The Words We Leave Unspoken

by L. D. Cedergreen

  Chapter 34

  Gwen

  It’s Friday. I wake up feeling better than I have since Thanksgiving. It’s amazing what a week in bed will do for recovery. I take slow steps to the bathroom, having mastered this task a few days ago and freshen up, taking care not to wake John. I dress in a clean pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt and slowly make my way down the stairs with a death grip on the handrail.

  I look around the house to find everything is in order. I’m not sure what I expected to find. I guess I was expecting pure chaos in my absence. John has been home the entire week and my mother and Charley have been staying here as well. Between the three of them, life has been continuing on without me. The kids are fed and driven to school with homemade lunches in tow. According to Max, Grammy cuts the crust off his sandwich almost as good as I do. Homework, soccer, play practice – it’s all happening without me. Charley even attended the PTA meeting on Wednesday, taking detailed notes for my benefit. It’s as if they don’t even need me.

  This morning I’m determined to make the kids breakfast and give them a warm send-off for school, one where I’m standing vertical rather than lying in bed like a corpse. I see the look in their eyes, and it’s killing me. They need to see that I’m going to be okay.

  I open the bottom cabinet and slowly bend down to retrieve the waffle iron. My vision turns dark and I sit on the kitchen floor immediately, afraid that I might pass out. I close my eyes and wait for the dizziness to pass. When I open them a moment later, I realize that the waffle iron is not in the cabinet where I keep it. I swallow back an overwhelming sense of anger.

  Is it too much to ask to put things back where they belong?

  I grip the edge of the counter and pull myself back on my feet and begin to open one cabinet after another, slamming each one harder when I discover that it does not hold the waffle iron. By the time I get to the last cabinet, I slam it so hard that it wakes John. I hear him thumping down the stairs, two at a time. He steps into the kitchen while I’m slumped over the cold marble countertop, trying to catch my breath. My frantic search has sucked whatever energy I thought I had.

  “What are you doing?” John asks quietly as I hear him approach.

  Without turning to face him, I say rather calmly, “Making breakfast.”

  “Come back to bed, Gwen,” he says, stepping closer. I feel his hand on my shoulder. I recoil at his touch and am shocked at my cold-hearted reaction. John flinches and removes his hand immediately, as if I physically shocked him.

  “Come on, honey,” he whispers.

  “I’ll be up in a minute, I just want to make breakfast,” I say through clenched teeth. I’m so angry. I feel it pulsing through my veins but I can’t seem to rein it in. It’s spreading, consuming me like a raging fire that I can’t contain.

  “I’ll make breakfast, Gwen.”

  I turn and face him, leaning back against the counter for support.

  “I think I can manage to make breakfast for my kids, John. If I could just find the fucking waffle iron, everything will be fine.” I hear the tension in my voice, I’m not quite yelling but I want to. I want to unleash the fury. I look at John, standing in front of me in only his black boxer shorts and a white T-shirt, his hair unruly. A look of disbelief and pity on his face, which only fuels my anger even more. I almost hate him in this moment. Almost, I think. The way he’s been hovering over me all week, asking me what I need every five seconds, like I’m some kind of invalid. The way he’s been creating a buffer between Olivia and Max and me, like he needs to protect them from their own mother. I’m not dying, not yet anyway. It all makes me so angry. My heart is beating erratically in my chest as John and I stand in the kitchen staring at each other, like a showdown in an old western movie, each of us waiting to see who will draw their gun first.

  Apparently, he’s braver than I in the moment, because after what feels like forever, he points to something beyond my right shoulder and says in a clipped tone, “It’s on the counter, behind you.” And then he turns and walks away. I hear him thud back upstairs and then I slowly collapse on the floor. Angry tears fill my eyes as I sit in my own pool of pity, feeling so much resentment toward John. His bitter last words taking what I wanted; he won’t even give me the satisfaction of telling him off.

  I hate him but I hate myself more.

  A week later, after Charley and my mother have gone home, the kids and I are curled up on the sofa in the family room, watching Saturday morning reruns of iCarly while John cleans the breakfast dishes in the kitchen.

  After a while John steps into the room and tells us that he’s going to take a shower. Olivia is the only one who acknowledges him verbally. Max is too absorbed in the television and I’m still too angry to break my silence. The tension is palpable. I can hardly stand to be in the same room with John. I’ve been snuggling with Max and Olivia in our bed most nights, forcing John to sleep in Max’s room. I feel like everything is spiraling out of control but I don’t know how to stop it.

  Max shifts around on the couch when the episode ends and knocks over a bowl of dry Cheerios in the process, spilling them all over the floor.

  Max looks at me hesitantly and says, “Uh-oh.”

  “It’s okay Bubs, I’ll get it,” I say without a moment’s pause. I slide to the edge of the sofa and stand slowly, make my way to the hall closet and retrieve the vacuum. I plug it in on the far wall and push it closer to the couch. It takes all my strength to push the ottoman out of the way which leaves me frustrated that such a small task has left me breathless. I stand and catch my breath and then say, “Feet up,” and watch the kids pull their legs up underneath them on the couch. I flip on the vacuum and start to push it back and forth over the carpet. It feels much heavier than I remember, but I concentrate on the puddle of Cheerios on the carpet and the ping of each one being sucked into the vacuum. My breathing becomes ragged and before long, I can hear my own wheeze as I struggle to drag in a decent breath. My vision blurs and I feel the room begin to spin. I slide down until I’m sitting on the carpet, the vacuum still running.

