The Words We Leave Unspoken

by L. D. Cedergreen

  Flashes from the day he left cloud my vision. My mother yelling at my dad. She was angry, but she had tears in her eyes. My dad kneeling down and hugging me close, kissing my temple as he said, “I’m sorry, Charley,” in a voice so thick I hardly recognized it as my father’s. I didn’t understand at the time what it was he was apologizing for, but I remember that feeling in my gut, knowing that something bad was happening, something significant.

  I can remember watching the screen door slam and then running after him, screaming, “Daddy, don’t leave. Take me with you. Don’t leave me, Daddy.” He kept me at arm’s length, holding me back while he threw his green canvas duffle bag into the cab of the truck and climbed inside. The sound of the ignition turning seemed to echo down the street, followed by the roar of the engine as he slowly pulled away from the curb. I ran as hard as my little legs would carry me, feeling certain that he would stop, that he would change his mind. I had never felt pain like that. The unbearable pain I felt inside, like someone was driving a hammer into my chest, when his truck finally disappeared at the end of our street. When I realized that he was gone.

  And to think he left that day to spare me.

  I finally turn to face my mother, my eyes are so blurry with tears that I can hardly see her face.

  “But... why... why didn’t you tell me this before,” I cry. “Why did you shut us out? Why did you leave me too…” I choke out, now sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Oh, Charlotte, don’t you see?” she says as she reaches up and cups my cheek with her soft hand, wiping away my tears with the pad of her thumb. I can see the regret in her eyes and the pain even after all these years. “He left me... he left me too. I’m so sorry for all that time we lost. For not being there for you and your sister. I have to live with that every day. But I was broken. I’m not as strong as you and Gwen.” She drops her hand from my face and swipes at her eyes and nose and then looks me deep in the eye and says, “I brought you here so that maybe you can stop blaming me for everything, but more importantly, I want you to stop blaming yourself. You’re so good and so strong and you deserve to have love in your life. Do you hear me, Charlotte? You have so much love to give and you deserve to be loved.” She places her fingertips under my chin and gently lifts my face until I’m looking her directly in the eye and then drives her point straight into my heart, “Do you hear what I’m telling you?”

  I nod through my tears and then she pulls me into her arms tightly and I go willingly, as I sob against her green cotton sweater.

  “You and Gwen are my whole world. I’m so close to losing Gwen and I can’t lose you too, Charlotte. I can’t lose you,” she mumbles against my temple where her lips rest. A storm unleashes inside my soul, a fury of emotions, like each of my memories are being rewritten in fast-forward motion, leaving new imprints on my heart in their wake. I sob and find comfort in my mother’s embrace; a scene that I once yearned for but had long since given up on. We stay like this for a while, until my tears dry on my cheeks and my breath evens out. My mother releases me and I look out my window at my father once more before we leave. I so badly want to open the door, run across the street and confront him. A part of me wants to see the look on his face when he sees me, after all this time. Would he recognize me? Would it change anything, if he knew I was here? But the man I see is nearly a shell of the man I once knew and my heart can’t take any more disappointment.

  As if reading my mind, my mother says, “He’s not your father anymore. He’s not the same man. You have to let him go.”

  I take her words like a punch in the gut. I steal one last look, my heart filled with grief for a man whose soul may be dead but who is still very much alive. Such a contradiction between my head and my heart.

  Chapter 32

  Gwen

  I sit on the edge of my bed, grateful to be home after spending several days in the hospital. I stare at the bathroom door that stands a mere ten feet from where I sit, but it might as well be miles because there is no way I can get there on my own. I have to pee. It seemed like such a simple task when I first sat up in bed, but apparently my body has other ideas. I know I should call for someone, for John, to help me but I just want to do something on my own, to not feel so helpless. The doctor said that I should have my strength back in a week or two, but I was hoping I was the exception and that it would take only a matter of days to feel like myself again or at least enough to use the bathroom on my own.

