Compass (Siren Songs Book 2)

by Stephie Walls

  I’ve misled everyone. My doctors. My therapists. My parents, friends, family. Piper. I haven’t left anyone out. They’ve all received the same bullshit lies, so it’s easy to keep them straight. Piper has a sixth sense; she knows something is off. She didn’t come out and say it. Well, I guess she kind of did, but she knows my progress should be faster if I were devoting myself to the process.

  I finally got my driver’s license back after the medical suspension. I now have some freedom I haven’t had in months. After Piper leaves for work, I make an appointment with Ralph, our therapist. I need some guidance, and as much as I hate to do it, I’m going to have to admit what I’ve been doing. I’m going to start with the least threatening person, the only one I have nothing to lose with. If Ralph thinks less of me, big deal. We pay him to talk to me. The stakes are much higher with everyone else in my life. I run the risk of losing my friends, family, and wife. My doctors could refuse to continue treating me since I’m in a state-funded program. The consequences are enormous, but hopefully Ralph can help me put things in perspective.

  When I arrive, he ushers me into the all too familiar office. I see him at least once a week with Piper, and frequently another time alone. Piper doesn’t like him, but humors me because she knows he’s the only person I’ve opened up to.

  “Good to see you, Moby. I take it from your call you have some concerns?” Ralph is an older guy, probably late sixties, three daughters, and a wife of forty-five years. He’s tall, roughly my height, bald, and fit. He’s a bike rider, distance, so he’s lean. I’d guess he runs too, but I’ve never asked. I only know about the riding because of the pictures adorning the walls in his office.

  “Piper and I had a pretty frank discussion this weekend.”

  “That’s to be expected. You guys have faced a lot in a very short amount of time. You seem to be handling it together as a couple very well.”

  Lowering my head in shame, I dive into my admission. It’s not going to get any easier, and he’s the easiest to tell. “I haven’t been honest with her.”

  He adjusts in his seat. “How so?”

  “Well, not just her, everyone.”

  He doesn’t probe, doesn’t say anything, he simply waits for me to reach a point where I can push the words past my lips.

  “I’ve been lying about my rehab.” I wait for him to question me, helping me draw the information out, but it never comes. The silence causes verbal vomit. “I’m not doing any of it. I mean I’m going to the appointments, but that’s it. Every word in my journal is a lie. I’m not even checking my blood pressure like I’m supposed to. My entire recovery is bullshit.”

  When I finish my spew, he clasps his hands together as he crosses his legs. For the love of God, say something, old man!

  “I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you I’m disappointed but, Moby, you’re cheating yourself more than you’re cheating those who love you. Why go to the lengths to create fake journals?”

  “I wish I could tell you I have some great reason behind it, or justify it logically, but the fact is I can’t. I promise myself every day I’m going to change things. I have every intention of doing the work, but as soon as I get ready to, I can’t find the motivation.”

  “But you have the wherewithal to write out elaborate lies to show your wife and physicians?”

  His bluntness stings, but it’s exactly what I’m doing. The truth is a painful slap in the face.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Since the day I came home.”

  “How does Piper not know?”

  “She suspects something’s not right but doesn’t have confirmation. She works during the week, so I always tell her I did the work while she was gone. On the weekends, she normally leaves to run errands, go to the grocery store, or something, so it gives me time while she’s away.” I shrug at how easily the lies come.

  “Do you feel like your lack of motivation is related to your depression?”

  “I’m not dealing with depression. I just don’t want to do these stupid exercises. Do you know what it’s like to go from deadlifts to barely able to pick up a tennis ball?”

  “So you’re admitting defeat before you even start?”

  “I wouldn’t call it defeat. I would say it seems pointless. What’s moving a tennis ball from one basket to another going to do for me?”

  “I don’t know much about occupational therapy, but my best guess is it’s to retrain your brain how to do simple cognitive functions. I’m sure you’ve heard a thousand times your brain has to learn new pathways to create the same actions it did without you thinking. What you’re not taking into consideration is how long it took you to learn those functions to begin with. You likely didn’t learn to walk until you were close to a year old, learning to write took years of practice and your handwriting continues to evolve for years. Why are you expecting instant gratification?”

  I’ve heard it all before but maybe not with a very open mind. Somehow today the words seem different, they are more intelligible, easier to comprehend.

  “I don’t expect instant gratification, I just hate doing it. I hate doing it when I’m at the center, I sure as hell don’t want to do it when I’m home.”

  “Do you ever hope to resume the life you lived before the stroke?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then when are you going to start putting in the effort to make it happen?”

  I don’t answer because I’ve promised myself every day since the day I came home today would be the day, and so far it hasn’t happened.

  He lets that question hang in the air moving on to another. “You said Piper doesn’t know?”

  I nod, chewing on the side of my lip.

  “Do you have a plan to tell her and the rest of your family?”

  “I don’t have a plan. I could lose them all.”

  “I think you’re more likely to lose them continuing this charade than if you tell them the truth. Own up to what you’ve been doing. The deceit.”

  “How the hell do I do that?”