  I can vaguely hear Olivia as she says, “Mom, Mom, Mom,” repeatedly. I try to reach my hand up to her, to reassure her that I’m okay, but I can’t muster the strength. I hear her yell, “Max, go get Dad, hurry.” The vacuum is still whirling away as I’m still struggling to breathe. Slowly, the air comes and my wheezing fades, the room stands still once again. I see John and Max walk in and John immediately flips the vacuum off and the room is suddenly bathed in silence.

  “Gwen, honey, are you okay?” I hear John ask, his voice frantic with worry.

  I nod my head slowly as if it’s made of lead. I manage to whisper, “I’m okay.”

  John kneels down next to me, places his hands under my arms and drags me up until I’m sitting on the couch.

  “Honestly, Gwen, tell me, do I need to take you in?” John asks, sitting beside me.

  I catch my breath and say, “No. I’m okay. It’s passing. I just got winded.” I lean back on the couch, now drawing in big breaths, feeling almost normal again.

  “Kids, Mommy’s fine. But I need you to go upstairs for a bit, okay,” I hear John say.

  They both hesitate for a moment, watching me, but I say, “I’m fine. Go on,” and I wave them away.

  When the kids are out of earshot, John says quietly, “What were you thinking, Gwen?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

  “With the vacuum. It could’ve waited. You could’ve asked me to do it.”

  My anger is brewing, even though I know he’s right. I should’ve waited.

  “It was no big deal. I just got winded,” I say.

  John leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hand down his face.

  “Gwen, it’s more than that. It’s your heart. You need to wait until it gets stronger.”

  “I said I was fine, John,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “You’re not fine, Gwen. I almost lost y
ou. Dammit, why do you have to be so stubborn?”

  Something snaps inside me and all the tension and anger breaks free and I can’t stop it even if I were to try.

  “Maybe if you’d stop hovering over me, treating me like a child, maybe I wouldn’t have to be so stubborn. Jesus, John, it’s like I can’t breathe without you needing to know about it,” I yell.

  He stands up and paces in front of me. “Maybe if you would just once, ask me for help. JUST ONCE. It’s not that hard. Like, ‘Gee, John can you get me a glass of water?’ when you’re thirsty instead of trying to get it yourself. Then maybe I wouldn’t have to ask you if you’re thirsty every five fucking minutes.”

  “I can get my own water, John. I don’t need you to wait on me,” I snap back.

  “Exactly. You don’t need me. That’s the whole problem here, Gwen. You couldn’t even tell me you were sick. Who does that? Who doesn’t tell their husband they have cancer? Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

  I watch John rake his hand through his hair, dragging in long, frustrated breaths and blowing them out through his nose. The volcano of tension has erupted and I fear the aftermath. He’s right. I was wrong to keep it all from him, but where does that leave us?

  “I want to be so mad at you Gwen, but it seems like such a waste of time. I refuse to live like this another day. You have to stop hating me for loving you, for wanting to take care of you, for wanting you to need me.” He sits down next to me and holds my hand between both of his. “I don’t know how much time we have left and that scares the shit out of me,” he says calmly with tears in his eyes. “But you have to let me in. You have to let me take care of you, Gwen. Being in a relationship, being in a marriage is about being there for each other, especially in the worst of times. You have to let me be there for you.”

  I hear what he’s saying. I cry at his words and the pain in his voice. Why is it so hard for me to let him take care of me? Why is it so hard to admit that I need help?

  I cry harder, shedding all my anger when I feel John’s arms around me. I lean into him completely, letting him hold all my weight, hoping he feels the significance.

  I fully surrender.

  “I love you, John,” I say through my sobs. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I look up into his eyes and he wipes my tears away with his fingertips, leaning in and kissing me on the lips.

  “I love you too,” he says, pulling back just enough to tuck my hair behind my ear, reminding me of all the reasons I fell in love with him in the first place.

  That night, after John tucks Olivia and Max into their own beds, he climbs into our bed beside me and kisses me madly and then makes slow, sweet love to me. And I forget that I’m sick, I forget that we were fighting, I forget that I was ever angry. I forget my own name.

  And in my postcoital bliss, I vow to be a better wife, to tell my husband everything, even when it makes me feel weak. I know that he’ll be there to raise me up and love me strong. I vow to show him every day how much I need him. Because at the end of the day, in sickness or in health, I do need him.

  Chapter 35

  Charley

  “It’s snowing,” Max squeals from the glass doors that lead out to the back deck. “Aunt Charley, come look,” he calls. I make my way over to the window, cup my hands around my face and look out. Sure enough, fluffy white flakes are falling softly from the dark sky. It hardly ever snows in Seattle. I get caught up in the idea that the snowflakes falling outside the window are some sort of Christmas miracle.

