Gwen says.

  And I reply with a curt, “Hello Connie.”

  “Can’t you just call me Mom?” she asks. Here we go, I think.

  “Sure, when you start calling me Charley,” I retort, straining to smile, reminding myself to remain polite. It’s Thanksgiving.

  “Fair enough,” she concedes. “Now where are my grandchildren?”

  “Olivia’s upstairs and Max is in the family room with John,” Gwen says and my mother walks into the other room as I hear Max yelling out, “Grammy, Grammy.”

  “At least someone’s excited to see her,” I say under my breath.

  “Charley,” Gwen warns.

  “I know. I know.” I let out the breath of frustration that I had been holding and try to figure out for the hundredth time why I can’t get past my anger. When I look at my mother, I still see a bitter, helpless woman drowning in self-pity, as if she had been swallowed by grief. And yet, nobody died. I know that she’s not that person anymore, but in my mind, she always will be.

  Gwen tries to tell me something, again, but is once again interrupted by a strong knock on the front door. The expression on her face is of dread as she calls out to John.

  “Coming,” he says and I hear him open the front door.

  “I tried to tell you. I’m sorry,” is all Gwen says seconds before I see him standing in the kitchen, with John at his side, holding an expensive-looking bottle of wine.

  Our eyes lock for what feels like forever, until John steps forward and kisses my cheek, breaking the trance. “Hey Charley. Happy Thanksgiving, I didn’t hear you come in.” I can hear Gwen speak to him as I watch her pull him into a hug. He hands her the bottle of wine and she thanks him.

  John opens the fridge and pulls out two bottles of beer, handing one to him and I continue to stare. The air is thick and charged.

  “Game’s on,” John states.

  “Make yourself at home,” Gwen says.

  He steps toward me hesitantly. “Charley,” he says quietly. And then in a whisper, “I tried to call you, to ask if it was okay.” I feel all eyes on me and hear nothing but silence and the steady drum of my heart.

  Despite feeling shocked, foolish and caught off guard, despite feeling a sense of relief to see him, to feel him this close, and despite feeling angry at the situation and at Gwen for that matter, I smile, wave my hand through the air and say, “It’s fine. Happy Thanksgiving, Grey.” I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek, inhaling greedily, filling my senses with him.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” he whispers against my ear.

  I step away and turn immediately back toward the sink and pick up a potato. I close my eyes and try to clear my mind – my heart – of the mess of emotions swirling like a storm inside. When I hear John and Grey retreat to the family room, Gwen is at my side.

  “John invited him at poker last week. I tried to tell John that it was a bad idea, but he couldn’t uninvite him. He was going to be alone for the holiday.”

  “It’s fine, Gwen,” I say, although it’s hard to leave the anger out of my tone. I begin to peel the potato in my hand, slicing at it harshly until there is hardly any flesh left.

  Chapter 24

  Gwen

  Dinner is ready, finally. Although it’s more like Thanksgiving lunch given that it is only two o’clock in the afternoon. The timing is a tradition of sorts. This was supposed to be a good day. Yet all I feel is tension. Rolling off Charley in waves, building slowly in my mother’s comments, hidden underneath Grey’s unusual silence. The day is full of tension and I feel exhausted. So tired that I silently wish for a moment to sneak upstairs and lie down. My ankles and feet feel heavy and swollen from standing in the kitchen all morning, my back aches and my head throbs. But I put on my smile as Charley and I set all the prepared dishes on the table, including the Vegetable Tofu Bake that my mother insisted upon. Her vegan diet quietly crept itself into my traditional dishes. And honestly, I’m too exhausted to care. Real butter, vegan butter – who cares?

  I call my family to the formal dining room table and everyone takes their place. John opens a bottle of wine and begins to fill glasses. I say a small prayer and then expl
ain to Grey our tradition of sharing what we are thankful for. I begin.

  “I’m thankful for my family and friends,” I start. I try to keep the tears at bay and the emotion from my throat, but this year my words hold so much more meaning than those of the past. “I’m thankful for this day, for every day that we have together.” Charley wipes a single tear from her eye, as she stares at her empty plate. I’m thankful that she doesn’t look at me now, or I might not be able to hold back my own tears.

  John goes next. “I’m thankful for my beautiful wife,” he pauses and leans over and kisses me on the lips, “and for my two completely crazy children who I love more than this world!”

  “I’m not crazy, Daddy,” Max says with a giggle.

  “You’re the craziest,” I say, reaching over and poking his side with my finger, earning a belly laugh that makes my heart ache. “Why don’t you go next? What are you thankful for Max?”

  “Um, I’m thankful for my house and the big giant turkey cookies that Aunt Charley brought.”

  Everyone laughs. It’s hard not to.

  Olivia looks deep in thought while we all look to her and wait for her to speak.

  “I’m thankful for the lead part in the school play,” she says triumphantly.

  “Yay,” we all say in unison and clap for her. She is absolutely beaming and I feel so happy for this moment.

  “That’s wonderful darling. I knew you could do it!” my mother says, shaking a closed fist over her heart.

  Charley is seated next to Olivia and I watch her take a deep breath before she says, “I’m thankful for all this wonderful food and for everyone seated at this table.” It’s the same thing she says every year. I watch her glance quickly across the table at Grey and then pick up her wine and take a big gulp.

  “Well,” my mother says, “I’m thankful for this family and for our health.” I look at Charley and Charley looks at me, our eyes lock for a moment before I turn away.