by Penny Reid
Greg paused, apparently considering my question, then responded on a sigh, “I don’t know. But I do feel certain our dear Dr. Evans will do more good with the funds than Boko Haram, the present government, or the CIA.”
I couldn’t help but agree with his statement. I decided, in a pinch, giving a hundred million ill-begotten dollars to Doctors Without Borders was a good plan.
“Also,” he continued, “she emailed me a picture of her sitting on a throne of hundred-dollar bills.”
I laughed lightly, tilting my head back so I could see him. “Jealous?”
“Yes.” He kissed my forehead. “I’ve always wanted a throne of money.”
“I know.”
“And yet you never get it for me for Christmas, though it’s on my list every year.”
“I’m a constant source of disappointment,” I added sarcastically, yawning.
“Tell me about it. All I ask is for a throne of money, constant praise, and naked pictures.”
“How you’ve managed to survive all these years is miraculous.”
“I know.” He squeezed me again, adding on a sigh, “I’m basically a saint. Saint Greg, the Manly.”
I grinned against his chest, feeling warm and loved. Bantering with Greg was foreplay for my brain. My head already felt better.
***
“Are you really a lawyer?”
“Sure.” Marie shrugged, settling into her seat on the private jet Quinn decided to charter. I tried to talk him out of the expense, to no avail. Now that we were all heading home, I recognized how much I’d asked of my friends and had no idea how I would be able to repay them.
Dan and I had rescued Greg less than twelve hours ago, and it was now midmorning the day after. Quinn had said, and we’d all agreed, the sooner we left the better.
“Sure? What does that mean? Sure?” Dan grinned at Marie, like he found her fascinating and funny.
“It means, sometimes I’m a lawyer.”
“You went to law school?” Greg asked as he claimed the seat next to mine. The jet was relatively small, with seats and leather benches lining each side, facing each other.
“No. But I did pass the bar in California and Vermont.”
“You passed the bar without going to law school?” Quinn asked from his spot at the back of the plane. I knew he must’ve been anxious about Janie. He’d spread out papers, his laptop, and two additional monitors around him. Obviously he was going to use the flight home to get some work done and distract himself from worrying about his newly-pregnant wife.
“That’s the beauty of being a lawyer. Anyone can be a lawyer. You can just wake up one day and decide you want to do it. It’s not like being a ballerina, or a spy, or a petroleum engineer, where you have to train or hone a skill, practice. The law is a set of rules. If you can read, memorize, and think critically, then you’re basically ninety percent there. The other ten percent is pretending you know what you’re talking about, and having a deep abiding love for paperwork and bureaucracy.”
“You mean bullshitting,” Greg supplied.
“Exactly. Bullshitters make excellent lawyers. In fact, they make the best lawyers.”
“So, what you’re saying is, Greg would make the world’s greatest lawyer?” Dan kept his tone and expression serious.
“Dan, I didn’t know you cared. I’m touched.” Greg bit his bottom lip in mock sentimentality, causing Dan to snort.
“The only place you’re touched is in the head.”
This earned Dan a round of chuckles, including a quick smile and head shake from Greg. “I should have seen that coming.”
It felt remarkably good to laugh. But also surreal.
I zoned out during the takeoff, opting to rest my head against the crook of Greg’s shoulder, his arm around me holding me close. I was still tired, but it was more than that. My brain was a cascading fog of dichotomous emotions, all of which were extreme.
I was still angry with Greg.
I was also tremendously grateful we were in one piece, together, and going home.
I was also anxious about the future, Greg leaving again, coping with the loss of him.
Unable to decide which was the priority, I instead opted to dwell in feelings limbo.
“What are we going to do about Jack?”
I blinked away from the window I’d been staring out, realizing we’d taken off some time ago, and brought Greg into focus. “Jack?”
“Yes. What are we going to do about Jack and his mysterious case of musical prodigy-ism?” He gave me his charming crooked smile, his expression open and solicitous.