  I stand on my feet slowly and attempt to take a step but my legs are shaking violently and the room begins to spin. I slide my back down the side of the mattress and as soon as my butt hits the floor with a subtle thud, I feel a release of warmth. I actually piss myself right on the floor of my bedroom. Before the mortification has time to seep in, there is a light knock on the door and then Charley’s face peeks in from the hallway.

  Seeing her face while I’m sitting in my own pee because I can’t even go to the bathroom on my own, completely undoes me. I sob into my hands, unable to even look her in the eye.

  “Gwen? Are you okay?” she asks in a panic, rushing to my side. “What happened?”

  “I peed my pants... so sorry... couldn’t make it to the bathroom,” I manage to say through my sobs. She is quiet for several seconds and so I look up from my hands. And she is holding back a smile, I can tell.

  “You scared the shit out of me!” she says with her hand over her heart. And then she plops down next to me, stretches her legs out in front of her and laughs. She laughs so hard that she’s crying and I find myself laughing through my own tears. And it feels so good to laugh, to let go of everything that I’ve been holding inside. The sadness, the frustration, the anger – I let it all go. After a few moments of ridiculous laughter, Charley says, “And I thought I was a mess.” And I laugh even harder until my stomach hurts and my breath becomes labored.

  “Okay, Gwen, enough,” she says holding her side, breathing heavily. “Don’t make me get your oxygen tank.”

  We both sigh as we catch our breath. I feel better. Hard to imagine while I’m sitting in my own pee, but I do.

  “How about a shower?” she asks and nothing has ever sounded better.

  “I would love a shower,” I say. Charley stands and puts her hands under my arms, pulling me slowly to a standing position. I put my arm around her and we walk together to the bathroom. She helps me strip off my wet clothing and step into the shower until I’m sitting on the tiled bench in the large stall.

  She starts the water and sets the perfect temperature, making sure that my shampoo and body wash are within reach and then she says, with a small smile, “I’m going to step out and give you some privacy, just yell when you’re ready to get out.”

  “Okay,” I say and then as she is turning to leave I add, “Charley, thank you.”

  She only smiles and steps out of the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. Whether she realizes it or not, she has given me the perfect gift, a few moments alone with the ability to wash my hair, to feel like I can do something, anything, for myself. The warm water feels great on my skin and I feel as if I’ve gained a small sense of dignity back now that I have clean hair. I sit with my eyes closed and let the water spray over my face.

  I never thought that I would ever say this but Charley has been a godsend. She has been amazing with the kids. In fact, she spent most of the weekend here at the house with them while John stayed with me in the hospital. And when John carried me into the house this morning, we were greeted with a huge “Welcome Home Mommy” banner that hung from the banister courtesy of the kids, but no doubt facilitated by Charley. The house was clean, spotless in fact. She has taken the week off from work to stay and help out, alongside my mother which is no small feat. It’s as if aliens have abducted my sister and replaced her with this other grownup, more responsible version. And yet, inside she’s still Charley – evidenced by her ability to make me laugh over the fact that I wet my pants. Something only my childlike sister could do.

  “How
’s it going in there?” I jump at the sound of Charley’s voice.

  “I think I’m done,” I say, noticing that the water is beginning to run cold.

  She reaches in and turns the water off, handing me a towel instantly. I dry my skin, ring the water out of my short hair and wrap the towel around myself. Charley helps me stand and walks me into the bedroom. I can smell disinfectant and know that she has rid the floor of my mess and remade the bed, turning it down to look fresh and clean. She helps me sit on the edge of the bed and then rummages around in my closet until she finds a pair of black sweatpants, a light pink T-shirt and comfy underwear.

  “This okay?” she asks, holding out the three items.

  “Perfect,” I say while I pull the T-shirt over my head and then she helps me stand and slips on my underwear followed by my sweatpants. She helps me crawl into bed, tucking me in on propped pillows.

  “Are you tired? Do you want to sleep?”

