Chapter 4
FOUR
TORI
Past
I just lied to my best friend. Again.
And the worst part? It didn’t even make me flinch. Lying about my life has become so habitual I barely notice the sting anymore.
I turn off my phone screen and drop it into my handbag before reaching over to stroke the top of Chase’s hand on the gear shifter. He tolerates it for two seconds before pulling his hand away and swapping his grip on the steering wheel.
The cold distance between us grows in the tiny space of the car, but I swallow it down like I always do.
“You ok?” I ask, knowing he’s not, but also trying to reach out and connect with him.
My attempt at helping him not to feel so alone backfires, as usual, and he ignores me. His jaw tightens, the tendon flickering as he stares out at the road like it might give him the answers he’s looking for.
“Who were you texting?” Chase asks, changing the subject so he doesn’t have to acknowledge his own stress and worry.
“Skye. Tickets go on sale today for the tour, and we’re hoping for floor seats. She’s coming to Denver so hopefully we’ll get that show, otherwise who knows where we’ll have to fly to see her.”
“That’s stupid.”
“What is?” I ask, my voice already laced with exhaustion because I know exactly where this is going.
“That you’d fly somewhere for a fucking concert. She’s an old teeny bopper. Not worth the trip.” His condescension is nothing new, but I know from experience that fighting back won’t help.
Never mind that he was willing to drop two thousand dollars on one bowl game ticket that required him to fly to California. I thought that was a waste of money, but it wasn’t to him.
How someone can be so lacking in self-awareness is beyond me.
Not responding works its magic, and Chase goes back to driving in silence to our doctor appointment. The quiet feels oppressive, filling the car with a suffocating weight that makes it hard to breathe.
When I went in to figure out why my body refuses to get pregnant, the tests found a perfectly functioning uterus, free of endometriosis, PCOS, and all the other reasons why a woman’s body would revolt against conception.
The doctor even made a comment about the perfect thickness of my uterine lining.
“Your womb is a Rolls Royce, Mrs. Martin.”
As if a luxury uterus matters when the passenger can’t drive.
I didn’t tell Chase about the praise my womb received because I didn’t want to see his eyeroll or hear his backhanded comments.
Don’t take up too much space. Don’t outshine. Don’t rejoice in your clean bill of health. Keep the peace.
It was another eight months of negative pregnancy tests and biting my tongue against his continued passive-aggressive—and sometimes not-so-passive—behavior concerning our lack of conception before I finally built up enough courage to ask him to get testing of his own.
He wasn’t thrilled, but he also couldn’t argue that I’d exhausted all my options for figuring out why my body wasn’t doing its job, so, he reluctantly agreed.
I had to make the appointment. I had to remind him about it. I had to take the lead like I always do when it comes to any non-preferred task. But he went. He had the tests run. Came in a cup and also had bloodwork done.
And now we’re on our way to discuss the results with the doctor.
I don’t know why I didn’t tell Skye the truth about where I’m headed—probably because I didn’t want to get my hopes up that everything will be alright.
If I go into this prepared for the worst, then I can’t be decimated when the floor falls out from under us.
I know that’s an incredibly negative way to view things and is probably some sort of trauma response, but when your life is spent walking on eggshells you learn how to suppress the tiny morsel of hope locked in the deepest part of yourself and only let it out when you’re certain it’s safe to do so.
My current situation—riding in a car with Chase, a man incapable of processing his emotions, who will grow even more stressed, angry, and passive-aggressive at my attempts to provide a glass-half-full outlook—is not a safe time or place for my light.
Once we’ve arrived and parked—not close enough for Chase’s liking, I might add—we exit the vehicle and make our way to the door.
The air is cool and heavy, like it’s holding all the things left unsaid between us.
I try reaching out for Chase’s hand, needing some comfort for myself and hopefully offering some to him, but he deflects my attempt and slides his hand into his pocket instead.
I understand he needs space, but he also needs a friend right now.
Please, complain again about how you always feel so alone?
I know how it feels to wonder what is wrong, why the one thing we want more than anything in this world is not happening.
I know the weight and fear of having tests run to figure out why things are broken.
