Chapter 47
“Thank you,”I say to my mom while waiting for Astrid to climb into the backseat. “We’ll get her in the morning. Goodnight, sweetie.” I kiss Astrid’s head.
My mom glances back at me, concern lining every inch of her face.
“Hope you and Mommy enjoy the movie,” Astrid says with an innocent smile.
“We will.” I shut the door, chalking this up to one more lie I’ve been forced to tell so that the people I love don’t suffer as much.
But my wife is not ten. She’s not my child. She is my partner. And I can no longer protect her from the truth. This is our sickness and health. This is where we decide what those vows mean. And I hate how angry I feel returning to our condo.
After I lock the door, I find her in the kitchen with a glass of white wine in one hand and her other resting on the edge of the counter. “I don’t know how to do this.”
I grunt, glancing up at the intricate details of the custom-molded ceiling. “Do this. What is this?” I meet her gaze. “Marriage? Cancer? A difference of opinions? Solving a problem? Pivoting when life puts up a really fucking huge roadblock?”
She sips her wine, hand a little shaky, emotions raw in her eyes.
This, whatever it is, will hurt. I can’t avoid it any longer.
“I don’t know how to let you go,” she whispers with the first few tears.
“You don’t know how to hold on to me. I feel like all you’re doing is letting me go. Escorting me to my grave.” I hate my words, but I can’t hide them any longer.
“That is not fair.” Her reply cuts through the air, making a chilling transformation in the mood. “How can you say that?” She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand.
“Because I work forty hours a week, and we don’t need the money. And I know I could quit and stay home, but I don’t want to be here either. I can’t focus here. I can’t journal or meditate because I spend all day thinking about this life that’s killing me. It’s cold as fuck outside, and I haven’t seen the sun in weeks. You have Astrid, a ten-year-old, in every goddamn activity she can possibly be in, which means we are constantly on the go. And people who are on the go rarely eat at home or eat anything that’s good for them. So, I’m back to putting shit in my diseased body. Tonight was the first time since Thanksgiving that we’ve eaten at home. I don’t have grass to walk on. I’ve given up on juicing because … what’s the point if everything else is in chaos? I get six hours of restless sleep, and that’s on a good night. So, you tell me … if your refusal to pack up and move to ‘the middle of nowhere’ is not escorting me to my grave, then what are you doing?”
Wiping more tears, she mumbles, “It’s all about you.”
Pressing my hands to the side of my head, my fingers dig into my scalp. “Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry I’m the one who has cancer. It should have been you. Then, you could have gotten all of the special attention. I love this. I love the pain. I love that not dying takes literally everything I have. You should be jealous. Cancer is ah-fucking-mazing!”
She sobs, shaking her head. “You’re an asshole. A c-cruel asshole.”
I nod. “Yep. I sure am. That’s a good start to my eulogy. Should we write that down, or?—”
“STOP IT!” She hurls the wine glass at me but misses by a mile. “You want me to hate you? Is that it?”
“Hate me?” I laugh, shaking my head. “No. I’m waiting for you to love me. To. Fucking. Love. Me! You hit me with your car and tried to perform CPR while I was breathing, staring you straight in the eye. You instinctually tried to save me when I wasn’t dying. And I swear that’s when I fel—” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I try to keep my composure, but this hurts.
My nose burns first, then my eyes. And my throat thickens. I can’t stop it. “That’s when I fell in love with you.” I swallow hard, dropping my hand, voice shaky. “And now, eleven years and one child later, when I know I love you to the depths of my soul, and I need … I fucking need you to save my life, you won’t even look at me.”
She drags her gaze from the floor to meet mine, making no attempt to keep up with her tears. And as much as I want to look away and not blink to keep my tears in check, I don’t. I bleed every emotion. I lay it all at her feet because this is the only moment we have. There is no guarantee of another one. And if I continue to protect her from my truth, we are already over. I’m already dead.
“Astrid—”
“No, Amelia. This isn’t about Astrid.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because she’s ten. And she’s resilient. When she’s old enough to process this properly, she’ll be brokenhearted that she’s had to grow up without her father. And it won’t matter how many friends she has, how accomplished a dancer she becomes, or what worldly possessions she’s accumulated. Nothing will make this right.
“Or … she will experience a new way of living that truly values life. And maybe, by some miracle, we’ll look back together on this moment and laugh at how ridiculous it was that we gave the decision a second thought. So this has nothing to do with Astrid and everything to do with you and your fear of change. Your fear of losing control. Your fear of losing me. But if I stay, this is the beginning of the end because I’m not going to let them cut me open or dump toxic chemicals into my body so that you can feel good about the choice a doctor thinks I should make. I can either live with you or die for you. It’s your decision.”
She returns a blank stare. No more tears. Barely any detectable emotion. “Price, everything you do is for us. You’re the sacrificial one. The martyr. And I’m being truthful when I say that. I’ve never taken for granted how hard you’ve worked for our family. But in that process, I’ve been raising our daughter. I’m the one who comforts her when she’s sick. I’m the one who listens to her when she’s had a bad day at school. When you left, I was the one left to explain your absence without breaking her heart. I’m the one who’s done everything possible to keep her from feeling this pain that’s been residing in our house for over a year. And if you die, I’ll be the one to pick up the tiny pieces of her heart and put them back together. So you say this isn’t about Astrid, but that’s just convenient for you. If you die on my watch, Astrid will blame me. If you die on your doctor’s watch, she’ll chalk it up to life. But at least she’ll always believe we did our best to fight it.”
I rub my eyes and then my temples. “You have me dying in both scenarios.” I turn. “There’s nothing left to say.”