25 Berry
Berry
We’re almost back to the house when Leo asks me, “Do you think we should have a garage sale, like McKenna? We have a garage
at our house, so we could do it the way you’re supposed to. Would people want to buy our junk?”
Back when I was a kid, growing up on the other side of the Island, we used to have lots of yard sales. My family needed every
extra penny we could get. Years ago, after the boys outgrew all their baby gear and toys, I suggested doing a yard sale so
we could recoup a tiny percentage of the veritable fortune we’d spent on baby supplies over the years, but Phil said it wasn’t
necessary. Then he dropped a comment about it being trashy, lugging all your belongings onto your lawn for the whole neighborhood
to see. That was pretty much the end of my experience with secondhand sales.
“Do you have things you’d like to sell?” I ask Leo, wondering if this is just his general idolization of McKenna.
After seeing how she’s managing so much on her own, and how well she communicates with Leo, I don’t blame him for the hero worship.
I’m glad for him to have connected with another person he can look up to.
“Yes, I do,” he says after a moment. “If I sell my things and people pay me money, the money would be mine to use how I want,
right? The same as when the YMCA pays me?”
“Yes, of course.” I’m sure he’s thinking about his long wish list of aeronautical items.
“Can you have a yard sale if you only have four items to sell?” he asks.
“Depends, I guess. What would you want to sell?”
“The HS720.”
That was the first drone we bought him, right after he started high school. He’s long since upgraded to bigger, fancier products
thanks to the money he earns at the Y.
“And the prop guards and landing gear,” he continues. “And the LEGO NINJAGO set I forgot to give to Sebastian before he left.”
“Usually tag sales have more to choose from. If they have just a few items to sell, people often use the internet instead.
Like shopping online, but the reverse.”
“I don’t have anything else to sell at a garage sale yet. I don’t think we should have a garage sale. Online is a superior
choice.”
All the better, since I don’t have the bandwidth to take on a single additional obligation at the moment.
We climb out of the car and head inside. Despite my sister’s aggressive encouragement, I still haven’t gotten Phil alone yet
to demand answers from him.
When I walk into the kitchen, he’s sitting at the table with his laptop open.
“Leo was in quite a hurry to get upstairs,” he says with a question in his voice, waiting for me to tell him why.
I’m sure Leo’s gone off to figure out how to list items for sale online, but all I offer Phil is “Yup.”
At my clipped response, Phil shrugs and turns back to his computer screen.
Now is the time. I should just dive in.
But I’m afraid.
Once we really have this conversation, I won’t be able to unknow whatever I find out. After all my time pining for answers,
I’m no longer sure I want them.
Stalling as I try to find that nerve I had the other day with Yvonne, I pull out my phone and check my email.
Underneath some promotional junk and a message from Neil that I am not dealing with now, there’s a message from Karyn that
I swipe instead. She wants to know if Leo would like to join one of the indoor swim groups at the Y.
“Karen’s offering to let Leo swim at the Y, but do you think they’d let him student-teach?” I ask Phil, my habitual eagerness
for his opinion overriding my urge to pretend he’s invisible.
“No harm in asking,” he says, twisting in his chair to look back at me. “But you might want to make sure they’ll give him
actual responsibility, not just pay him lip service.”
After the way McKenna offered Leo so much control over their lessons, fake or superficial duties would just feel demeaning.
“You’re right. I’m going to write Karyn, see what she says.”
“Good call. I’ll be curious to hear how she responds.
” Phil nods at me, giving me a little extra encouragement, and I realize this is the most collaborative conversation he and I have had about Leo, about anything, in many weeks.
It hits me then how much I miss him. I don’t know this man he’s become recently, and I want my husband back.
I can’t put it off any longer. I need to know why he’s continued to pull further and further away from me, acting like only
the worst version of himself.
Walking closer to him, I search his face for clues. The shadows under his eyes are still dark, and his skin looks a little
papery. But mostly he just looks like himself. I feel so sad knowing that whatever has been going on, something has been lost
between us.
“Do you have cancer?” I blurt out.
He rears back like he’s been smacked.
“Cancer? What are you talking about?”
He looks genuinely surprised, and maybe I’ve really missed the mark. Either that, or he’s a much better actor than I realized.
“The way you’ve been behaving,” I say. “There’s more here than just ongoing grief. I’m sure of that much. It makes sense if
you’re sick, like battling cancer or something. I’ve been worrying about you.” My throat tightens with emotion. His head moves
up in the start of a slow nod, as though he’s processing my words and deciding how to respond. A flash of something defensive
crosses his face, but then his features soften again.
Looking up at me, he says, “You don’t need to worry about me. I promise. That’s not—” He stops abruptly, and now I’m desperate
to know what he’s decided not to say. If I push, he’ll clam up, so I wait.
“My health is fine,” he finally says.
“But your dark circles, the medicine you were hiding in your pocket . . . And you’re spending extra time with your father, maybe cherishing final normal moments with him?”
“No, hon, it’s not like that.” He reaches out for my hand, a pleading note in his voice.
I yank my arm away, too betrayed for his touch.
“Okay, so then what exactly is it like? Having an affair? Because that’s the only other explanation that makes sense.”
“For the love of God! Berry!” Phil pushes out of the chair and stands, maybe so he can get better range as he shouts back
at me, “There is no other woman!”
“Okay, go ahead and explain the perfume you reeked of yesterday morning. Enough of this bullshit, Phil. It’s time to come
clean. I’m not some idiot who can’t tell that you’re acting strange in a million different ways. Spit it out.”
“There could never be another woman,” he says, no longer yelling as he reaches for my hand again. “You have to know that.
Ever since I first saw you sitting in that booth at Friendly’s, I knew I couldn’t live without the woman with those ice-blue
eyes and the bold voice that carried halfway across the restaurant. I’ve spent my whole life trying to make sure I deserve
you. I’d never jeopardize this.” He motions back and forth between us. “Being with anyone else? I’d honestly never, ever want
to.”
But then his voice goes quiet again. “Berry,” he says, and in that one word, I know there’s something else. Whatever it is,
it’s difficult, something I’m not going to like. I grab the back of the chair beside me, bracing myself.
“The thing is,” he starts gently, “I don’t want to tell you.” I can hear the pain in his voice as he says it. “Can you please . . .
can you just trust me?”
That’s a good question. Can I “just trust him”? As I look into his dark eyes, I think of all the arguments we’ve had over these past months, how moody and withdrawn he’s been, and most of all, how he’s fought me on Leo’s care. And that’s when I realize he’s gotten the question all wrong.
“I think, Phil,” I answer him sadly, “it’s you who’s lost trust in me.”