43. Forty-Three #2
Dot pulls her attention away from me, and a whispered discussion ensues between them. I refocus on the music to keep tears from falling. The music soon ends, and generous applause shakes the small sanctuary despite being a funeral. Mrs. Moore would approve, I think.
Reverend Jenkins clears his throat, giving Dot her cue to come to the podium for her eulogy.
But nothing happens.
Lena’s gentle coaxing doesn’t get Dot to her feet. At first, I think it’s nerves about seeing her dismissive, intolerant parents. But, leaning over, I read her lips as she says, “This is the last thing I’ll do for her, Lena. The last thing.”
Identify the problem. Solve the problem. Simple.
I stand and approach the podium.
The room quiets. Dot and the rest stare up at me with gaping apprehension. Dot mouths to Lena, “What’s he doing?”
The truth is, I don’t know. But when Lena smiles reassuringly and says, “Giving you time, Dot,” purpose and duty drive me onward.
I clear my throat. “I’m not much of a public speaker… or even a private one.”
Laughs.
“But for Mrs. Moore—a mom to Lena for the last five years, to her niece Dot much longer, and a surrogate grandmother to Ruthie—it’s not difficult finding words, even for me.”
Laughs.
“Mrs. Moore was a mean card player. That’s how I best knew her.
I looked forward to our canasta nights and planned my gameplay against her with military precision, knowing she was a keen strategist. She would disarm me with her dainty smile and incredible crab dip before going in for the kill, winning most of the time. ”
Laughs.
“One night, a terrible migraine threatened to end our game early—I get them often. Standing in Mrs. Moore’s kitchen, she said, ‘Most troubles, we can’t change, but we can count it all joy, Ben.
’ I disagreed at the time but said nothing.
It felt impossible to find joy in a migraine.
Sometimes, pain takes over, graying what’s usually so vivid and clear and making it hard to feel anything else.
Now, I understand what she meant—finding joy within the troubles…
It’s holding on to what you love through the pain instead of giving in to it. That’s what life is—an ode to joy.”
My eyes fall to the podium. I take a deep breath, centering myself. Returning to the crowd, I find Lena, her encouraging smile beckoning me on, as it has a thousand times. Only this time, my words come easily.
“We just heard “Ode to Joy” from Beethoven’s ninth symphony. He was almost completely deaf when he composed it, and it’s said to be his greatest masterpiece. When he conducted it in Vienna, he couldn’t hear the applause.”
My throat tightens. A beat passes.
“I’m nearly deaf—a circumstance that has troubled me and caused uncertainty and hardship for those I love most. I have not handled myself well, something I will forever regret and strive to rectify.
I am surrounded by a community, neighbors, friends and family, like Mrs. Moore, who have loved and supported me without hesitation while I’ve failed to count it all joy. ”
“Lena,” my voice hitches when I meet her eyes. “I love you, and I’m sorry. You and Ruthie are my joy.”
She dabs her eyes with a handkerchief while Dot, no longer a nervous wreck, wraps an arm around her in consolation.
I take a breath, refocusing on the crowd.
“Mrs. Moore only added “Ode to Joy” to the program the week before she passed. Ever the strategist, she understood that it was what we needed to hear today. What I needed to hear. The song is her message to us—to celebrate her, each other, and count it all joy. The night before she left us, she told Lena that loving was losing, eventually. That makes us all joyful losers today.”
Laughs.
“This isn’t the last thing we will do for her,” I say, looking at Dot. “She’s engaged us in a mission to live fully, love completely, and seek joy in everything.”
Mild applause ensues. Mixed in, I hear Alice Harvey coo, “Oh, Ben,” while Jack bursts with an, “Amen.” Mr. Wickers calls out, “Well said, son.”
Dot gives me a smirking thumbs up, and it’s clear that she’s ready. I nod and leave the podium as she takes her place.
“Wow, Ben. I’ve never heard you talk so much,” she says, earning more laughs.
“Don’t get used to it,” I return before sitting down to more chuckles.
Dot gives a heartfelt, humorous eulogy. She describes Mrs. Moore as her savior—the only person in her life at the time who loved her for who she was.
I relate, especially when Lena’s hand clasps mine and doesn’t let go.
Dot is her usual self—blunt and vulnerable in her honesty in a way I aspire to be. When her parents leave somewhere in the middle of her gushing about Mrs. Moore’s “unconditional acceptance,” she smiles with satisfaction.
