25. Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
BEN
K eeping my distance from Lena protects her. I can’t stand hurting her, and I can’t stand myself for being unable to stop it. So, I’ve gotten small lately.
Still, my heart skips to see her here.
I’m sick with myself that she expects my rejection.
Dot’s van idles at the curb across the street, probably awaiting an all-clear to leave.
My wife anticipates me not wanting her here, and I can’t blame her.
All I’ve done is reject her. She’s overcompensating for me, tiptoeing around me like something delicate that might break if she makes one wrong move.
Lena’s made every conceivable effort to spend time with me, but the harder she tries, the worse I feel.
The pressure mounts with every effort, keeping me from complying, and my guilt compounds with her disappointment when I refuse her.
She shifts on her feet, swaying her little dress and awkwardly fidgeting as she awaits my answer.
This is what I’ve reduced us to—instead of calming her, I cause her anxiety. Exactly what I never wanted. Our marriage has switched from me living in her periphery to her edging around mine. And I know that won’t change, especially after the inevitable news we’ll receive at today’s appointment.
This’ll get worse before it gets better. If it ever does.
I wonder how long it’ll be before she stops trying.
Last night replays in my head. It had been a long shift, longer than usual. Tedious nothingness was bookended by bullshit—belligerent shoplifters at the mall and a drunk who spewed all over my backseat on purpose. It took me over an hour to clean it up, and the cleansers instigated a migraine.
I wanted to wake her when I got home. I always wake her. Groggy Lena is soft, lovable, easy, and comforting.
But she would’ve known immediately something was wrong and jumped into Busy Lena to take care of me. I don’t want her taking care of me. Or asking questions I wouldn’t want to answer. I’ve hurt her enough already.
It was easier to let her sleep. I left her there for a cold, empty bed and put off her inevitable disappointment until this morning. She stirred on the couch when I made coffee, and the hurt and confusion on her face when she realized I let her sleep there made me feel like I’d betrayed her.
Her shoulders slump. “Um, if you don’t want—”
“Lena.” Over her shoulder, I wave to Dot, freeing her to go. Her thumbs up out the driver’s window stays as she pulls off the curb. “It’s good you’re here.”
Her full-bodied relief makes me smile, and not much does these days.
“Thanks for putting it on the family calendar,” she beams.
I slide my hand over hers and escort her to the building.
Janice, the audiologist who works with Dr. Lin, greets me by name and brightens at the sight of Lena. “Brought your A-game today, huh, Ben?”
“Yes. Lena, my wife,” I clarify.
“I remember. Good to see you, honey.”
She leads us through the small office into the exam room. It’s minimally decorated and dimly lit. Most importantly, it’s quiet. Lena sits in the corner while I perch in the exam chair. Dr. Lin rushes in—he always acts like he’s late, even when he isn’t.
“Ah, Mrs. Wright, glad you could join us today. It’s a big one. Let’s see what we’re working with, eh?”
Lena looks confused—the family calendar didn’t report the significance of the appointment, only that I had one. But as my omissions don’t surprise her, she says nothing.
Janice greets Lena with the same welcoming smile she gives her customers. “They’ve got some tests to do. How would you like to experience hearing from Ben’s point of view?”
She perks up. “Really? You can do that?”
Janice nods. “Come with me.”
Lena follows her to another room. Dr. Lin grabs his otoscope. I remove my hearing aids.
He examines my ears through the otoscope, periodically typing notes into his computer and making noises of interest. I don’t hear him like I once did, but I catch his reactions by watching and feel grateful that he’s not one for chitchat.
I go through the usual tests in the sound booth to determine if my hearing has worsened since my last appointment.
I already know the answer.
Once the tests are complete, Dr. Lin leaves me to examine the results. I’m putting my hearing aids back in when Lena slips inside, leaning against the closed door behind her. Her gaze holds mine, surprising me with her determined smile.
She crosses the room in two steps and crushes her lips to mine, making me laugh at her sweet aggression. I respond in kind, gripping her against me and letting my hands wander. My hard edges soften with her affection.
“What’s all this?” I ask, breathless and barely able to stop kissing her long enough to talk.
“I just got to know you better. It’s a good day.”
I used to say that to her all the time, but it’s been ages.
Janice probably gave her a simulation of hearing loss via headphones and a computer. Her reaction is a relief. Fondling my wife in a doctor’s office is much preferred to dealing with her sympathy or sadness.
