Chapter 6
Wendell
“Welcome home.” I open the door to my apartment, inviting her in. Delivery packages are piled up on the table in greeting.
“Whoa, do you have a shopping addiction?” She asks me adorably over her shoulder.
“Those are for you. We didn’t have a chance to grab your stuff, so I bought you some essentials.”
“Some?”
In answer, I give her a small shrug. “If you don’t want something, I can return it. No biggie.”
“You didn’t have to do this, you know?”
“Yup. Wanna watch something and order in some food?” I’m not sure what to make of our pre-wedding conversation, so I plan to move at her pace.
When she agrees to my suggestion, we place an order and sink into the couch before I let her pick the movie. The Korean food tastes delicious. Might just be a new favorite place.
But then the worst happens.
On screen I watch a bus about to crash, and over the surround sound speakers a loud screech followed by a long drawn out horn fills the room.
My body tenses and even though I know I’m not about to have a full blown panic attack, I’m braced for the gory images to flash through my mind.
I lean forward and put my head into my hands, praying I don’t get a migraine.
“Wendell?” Peyton is beside me, hand on my back. “Are you okay?” She’s turned off the TV, so we’re sitting in darkness.
“Ya. I’m good,” I mumble. “Just need a second.”
A long beat passes before she nudges me gently. “You can tell your wife anything, you know?”
And maybe that word just shifts something inside of me. Maybe it’s the darkness lending some anonymity to the moment. Maybe it’s just years in the making. But when I open my mouth, I finally tell her the truth.
“I was in an accident.” I turn my head to meet her gaze, and then, in sync, we lean back to rest on the back cushion of the couch. “I was thirteen. My hockey team was coming back from an out of city tournament, and the bus crashed.”
I hear her suppressing a gasp, knowing what comes next.
“Everyone was gone. In a second. I was the only one who made it. Hardly a scratch on me.”
Her falling tears feel like they’re expressing my pain for me until I feel her thumbs brush away the tears on my own cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Wendell,” she whispers.
And I just close my eyes, letting her absorb what I’m saying. Maybe hoping that she can absorb some of this pain, too. As selfish as that sounds, I’m exhausted from carrying this burden.
“I’m so sorry, Wendell.” Her arms are around me, hugging me.
And that’s enough. Just her presence. I don’t need her to say anything because she’s said it before, without knowing I was the lone survivor of a tragic event.
She’s told me that she’s glad I’m here and that I make the world a better place.
And the fact that she said all of that to me before knowing about this event makes all the difference.
“Sorry for that,” I say into her hair.
“Don’t be sorry, Wendell. I’m just glad that you told me.” She pulls back, leaving a small space between us.
“I know what it feels like to have something happen to you that renders you helpless.” She tucks some hair behind her ear. “Completely powerless to do anything except react and move on. Somehow.” Her head down, fingers fidgeting with the seam of her pocket, her voice sounds too quiet.
And that’s when it clicks inside of my head.
“What happened with this guy and the money you owe? It’s not your fault, is it?”
She shakes her head. “Mike made some bad business decisions and felt like he had to borrow money to make it right. But it didn’t work out as he planned. And then…he was just gone.”
“So it’s not your debt to pay, is it?”
“It’s not your debt to pay either.” She’s looking at me with brokenness, not just for herself, but for me.
I don’t fully grasp the emotion behind her eyes, but I need to reassure her that I don’t care that she’s not the one who made this mess. “No, it’s not. But I’ll pay it.” I’d do anything for her.
“No.” She shakes her head again, softly, her eyes pleading. “I mean being alive. Being the lone survivor. That’s not your debt to pay.”
A long creak sounds in the vicinity of my heart. Like a rusty gate opening up. Like metal on metal.