  “I would suggest you start with your wife. Sit her down and just be blunt. Don’t sugar coat it or make excuses, just tell her.”

  “She’s going to be pissed.”

  “Do you blame her? She’s been pulling the extra weight under the assumption you’ve been playing your role. You’ve allowed her to work really long days and take up your slack. She has every right to be angry. Justifiably.”

  “What if she leaves me?”

  “I think you face that if it happens and not before. It can’t be a reason you keep the truth from her.”

  “She’s not going to take it well.”

  “Likely not, but once you come clean the two of you can figure out how to ensure it doesn’t continue. She wants what’s best for you, Moby. She may be angry initially, but I think you might find she knew anyway, and her resentment isn’t from what you’re not doing, so much as you telling her you are.”

  “What about my family? My friends? How do I admit to everyone I love that I’m a liar?”

  “You simply sit down and tell them the truth. They love you, Moby. My guess is you’ll receive more sympathy than condemnation. But if not, you have to own the consequences of your actions and do what’s necessary to earn their trust again.”

  My allotted hour flew by, leaving me in more turmoil than when I walked in here. The reality of the situation is not good. I think I’d rather tell Piper I had an affair than what I’ve done. She deserves more. Better. I love my wife, but my actions have shown her the opposite. They’ve been careless, and I’ve disregarded her feelings. I didn’t allow myself to believe I was hurting anyone other than myself.

  I know Piper won’t be home before seven o’clock, but I’ve been sitting at the bar in the kitchen waiting for her to walk in the door since about six. I cooked dinner, although I can’t guarantee the quality, I made vegetable soup and cornbread, both from a package. I�
�m hoping they soften the blow I’m going to deliver over dinner. I can’t keep it in; I have to unload the burden.

  When she comes in, I see the exhaustion just beneath the surface, the darkness under her eyes. Through it all, I still see the gorgeous woman I married even if she’s lost a good bit of weight and her cheeks have begun to hollow. I wonder if she’ll ever be able to see the man I promised her I’d be.

  “Hey,” she says, dropping her stuff on the counter. “What’s up?”

  “I made dinner.” I point out like a daft duck.

  She returns my gesture with a smile. “It smells fantastic. I’m starving. Let me go change and I’ll serve it up.”

  I attempt to do the chore for her. I can’t get them to the table, but I put the soup in the bowls and put the cornbread muffins on a plate. She rewards me with another grin of appreciation. I hate I’m about to ruin the gesture by telling her the truth of my indiscretions.

  Settled at the table, she waits for me to start. It’s one of those little things about her that endears her to me even more. I take a bite knowing she won’t eat before I do, and I figure it’s better for me if she has food in her mouth when I spill my guts.

  “I went to see Ralph today.” I use this as my opener. She knows I see him on my own, so it doesn’t raise any suspicions.

  “I didn’t think your appointment was until later this week?” She takes a spoonful of the soup in her mouth, swallowing. “This is really good. Thank you for cooking.”

  “You’re welcome. It wasn’t. I called him to see if I could come in.”

  Her spoon stops mid air. “Is everything all right?”

  I shake my head. “No. It’s not, but I’m hoping it’s going to be. I need to tell you something.”

  Wiping her mouth with her napkin, she sets it down on the table, folds her arms across her chest in a defensive posture, and erects a wall of protection around herself.

  “I haven’t been honest with you, or anyone else and I need to come clean to try to move forward.”

  “Okay…”

  I practiced what I was going to say, over and over before she got home. I rehearsed it well, but nothing is coming to mind now that I need it. “My journals are a lie. Every page of them.”

  “You mean your blood pressure and therapy logs?” Her brow creases with concern and confusion more than anger.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you mean they’re a lie?” She clips her words, but she hasn’t raised her voice…yet.

  “I mean I just make shit up, so it appears I’m doing what I’m supposed to do but in actuality I’ve done none of it.”

  The whites of her eyes become overly large as her eyebrows rise in question. “Have you been doing anything? Checking your blood pressure at all?”

  Here lies the opportunity to continue my fabrication, to tell a half-truth, and get off, or at least partially. Knowing in the long run not completely owning up will get me nowhere. “No. I haven’t done any of it. I have checked my blood pressure a handful of times when I wasn’t feeling well but not the way I’m supposed to, and I haven’t done any of the at-home therapy.”

  I had hoped getting it out in the open would relieve some of the internal pressure; instead, the silence is suffocating. Her eyes never leave my face, the expression on hers never changes. The mixture of sadness, anger, and disappointment are unbearable.

  “Do you want to explain any of that?”

  “Piper, I could give you a laundry list of excuses, but that’s all they’d be. I promise myself day in and day out I’m going to seize the day, make today the day I conquer therapy, then there’s no motivation. I spend as much time writing down the shit I’m not doing as it would actually take to do the exercises and it’s still preferable to doing the actual work. I don’t have a legitimate reason. I just haven’t done it.”

  “I see.”

  She doesn’t see, though. She thinks this is about her, but it’s more about me than anything—my inadequacy not hers.

  “Piper…” Her name trails off my lips in apology, begging her to understand.