I felt like I was staring at him through a concealing screen. I couldn’t see him or his charming half-smile, the one I’d loved and cherished, because—and quite abruptly—I was looking at him through a lens of anger and distrust.
Instead of thawing, I sighed tiredly, preparing myself for a mandate, one I would ignore just as soon as Greg left for his next godforsaken assignment.
“Fine. Tell me. What do you want to do about Jack?” I asked.
Greg’s lips flattened, then curved downward into a frown, his eyes flickering over my expression as his eyebrows pulled low on his forehead. After a long moment of unhappily studying me, he leaned forward and whispered, “Am I really that bad, Fe?”
I stared at him blankly and didn’t answer.
Since leaving the consulate, every so often I would feel overcome with the urge to scream at him, accuse him of breaking my heart, wonder once again if I would be able to move past his abandonment of me, tying me to a hospital bed in Enugu and placing himself in harm’s way, rejecting me and my help over and over.
Logically, I knew the situation was a good deal more complicated than the oversimplification insisted upon by my feelings. I knew he’d been terrified to lose me. I knew he’d felt responsible for lying about the assignment in Nigeria in the first place.
Logically, I knew this.
But I just couldn’t bring myself to care.
At least not yet.
I rejected the hurt behind his features. I was too lost in the labyrinth of my own trampled feelings to spare any energy for his.
So I stared at him blankly for another moment. And then I turned my attention back to the window, to the blue sky above dark clouds.
A storm raged below. Strobes of lightning flickered at intervals, angrily striking the earth. But from our place above the clouds, the storm was mostly hidden, and virtually soundless.
***
We didn’t speak to each other again during the remainder of the flight. It was long and our friends surrounded us. I don’t think either of us wanted to sort through our issues in front of an audience.
When we landed in Chicago, I was still numbly cruising on autopilot. One of Quinn’s cars drove us home.
Wordlessly, Greg carried our bags—really, just his bags since I’d brought nothing to Nigeria but a Kevlar bodysuit and weapons—into the apartment building while I walked ahead and called the elevator. We boarded the elevator in silence. We rode the elevator in silence. We departed the elevator in silence.
Suspension of conversation continued as he unlocked the apartment and opened the door for me to enter. I almost immediately tripped over a pile of Grace’s laundry, the pile Greg and the kids had dumped into the living room nearly two weeks ago when he’d been home for a day, and I’d been so careful about keeping the apartment clean.
How long ago that felt.
Everything and nothing was different.
Except . . . I was out of sorts. I felt out of sorts. Something was wrong with me, really wrong. Physically wrong. I was not myself.
After a twenty-three-hour flight, I should have been tired, but I also should have been ready to move forward and plot a way through our latest marriage turbulence. I wasn’t a grudge-holder. As Buddha said, “Holding a grudge is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” I was not that person.
I knew this. I should have been ready talk, to
listen. But I wasn’t. I remained greedy of my feelings even though I knew my irrationality could not persist.
Greg walked by me, carrying his suitcase into our bedroom while I picked up my cell phone from where I’d left it charging on the entryway table.
I had missed calls from each of the knitting girls, and several text messages welcoming me home. As well, there were several missed calls from my oncologist. In fact, there were a lot of missed calls from my oncologist. Seven to be exact.
An unpleasant and dark sensation, like inhaling smoke, crept into my chest and made breathing somewhat difficult.
Before I left for Nigeria to save Greg I’d been in denial about so many things. Bottling my feelings in the hopes that everything would just eventually work out was paramount on the list of my mistakes. Ignoring the headaches and loss of appetite had been monumentally stupid.
I did remember what it was like to have a brain tumor. It sucked. But living in denial wasn’t rent-free. Eventually it required a balloon payment, usually in the form of misery and pain.
Stiffening my spine, I pressed play on the last voicemail left by my oncologist’s office and braced myself for whatever news they’d been frantic to share with me.