  I think for a moment and then say, “No, not really.” My body feels tired from all the moving around but I feel refreshed.

  “TV?” she asks, nodding toward the flat screen mounted on the wall above the fireplace.

  “Yeah, maybe for a little while.”

  She hands me the remote and then disappears into the bathroom, emerging seconds later with a brush in hand.

  “Here, sit up,” she says and I do. She slips behind me and starts brushing my hair. It feels so good that tears sting my eyes. The quiet way she takes care of me, securing every shred of my dignity that she possibly can, brings me to tears.

  “Remember when you used to brush my hair?” she asks as she moves the bristles though my short, thick strands.

  I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “Yeah, it seems like yesterday, doesn’t it?” I say, remembering that time in our life clearly.

  “You were always there, taking care of me...” her voice trails off and she sighs, setting the brush down.

  “What is it, Charley?” I ask, scooting to the middle of the bed until we are sitting side by side, propped up by loads of euro pillows.

  “Nothing,” she says shaking her head, but I know that look. She wants to say something.

  “Just say it, Charley. I may have pissed my pants, but I’m still your sister, I’m not going to break.”

  This rewards me a small smile from her and then she asks, “Did you know about Dad? Did you know all along that he’s living under the I-5 bridge?”

  I take a deep breath, completely caught off guard and say, “Yes, I knew.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Well, at first you were too young to know the truth. And I don’t know, I guess after sheltering you from it all for so long, it just seemed easier to let you think what you wanted about Dad... and Mom... about the whole thing. It was hard to keep track of him, he moved around a lot. First it was small apartments in the city and then he crashed on other people’s couches until eventually he ran out of options. Mom always seemed to keep tabs on him.”

  Charley’s a grown-up but she always seems so fragile. I’ve always protected her from this truth as if it would be too much for her, but maybe she should’ve known the truth all along. Maybe it wasn’t right to keep it all from her, like the way I kept my cancer from John.

  “What about Mom? She said that she was broken when Dad left and that’s why she shut us out, but why didn’t she fight for him? Why did she give up so easily?” Charley sounds like that little girl that I remember. In so many ways, when it comes to her emotions, she still is a little girl. And maybe that’s my fault.

  “His drinking had been spiraling out of control, getting worse by the day. Mom and Dad were fighting constantly and he was always angry. Some nights he didn’t even bother to come home. The night before he left, he came home late. I heard him stumble in and then heard Mom and Dad arguing. I opened my bedroom door to see what was going on and I could tell he was drunk. He could hardly walk and Mom was beyond upset. She was screaming at him and... he hit her, Charley. He actually hit her.”

  I bring my hand to my cheek, lost in the memory, picturing my mother’s tear-streaked face and the shock written in her expression. I watched her raise her chin slightly in defiance, but before she could respond, my father pushed her back against the wall where she hit her head and fell slowly to the ground. I wanted to run to her, overcome with a fierce protectiveness, but I was scared, rooted in my spot where I watched it all from my bedroom doorway. Watched my dad morph into a stranger, become someone I didn’t know. I just stood there and watched when he kicked her in the stomach over and over as she was lying defenseless on her side, all the while he was muttering things about how she never respects him, how tiring her nagging has become, and what a terrible wife and mother she is. I tell this all to Charley now in excruciating detail.

  “Is that the man that you wanted Mom to fight for?” I ask.

  Of course, I also remember, minutes later, when it was over, my father was full of apologies and almost terrified of what he had done, and my mother was no fool, told him in the most heartbreaking voice that he couldn’t stay unless he got sober. That enough was enough. I knew then, that it was the first and last time he would ever hurt my mother. At least with his fists.

  I can feel myself getting angry. All those nights I heard my Mom crying. All those nights I listened to Charley dream about him coming back for her. I never wanted him to come back. I felt relieved that he was gone. I felt guilty for feeling that way, knowing that his absence caused both my mother and Charley so much pain but I was relieved.