  “So, am I the only person who’s been living in your fairytale?” The tone of her voice screams insecurity and embarrassment.

  “No. I’ve lied to everyone including my doctors and therapists. You’re the only person I’ve come clean to.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” I don’t understand the question.

  “Why did you feel the need to burden me with this revelation? Have the last few months not been enough, you needed to hang this anchor around my neck too?”

  Reaching for her hand, she doesn’t offer it to me, leaving mine open on the table. “I owe you the truth. Not because it’s your burden to carry but because I never want there to be anything between us. I came to you first because you’re my wife, but also because if you forgive me, no one else matters.”

  “So, if I forgive you then what, you’re off the hook with everyone else?”

  “No, not at all. Regardless of the outcome here I have to tell my family and our friends. I’m just hoping I can do it with you by my side, helping to guide me. I’ve lost my direction, Pipes. I’ve just wanted to close my eyes and wish it away. My compass isn’t working, and I need you to steer me the right way.”

  Her head bobs in affirmation but she’s lost in thought, she’s not acquiescing to my needs. The fog clouding her eyes says more about what I’ve done to her than words could. Every day, another piece of her dies because of the stress she’s under and my inability to be her partner.

  Uncertain of where to go, or what to do or say, I sit in silence waiting for her response, her next move. I should be miserable, and I am. This isn’t a comfortable silence between lovers, this is like watching the art of war being planned knowing you don’t have the resources to retaliate. Not that I deserve to.

  The minutes on the clock tick by, the sounds of the house seem to roar as the sun goes down, and we continue sitting at the table. The food has long since gone cold, but Piper hasn’t so much as twitched a finger. I have to really watch to make sure she’s even blinking.

  As much as I want to give her the time she needs to process, my bladder is like that of a toddler, and it takes me longer than normal to get to the restroom using the cane.

  “I have to go to the bathroom. I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.”

  My voice seems to draw her out of the haze. She blinks rapidly turning her head to me. “It’s fine. I’m going to lie down. I’ll get the dishes in the morning. Don’t forget to take Phoenix out before you go to bed.” She walks away after tucking her chair under the table. I watch her back until I can’t see her in the bedroom anymore. The slump in her shoulders, the pace of her steps, the way her feet shuffle on the floor—her defeat nearly breaks what little remains of me.

  Returning to the living room from the bathroom, I encounter more of the same, silence. I don’t want to turn on the television, and I don’t want to read. I’d love to see my friends but recognize it’s not a good idea to go hang out with my buddies or my brothers after dropping this bomb on my wife.

  I need a plan. Tomorrow when Piper has had a good night sleep and might be ready to talk, I need to have a mental strategy ready for what needs to happen next. Currently, it’s just virtual chaos in my mind.

  Lying on the down comforter in our room, staring at the ceiling above me, I wonder how we got so far away from where we once were. I’ve always considered myself a realist, not a pessimist or an optimist, but the reality of what remains in my glass is obvious.

  We’re at a pivotal point in our marriage, the precipice of change or demise. Overwhelmingly, I want to give up. Our situation is bleak, dismal. The issues compounded by our unintentional isolation, Moby’s due to a sheer lack of transportation, and mine merely the circumstances surrounding my life. Life has stopped being about living and morphed into surviving. The days seem longer and less fulfilling. I get no joy in coming home or seeing my husband. In actuality, I can’t find happ
iness anywhere anymore. My job is a means to an end I used to love. My husband a burden at times I wish to unload. I miss my friends. I miss the time before any of us were in relationships when it was just the Fish.

  As tears fill my eyes, what I’m actually crying over confuses me, hell maybe I’m mourning. Maybe this is what being an adult is all about and I just missed the memo. All I know is, the moment I slow down, an unbearable weight crushes my soul and what remains of my spirit. I want to talk but have nothing to say, I want to feel, but the pain is too great. The only place I find any relief is in the obscurity of the night, trapped in the darkness right before my eyes surrender to sleep, and my brain turns off the incessant racket. Unfortunately, that peace is fleeting, and my sleep is filled with nightmares.

  Every once in a while, I dream of Moby finding me, lost; he’s healed, whole. With him comes the brightest light I’ve ever seen—the type I imagine angels would bring—illuminating the world around me, bringing color to what was previously black and white. He’s my true north, the star I can follow to safety, but no matter how far I travel, he stays just out of reach. My heart cries out to his, hearing only the response, “Follow me.” I always wake in a frantic search for my husband, only to find him sleeping next to me, the same Moby I left when I drifted off the night before.

  Waking in the morning, I realize he hasn’t slept next to me. Tearing the covers back, I whip open the bedroom door to see him asleep sitting up on the chaise lounge. My heart descends from my throat back to its rightful place in my chest. I realize in this very moment, I’m not ready to give up on him. The thought of something being wrong sent me into a tailspin. There’s still something worth fighting for even if I don’t have an inkling what the hell it is.

  I plop down on the couch next to him, startling him, disoriented he glances around, trying to get his bearings. When the sleep clears from his eyes, he sends a rather pitiful grin in my direction.

  “I’m calling in to work today.”

  Scrambling to sit up, he questions, “Why?”