“Mrs. Archer, this is Liz from Dr. Daud’s office again. I realize I’ve left you an ungodly number of messages, but I cannot impress upon you enough how vitally important it is for you to call me back as soon as possible. Please do not attempt to schedule an MRI with the hospital or elsewhere until you speak to Dr. Daud or me. The office number is . . .”
My hand was shaking slightly as I removed the cell from my ear, though I smiled at my phone—a humorless, bitter smile. My stomach was dually in my throat and at my feet, but waiting would accomplish nothing.
I heard Greg’s light movements from our bedroom, sounds that were usually comforting, but presently were not. I was caught in a spiral of self-pity and intense aggravation, with a chant resembling: Your apartment is a disastrous mess, so is your marriage, and so is your mind.
Perversely, I decided to rip off the band-aid rather than prolong the unknown.
I hit the return call option with my thumb and brought the phone to my ear. It rang three times. Someone picked up.
“Dr. Daud’s office, Alison speaking. How can I direct your call?”
“The nurse please, Liz Schaffer.” I was surprised by the sound of my voice, so cool and aloof.
“Just a moment.”
The line clicked, signaling my call was being transferred. So I waited. And waited.
And waited.
Eventually, the line was answered. “Liz Schaffer speaking.”
“Hi Liz, it’s Fiona Archer. I’m sorry I didn’t call back earlier, but we just got back in town and walked through the door. I’m just seeing your messages now.”
“Oh! Mrs. Archer. I am so glad you called. I was so worried you would try to reschedule the MRI without contacting us first.”
“No. I was just out of town. I haven’t rescheduled the MRI yet.”
“Thank goodness.”
I cleared my throat, trying to relieve some of the tightness, and turned away from where Greg hovered inside our room, plainly eavesdropping. “Does Dr. Daud need something else? Instead of an MRI?”
“Goodness, no. Your screening panels all came back great, that’s the good news. The bad news—although I’m not sure it’s necessarily bad news—is that your MRI will have to wait a few months.”
“A few months? Why?”
“Mrs. Archer, your HGB test came back positive.”
“What does that mean?” I whispered, bracing myself for the worst.
“It means you’re pregnant.”
“I . . .”
Time stopped.
Sound halted first, then all movement external to my person. Every atom stood still in the entire universe and I existed in a singular moment where nothing existed except my consciousness and the meaning of the words you’re pregnant.
I stared at the words.
They stared back.
Then they waved and smiled and shrugged—like, We’ll be keeping you company for a while, so you might as well invite us in so we can give you cankles, and cravings for beef jerky and pickles dipped in mustard.
I wanted to push those words off a cliff.
Nothing about her statement made sense. I couldn’t be pregnant. Greg had been fixed five years ago because I knew, after having Grace, that I would lose my mind if we had any more children.
“Fiona?”
I started, shaking myself at the close proximity of Greg’s voice. I glanced over my shoulder, finding him standing directly behind me. His dark eyes told me he was near panicked.
“Is that your oncologist?” he pressed.
I shook my head and held up my finger, trying to keep up with Liz’s gushing flow from the other end and re-entered her one-sided conversation mid-sentence. “. . . so happy for you both. I couldn’t wait to tell you. I still remember when you and Mr. Archer came in together for the first time, such a handsome couple, and so in love. You two are—”
“I’m sorry, Liz? Liz, could you back up for a minute. Did you just say—”
“Yes. You’re pregnant. Yay.”
In my mind’s eye I could almost see Liz do her happy little dance, her white nurse’s shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor behind the reception desk.
“I see,” I said, not seeing at all.
My gaze lifted to Greg for a quick moment. It was clear he hadn’t heard the news and was obviously trying his best to not snatch the phone out of my hand and demand Liz give him all the answers immediately. I wasn’t finished processing the baby reveal, but I knew I needed to put him out of his misery as soon as possible.