  It’s Christmas Eve and we are all under the same roof again, at Gwen’s house. This is the first Christmas in a long time that I can remember feeling like a real family. My mother and I have slowly been getting closer. Gwen has completely recovered from her episode. She is starting her new cancer treatment the first week of January. John and Gwen have been acting like long lost lovebirds, it’s almost enough to make me sick, but it beats the crazy tension from before. My job has been going well, so well in fact that I just received a big, fat raise. The end of the month will mark the longest I have stayed at the same job in three years. It feels like a small triumph. Especially when working in the same office as Grey has been awkward to say the least, tempting me to jump ship every time that we are in the same room. I don’t do awkward. But I’ve hung in there. Avoiding Grey at all costs. We haven’t spoken since the day he saw me kissing Ben. Evidently, the scene was the final knife in the back that he needed to cut me loose for good. I’m not proud of myself. I’m heartbroken. I realize what I felt, or still feel, for Grey is significant, but I just don’t know what to do about it. So I do nothing. I haven’t been seeing anyone else either. For once, I’ve been alone, spending time with my family. Denying my need to escape every time I feel something, denying the need to run into the arms of a man.

  I actually feel like everything is going to be okay. For all of us. For now.

  “Can we go outside?” Max asks, his enthusiasm infectious.

  I turn around and raise my eyebrows in plea at Gwen who is standing in the kitchen, drying the last dish from dinner with a festive red dishtowel. My mother is standing beside her in a bright green Christmas sweater, wiping down the counter and John is putting the clean dishes away behind them.

  Olivia runs over to the window and looks out. “Can we, Mom?” she begs.

  “Of course, but we’re all going. Grab your coats and gloves.”

  “Woohoo,” Max and Olivia holler in unison as they run to get their coats.

  I walk toward the entryway to grab my own coat and watch John pull Gwen into his arms and plant a kiss on her lips as I pass. It brings a smile to my face but makes me long for Grey, which surprises me. I know that he’s in California with his family, and according to the memo I read at work, he won’t be back until after the New Year. I think of him now, picturing him in a huge house on a steep cliff in the warmth of California. His mother and father are probably wearing matching Christmas sweaters, as they all sit around a piano and sing Christmas carols. Grey, his two brothers and doting parents. They probably go to church too. Midnight Mass, they’re probably Catholic. The scene runs through my mind as I realize how little I know about Grey.

  Outside on the back lawn, we stand in our warm coats, hats, and gloves and marvel in the white magic. The air is still, an eerie quiet, creating a sanctum of serenity that is ours for the taking. The snow is starting to accumulate on the ground but not enough to roll around in it. With arms out and faces turned up, we watch the snowflakes as they float down from the night sky. They seem to be falling in slow motion. Max tries to catch them on his tongue and, before long, we’re all trying to catch snowflakes on our tongues. We look absolutely ridiculous but I couldn’t care less. I feel so happy in the moment that I could cry, but I don’t. Instead I laugh. And it must be infectious, because soon we’re all laughing, even my mother. And it’s hard to ignore the urge I have to take a picture and send it to a certain someone with a caption that reads “White Christmas.”

  Later, after John has read “Twas The Night Before Christmas,” in front of the fire and Max and Olivia have left cookies and milk on the mantel for Santa, I sit by the fire with my mother while John and Gwen put the kids to bed.

  “Do you remember your dad reading that same story every Christmas Eve?” my mother asks.

  I shake my head, unable to recall the memory.

  “Well, you were pretty young. Gwen probably remembers. He loved Christmas. Always made a big deal about everything. Bought you girls extravagant gifts that we couldn’t afford.” She pauses and then laughs. “He even littered the front yard with reindeer poop one year when Gwen started questioning things.”

  “Huh, I don’t remember,” I say, wishing I had more good memories of my dad, of my childhood. And then I ask, “Why didn’t we ever talk about Dad before?”

  “I just thought it would be too hard. And I think I was afraid of the questions you would ask, if I opened that door.” I understand what sh
e means. She didn’t want the truth to come out. But now that the lid has been blown off that can of worms, I guess nothing is off limits.

  And then I ask, “Mom, how did you know that you loved Dad?” A simple question that every daughter probably asks their mother at some point, and for the first time I feel like we can share a typical mother-daughter conversation.

  She scoots closer to me on the sofa and considers my question in silence. And then she says, “I think what you really want to ask is how you’ll know if you’re in love with Grey. And I think that only you can answer that. But let me ask you this. Tonight, when you stood outside catching snowflakes on your tongue, I saw something in your eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time. You looked at peace, almost... dare I say, happy. Were you thinking of him? Did you wish to share that moment with him?”

  I don’t answer her. I just look into my mother’s eyes. I feel like for the first time, she really sees me and I realize that, despite our distance, she knows me, like a mother should know her daughter. I lean the side of my face against her shoulder and she grabs my hand and holds it in her own.

  And then she whispers, “That, my dear, is love.”

  My heart hurts in my chest the minute she says it, and I know the truth right then. Maybe I’ve known the truth all along but didn’t want to see it. Maybe I was afraid of what it might mean, afraid to even admit it to myself. But I know now, without a shadow of doubt.

  I’m in love with Grey.