I am well acquainted with the anxiety and darkness that so easily consumes the soul while waiting for a diagnosis.
I’m here for him. I want to be his partner and his support in this, but he continues to withdraw.
He arrives at the door a few steps ahead of me and opens it, opting to walk through it himself instead of holding it open for me. It’s so easy to excuse these little jabs as unintentional or stress-related, rather than the indifference and selfishness I know make up his character.
I have enough nuggets of happiness to cling to that I don’t succumb to the pain I feel at every instance of neglect, indifference, resentment—whatever.
Lately, though, I wonder how much longer those glimpses of light will sustain me.
God never promised marriage would be easy. If anything, the Bible teaches us that the Christian life is full of suffering. Suffering leads to holiness. Christ is close to the brokenhearted.
At what point do Jesus and I become conjoined twins?
Seriously, though.
Stop it, Tori. So many other people are in worse situations.
Unfixable situations. You’re not being abused.
You’re not being controlled or manipulated.
Your husband is stressed out, and right now he’s in a fragile state.
Love keeps no record of wrongs. Love forgives.
Love hopes. Love never fails. Chase is not responsible for your happiness.
But Chase is responsible for how he treats people.
How he hurts people. How he hurts me mentally and emotionally.
How he only knows I exist when he’s pissed about something I’ve done or haven’t done—or on Christmas, when he gives me an incredibly thoughtful gift that makes me feel seen for all of ten minutes.
Glimpses of happiness.
Nuggets of hope.
Specks of love.
I’m pulled from my inner monologue by the nurse calling us back.
“Mr. and Mrs. Martin, Dr. Ling will see you now.” We both stand and Chase gestures for me to go before him.
Remembered your manners now, huh? Now that people are watching.
I shake out of that thought and offer the nurse a smile and a nod as I pass her in the open door and enter the hallway to the doctor’s office.
The hallway is lined with generic art—landscapes that look like they were ripped straight from a discount catalog.
The sterile smell of antiseptic lingers in the air, reminding me of all the other times I’ve been in this building, hoping, praying, leaving empty-handed.
Chase walks a few steps behind me, his silence like a second shadow trailing me everywhere I go.
Dr. Ling is standing behind his desk when we enter his private office, his white coat freshly pressed, his kind eyes crinkling in an attempt to put us at ease. He extends a hand to each of us before offering us seats and bottled water.
I take the water gratefully, though my hands are trembling too much to twist the cap open. Chase declines, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he slumps into the chair next to me.
The good doctor takes his seat, intertwining his fingers on top of a closed file sitting on the desk in front of him.
His calm demeanor does little to settle my nerves.
The file feels like a loaded gun sitting between us, its contents ready to shoot down whatever thin thread of hope I’ve managed to hold onto.
“How are we feeling today, folks?” he asks.
His voice is warm and steady, like he’s trying to diffuse the tension with pleasantries. I appreciate the effort, but I can feel Chase bristling beside me. He’s always hated small talk.
“We’re alright, thank you for asking. A little nervous, but also hopeful,” I reply, offering the best smile I can manage.
The words feel foreign in my mouth, like they belong to someone far more optimistic than I am. Still, I feel the need to fill the silence, to smooth over the cracks in this moment, even if Chase’s growing impatience is palpable.
Dr. Ling nods, his reassuring smile never faltering. “Yes, certainly. Let’s go over these results, and then we can talk through options moving forward.”
Options? My heart leaps at the word.
We have options! This is wonderful! All hope is not lost! We will have a baby, a family.
Chase will be happy. We will be happy.
I sit up straighter, the hope infiltrating my spirit like a shot of adrenaline. A genuine smile spreads across my face as I glance at Chase, expecting to see the same glimmer of hope reflected in his eyes.
But he isn’t looking at me. He continues staring at the doctor, his expression stony, his posture rigid. It’s as if he’s bracing for the worst.
“What do you mean by options?” Chase asks, his voice clipped and laced with annoyance. I flinch at the tone but try to push forward, clinging to the sliver of positivity in the doctor’s words.
Dr. Ling opens the file and clears his throat, glancing between the two of us.