“So, the screening panel, the doctor is certain I’m still in remission? No sign of cancer?”
Greg visibly relaxed, stumbling back a step and releasing a giant exhale.
“Yes! Still in remission, though you’ll need an MRI as soon as the new baby arrives.”
“Of course,” I said numbly, but when the words came out of my mouth they sounded weird, like I was being sarcastic. I fought the sudden urge to laugh hysterically.
After a few more pleasantries, all of which I coasted through, we hung up.
Greg stepped forward, opening his mouth as though preparing to lecture me. But before he could, Grace burst through our front door and came running toward us. Greg’s smile was instantaneous as he gathered her in his embrace. Jack wasn’t far behind, his exuberance surprisingly unfettered.
“I missed you so much,” Jack said, throwing his arms around me and speaking against my neck.
I rejoiced in the warm strength of my sweet boy, his fierce hug. A tremendous wave of emotion—relief, guilt, gratefulness—swept up and around me, stinging my eyes and sending me off balance.
“I missed you, too.” I leaned back to study his face and my heart lodged in my throat. Greg and I were Jack and Grace’s world. Sending up a quiet prayer of thanks for bringing us home unharmed, I fought to conquer my urge to bawl against Jack’s shirt.
“Next time, can we do video calls?”
Unable to speak, I simply nodded and smiled, pulling him into another tight hug.
Elizabeth and Nico strolled in seconds later. Welcome homes and long embraces were handed out liberally. And through it all I forced a tired smile, falling back into my necessary and familiar pattern of dealing with inconvenient feelings at some later, undefined point.
But this time the decision chaffed, though I knew logically it was best for everyone. Grace and Jack didn’t need to see their parents fighting as soon as they walked in the door. They’d missed us. I could wait. My feelings could wait. The argument could wait . . .
And like so many important conversations, whatever Greg was about to say would also have to wait until our company left and the kids were asleep. When the time came, we would have to speak quietly so as not to wake them with our argument.
Marriage with
children is a study in delayed everything—delayed conversation, delayed resolutions, and delayed gratification.
And I wasn’t certain I could deal with the delays any longer.
CHAPTER 21
Dear Husband,
I know there is a part of you that wanted children, but has remained with me even knowing I can never give them to you. I also know you realize that I am lying when I say I never wanted them. You see the pain and yet you let me lie anyway…
-B.
Letter
USA
Married 11 years
~9 years ago~
*Greg*
We were in a Wal-Mart on the outskirts of Chicago, standing in the checkout line, and I was silently debating which was worse: waiting in a Wal-Mart checkout line, having my backside spanked with a tire iron, or giving myself a root canal.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Fiona started to cry.
My eyes cut to her. She was making every attempt to hide her tears. Her back to me, she stood as though she were a statue. Still, I heard the sniffles.
“Fe?”
She shook her head then lowered her chin to her chest.
I lifted an eyebrow at her shaking shoulders. My wife was not a crier. Yes, she cried. She wasn’t a robot. Had she been one of those birds who cried during fabric softener commercials, I might have offered a consoling pat on the back. But, as it was, her tears were so infrequent I wasn’t physically capable of shrugging them off.
Loading our seven items back into the shopping cart, I wrapped my arm around her, steering her and our unpurchased goods into the greeting card aisle. Thankfully, it was empty.
“Hey.” I turned and pressed her against my chest, alarm and worry making me squeeze her more tightly than usual. I had a sense she needed to be held together. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re crying. Crying is the opposite of fine. Tell me what’s wrong.”
She sniffled again. “I don’t want to tell you here.”
“Why not.”
“Because it’s important.”
I tucked my fingers under her chin and lifted her face to mine, stealing a kiss; true distress clawed at my chest, traveled like a spike down my spine. I didn’t want to guess, or entertain any possibilities. Inevitably, my mind always jumped to the worst possible conclusion whenever I saw her inexplicably sad (i.e. brain tumor).