During the reception, I watch Lena move through the crowd. She is beautiful. Stunning, really. Smiling with tears in her eyes. Kind and open to everyone. She keeps her eye on me, floating to my side more often than she should. She includes me in warm conversations as if nothing’s happened.
But I know it’s only temporary.
At the end of the reception, I wait by the glass doors, umbrella in hand, for Ruthie and Lena. Most people have left, and everything has been done. The women huddle in what’s become their usual, tight-knit circle, Ruthie between them.
“Ben, get your ass over here,” Dot orders loud enough for me and anyone in the vicinity to hear.
I close the distance, merging next to Lena unsurely.
“Thanks for what you did,” Dot says. “Who knew you were such a good public speaker?”
“I didn’t,” I admit, “but it was no trouble.”
“Dot asked to take Ruthie tonight for an epic sleepover,” Lena explains. “Is that okay with you?”
“Yes. Thanks for asking.”
“Give her a goodbye kiss then,” Lena says, “and then take me home?”
I say goodbye to Ruthie and extend my final condolences to Dot.
“Will we see you later?” Jaye asks Lena as we start to walk away.
“Um, I don’t know. I’m running on empty. I’ll text you after farm chores.”
It’s a quiet ride home. Lena leans against the side window, her tears mirroring the rain slipping down the glass. The after-funeral letdown—I know it well. She’s broken but not defeated. It reminds me of when I met her and fell in love. She’s so much stronger now, though.
She’s made me stronger, too.
Everything I need to say surges in me until the air inside the Jeep feels heavy, ready to burst. She’s the one person I want to talk to, yet I struggle. Words get stuck in my throat like a vehicular pile-up on the interstate—the way forward is blocked in tangled destruction.
Destruction I caused. How could I hurt her so terribly?
The rain picks up angrily and loudly, affecting my visibility. The Jeep splashes through the driveway despite going slowly. I park close to the barn.
“I’ll come around for you,” I say, but she’s already out the door. I catch her at the barn’s entrance, thankful that her high heels limit her speed. “Lena.”
“You should go,” she says, her voice weak and trembling. “I’m sure you have…”
“I don’t have anything.”
“Please.” Her shoulders bounce in a tired shrug. “I’m so heartbroken, Ben. I can’t keep pretending or putting on a brave face. Please. I can’t hold it together another second longer… even for you.”
Her pain and vulnerability feel like iced daggers penetrating me— I did this. To her.
“I lied to you,” I blurt urgently. “I didn’t sleep with Lauren.”
“What?” she scoffs. “Why should I believe—”
“I swear, I didn’t. I went to her house but never made it to her door.”
She shakes her head in renewed anguish. “Don’t do this. You’re not making sense. You destroyed me. Why would you lie?”
“You were right—I fire-bombed us to avoid what I was going through and stop hurting you over and over. I stupidly thought that one huge hurt would protect you from a lifetime of smaller ones—a damn explosion rather than a slow death. I don’t expect forgiveness or understanding.
Hell, I don’t understand it completely. I’ve had a dozen sessions with Dr. Reese just to get here today.
She thinks nearly leaving Adam behind triggered my PTSD and survivor’s guilt from that day in Afghanistan, and Lauren’s reappearance made it worse.
I tried handling it all alone because that’s what I’ve always done.
I get small, tightening all that shit into an impenetrable ball deep inside me.
It’s worked before. But not this time. It’s not just me anymore—and I don’t want it to be.
I need you to know that Lauren and I didn’t happen . ”
I’m out of breath, my confession so labored and agonizing but so intensely necessary that my heart rate skyrockets. She glares, eyes glassy with tears and mouth parted in anguish, just as hurt as the day I told her that awful lie.
“I’m sorry, Lena. So fucking sorry.” Mr. Wickers’s words skip into my thoughts. “I let go because I was too afraid to hold on. I love you, Ruthie, and Saddletree. I just got… fucking confused.
“But not anymore. I turned down the job, even commandeered my portrait. It didn’t belong there, and neither do I. If you give me another chance, I’ll never let go again.”
Her brow forms a wonky L as she takes in my words. Her hands slip behind her to hide her growing panic. “I’ve been in misery ,” she mutters weakly as if actively trying to extract herself from it but failing. “You hurt me. On purpose .”
“Yes,” I admit, hanging my head. “I’ll spend a lifetime making it up to you, whether you take me back or not.”
“Take you back? How am I supposed to trust you? What happens if you get small again and don’t come back?”