  “I didn’t know,” Charley whispers, looking down at the brush in her hands, fingering the course bristles.

  “Mom gave him a choice, Charley. His family or the booze and he chose... well you know what he chose. He left us because he’s a coward. He wasn’t strong enough to choose us. Mom was devastated. She loved him so much. She would’ve done anything for him, but she wasn’t willing to risk our safety. She did it for us, made him choose, but she couldn’t handle the fact that he left. She struggled with depression. She could hardly get out of bed for months and I held us all together. I bought the groceries, bathed you, took you to school, cooked our meals. I did it all. And then came all the men. And they all left too, one after the other...”

  “I’m sorry Gwen, I didn’t know,” she says, shifting around until she’s facing me on the bed, a single tear sliding down her cheek. I watch her reach up and wipe it away. Her hair is messy and falling in her face, her skin flawless. Her beauty sometimes catches me off guard, seeing the woman that she’s become.

  “I know. I didn’t want you to know.”

  “The part that I can’t let go of, the part that’s eating me up inside is why someone would choose that life, choose such a lonely and cold existence when they could be surrounded by love?” Tears are flowing steady down her face, breaking my heart again. She sniffs and then says, “Because I would’ve loved him, Gwen. I would’ve loved him so much.”

  “I don’t know why,” I whisper, shaking my head. “It’s funny... well not funny... but I sometimes find myself asking the same question about you.” I look into Charley’s eyes to gauge her reaction.

  “Me? What does one have to do with the other?” she asks, confused.

  “Is it not the same? I worry about you and why you always choose to be alone over love. I try to tell myself that you just haven’t met the right person, but come on, we both know that’s not it.”

  She’s quiet for a moment and I worry that I’ve said too much.

  Her brows are pulled in tight as she looks from her hands to my face.

  “You think I’m a coward, like him? Is that what you’re saying?” Her voice is quiet and hoarse.

  “I don’t think you’re a coward, Charley,” Gwen whispers. “There’s a big difference between being afraid and being a coward. But yes, I think you push people away because you’re afraid. And Dad? Choosing the easy road makes him a coward.” I think of my father, leaving without even
trying to change, without even giving it a shot.

  “You think being homeless is the easy road?” Charley asks, clearly not seeing what I see.

  “I think getting clean and trying to be a man worthy of a family, worthy of love was too daunting a choice for him. So, yes, living alone with no one depending on him, drinking away the regret of his choice, having to answer to no one, feeling nothing – that was definitely the easy way out.”

  I take a breath and fight the emotion churning in my gut. I’ve never said all this aloud. I’ve always felt this way, but I’ve never actually said it. It triggers so many memories, so many different feelings. Part of me wants to feel sorry for my dad, because it is all so sad when you think of it. And then I feel angry again, because as sad as it is, he made his choice. Some people might argue that addiction is a disease not a choice, but I disagree. Cancer is a disease, an affliction that selects you at random, bears you no choice. It seems unfair that my father could waste his precious life this way while despite all the right choices I have made, my life is being taken from me. I think of Charley and her choices and the difference between my dad and my sister. In so many ways, she reminds me of him. The good things, the things I remember about him before he lost himself. Like his honesty. Charley is blunt, straight to the point, no-nonsense. Just like he was. And her laugh, it’s infectious. And God, my dad could laugh, always finding the humor in everything. But she is not him. She is so strong, she just doesn’t see it and maybe I haven’t wanted to see it. But I see it now.

  A steady stream of tears rolls down my cheeks, leaving a salty taste on my lips.

  Charley is quiet, taking it all in. We have never really talked about the past and it’s a lot to swallow all at once.

  “Charley, I get that you’re afraid. But don’t let Dad’s choices define you. Not everyone’s a coward.” I am about to add that not everyone’s going to leave her, but I hold the words back, suddenly struck by the fierce truth, that while not everyone will leave her, I most certainly will and sooner than we both want. Instead I say, “Not everyone is going to turn away from love. From you.”