I couldn’t handle that. Not today.
As my fingertips skate down her neck, hope replaces my earlier hesitation.
“It is a good day,” I repeat. “No matter what he’s about to tell us.”
She nods, biting my lower lip in a playful kiss. “No matter what.”
She’s like medicine finally hitting my system, easing the pain and pressure.
A light rap on the door ends our moment.
They enter, bringing a mood that makes everything feel quiet and discontented. I sit in the exam chair, and Lena takes my side, resting her hand comfortably on my shoulder.
Dr. Lin glances at the file he carries but then tosses it on the counter. “Ben, there’s no easy way—”
“Just say it,” I interject.
“Your hearing number is seventy-six.” He makes eye contact, saying the words slowly so nothing is lost on me. Then, he looks to Lena. “That’s significantly worse than our last check and only a few decibels from profound hearing loss. With the migraines and now the balance issues—”
Lena’s arm tightens against my shoulders—she doesn’t know about that. Another omission.
“Surgery is our next best option, and your tests indicate that you’re an excellent candidate.”
“Cochlear implants?” Lena says, her voice thankfully absent of emotion. “Can you explain what’s involved with that option?”
Dr. Lin breaks out his ear chart and details the procedure—ENTs love their charts. It’s a routine outpatient surgery with minimal risk.
“Once the internal implants heal,” Janice chimes in, “we’ll turn his devices on, and I’ll work with Ben to learn how to interpret the sounds.”
“What do you mean?” Lena asks.
“I’ll have to relearn how to hear,” I say. “It won’t be the same as normal hearing.”
“But it will be better than hearing aids in the long term,” Dr. Lin adds.
Lena’s arm tightens again. “How long will it take to get used to the implants?”
Janice and Dr. Lin share a look—they know this is a sticking point for me, even more than the idea of implanting magnets in my skull.
He says, “Six months to a year.”
“I see… What are his other options?”
Dr. Lin shrugs. “Status quo—continue with the hearing aids indefinitely and manage the migraines and balance issues with medication. The deterioration could level out, and your symptoms appear manageable.”
Lena shakes her head. “Ben deserves better than manageable . What else?”
Dr. Lin puts up his hands. “When his hearing aids fail to help, he could accept deafness. That should reduce the migraines and balance issues naturally. You’ve already acquired many skills—ASL, reading lips and facial cues. It might mean a career shift, but people do it all the time.”
Lena’s eyes land on mine, sizing me up.
But I’m a stone. None of this is news to me.
Outside in the sunlight again, Lena takes my hand as we stroll toward the Jeep. I expect a thousand questions, but she only has one.
“Want to go to lunch?”
I take her to a downtown restaurant, and we sit outside, facing the Riverwalk and overlooking the Cape Fear River.
She mentions our first date away from Saddletree—a night branded into my existence so deeply that it’s legend.
I knew long before then that I loved her.
But her unequivocal acceptance that night solidified it.
I close my eyes and still see her adoring expression when she took in my scars the first time. She loved me, no matter what. When I die, that’s the memory I want to go out on.
She made a promise that night. Whatever your reality, I’m with you, and I’ll try to make it better.
Today, her promise feels reaffirmed.
We spend our lunch discussing Ruthie and Saddletree.
Lena gushes excitedly as she outlines the changes she’s implemented.
I love seeing her like this. It reminds me of Saddletree’s early days, when she operated on hope and creativity and loved lassoing me into her decisions.
She ran everything by me then, not because she needed to—she wanted to. We were partners.
We aren’t anymore, not like then. But it’s my fault.
Her dream is too big for one person. She’s been in a rut caused by stress and overwhelm.
I’ve failed to offer the support and encouragement I used to.
Throwing tasks at her isn’t the same as helping.
I haven’t given her enough credit. She’s a good boss, capable of change, not a frazzled woman running a dog park.
This Lena—my Lena—wouldn’t be a difficult employer.
“Oh, and I’ve decided on a new car,” she says, nibbling on a fry.
“Yes?”
“I don’t want a new car,” she returns. “I’m a farm girl. I want a truck. A Chevy Colorado, I think. Something big and rugged. What do you think?”
I smirk, imagining it. “Yes, that would suit you. Plus, the safety features—”
“Ugh, Ben. Don’t ruin it. Tell me it’s badass.”
I comply, chuckling. “Want to go for a test drive before we pick up Ruthie?”
She gasps. “Yes!”