“That won’t happen. Lena, I promise,” I say, shaking my head as the words come out. “I know my promises don’t mean shit right now, but… you held my hand. That meant everything to me. It must mean there’s hope. All I can ask is that you try to believe me. I’m at your mercy. Now. And always.”
Her face seems rigid with hurt, and my desperation sinks into resignation.
“I don’t want you at my mercy. I want... I can’t… It’s too much,” she finally says, her breath quick. “I need time.”
I nod. It’s all I could ask for, given everything I’ve put her through, especially as she tries to regulate her panic. She puts her hand up, stopping me from helping. I back away, leaving only because she needs me to.
The rain hits me like a waterfall as I push through it. I slump in the driver’s seat. Her pain—the pain I’ve caused—reaches out, pulling me to her.
But she wants me to go.
And I should. She’s heard me out and knows the truth. Hopefully, she’ll join me for counseling this week and for as long as it takes for Dr. Reese to help us work through the damage I’ve caused. Leaving now doesn’t mean there isn’t hope for us.
I put the Jeep in drive, easing off the brake.
A shadow moves through the pouring rain. She stands at my headlights, arms outstretched as if she might physically prevent the Jeep’s forward motion.
She mouths the words, “Don’t go!”
I exit the Jeep and meet her there. Her sapphire eyes lock on mine. “I held your hand because… for better or worse, that’s what we said. This is just… worse . We made a promise. You promised me, Ben. We said for better and worse. I don’t care if it’s worse from now on, I still want you. Need you.”
Her voice gets lost in her sobs.
“Don’t go,” she repeats, yelling over the rain. She’s soaked and desperate, holding onto my arms like she can’t stand on her own. “This is the last time I’ll ask you. Are you ready to come home, Ben?”
I drop to my knees in the mud at her feet, like I tried to do the day I asked her to marry me. She wouldn’t permit it then, but she does now. Rain hides my tears as I fist her hands between us. For better or worse. Her words bulldoze every barrier I’ve thrown up, freeing me.
“Forgive me, Lena,” I beg, my desperation puddling at her feet. “Forgive me for being so fucking scared.”
I expect her to recoil at my weakness. I am exposed. Vulnerable.
But her smile is instantaneous. Soft and reassuring. “I’m scared, too, but let’s be scared together. What scares you?”
“ Everything. Everything is changing—I’m changing.
I’m scared you’ll lose that fucking adoring look on your face, like when I collared that perp—I can’t do that shit anymore, Lena.
I want you, need you , to be proud of me.
What if you can’t be? I’m fucking terrified that one day I’ll lose your love and adoration because I’m no longer the man you married.
My bullshit will chisel away at you, and I’ll feel worthless because I can’t be what you need.
I’m petrified that I won’t hear your voice one day.
Or Ruthie’s. Or know when you need me. That I’ll be a burden—”
“Never, Ben.” Her serene expression leaves me breathless. “Even what’s bad will be better with us together, remember? I forgive you, just come home.”
“I am home.”
I bury my face in her stomach, sobbing with relief and holding on to her midsection like a life preserver.
My shields dissolve into the dirt, joining my stupid pride and anger.
I’ve never felt more vulnerable or more alive.
Her delicate fingers trace my cheek and rake into my hair.
The rain baptizes us, renewing us, and she holds me there, understanding everything.
Fear is something I’ve always hidden—as a kid with reading problems, as a high schooler figuring myself out, as a soldier, as a husband and father, as someone nearing deafness.
I don’t have to hide anything from Lena. I’ve always known that, but now my oneness with her snakes through my body like blood. She’s here, no matter what I am.
“Enough already,” she cries and chuckles at once. “We’re soaked, and you’re ruining your suit.”
“I don’t care.” I stand at her request but refuse to release her. My large hands wrap around her like a gift I long to open.
“Promise me one more thing,” she says before I can kiss her.
“Anything.” I kiss her anyway, soft and quick.
“That you tell me what’s going on with you as we go .
No matter where I am or what I’m doing. Please don’t wait until it’s too much.
You always know when I’m anxious and never let me deal with it alone.
I need a learning curve with you—it’s hard to tell when something’s wrong. So, if you’re angry or depressed or—”
“Right now, I’m happy. No. Better than happy. Overjoyed,” I say, taking her bottom lip into mine. “I promise—no holding back.”
She grins and sighs softly. “No holding back.”
Then, I show her I mean it.