CHAPTER 33
*PRESENT*
“Arrows to my heart”
Aaron
My wife had been thrashing around all night. She left before I woke up, only a dirty cup of coffee and her ruffled side of the bed, a signal that she woke up and left without a goodbye.
I checked the clock in our kitchen for the hundredth time. I cooked dinner, but it had been untouched and cold since I made it a couple of hours ago.
Something happened yesterday. I could see it on my wife’s face. Heavy on her shoulders, pain weighing her down.
I massaged my temples. After such a wonderful time in Málaga, I thought we were on the right path.
How many times have I told patients getting better isn’t linear?
I needed to remind myself that we were trying. She was trying.
The red bracelets decorating both my wrists were a clear signal that she worried for me, that she was scared.
My fearless, badass, smart wife was scared of losing me.
I could remind her over and over again that I wasn’t leaving her, but I couldn’t give her the reassurance that I wasn’t going to die.
I was going to die.
Hopefully, a far-away day, but it was a universal truth that we were going to die. And we needed to live with the knowledge that we didn’t know when or how.
She wasn’t accepting it. She wanted to fight against it, to be in control.
There was nothing I could do to make it better for her.
The main door opened and slammed shut.
My wife wandered through the kitchen, not paying me any attention, like I was a ghost in our own house. She was gulping water like she had been wandering in the desert for weeks.
“Maya,” I said.
Not even a slight change in her demeanor signaling she heard me.
I called her again, a bit louder.
Nothing.
I got closer, making noise on my way to her to not scare her. My hands grazed her shoulders. She jumped back.
Violet circles were under her beautiful, bloodshot hazel eyes. Not a sparkle in sight. Her tan skin after our trip was now a sickly pale. A fleeting movement, just a tiny gesture, but it was there.
She didn’t recognize me.
Just for a second, but she didn’t remember me.
Her husband.
Her academic rival.
Her childhood friend.
Something was terribly wrong.
She blinked fast, like all our memories were coming back.
“Maya,”
I said softly, like she was a scared animal that I wanted to get out of her dark, cold hideout to the warm comfort of my arms. She kept looking at me, eyes still not focused, lips wet from drinking water. “My love,”
I tried again, “come back.”
She furrowed her eyebrows. My arms surrounded her, wanting to anchor to the present, to us.
She jumped from my arms, hitting her back on the kitchen counter.
“Are you okay?”
I asked, coming closer. She pushed herself as far away from me as she could, pressing herself against the marble, hurting her skin to get away from me.
Hurt painted my face. I wanted to comfort her, to mitigate her pain.
Our eyes were in a contest. I wasn’t going to stop looking at her. I didn’t even want to blink in case that I missed a clue, something that could make me understand what had happened.
She ran, passing next to me, to the door, her quick steps up the stairs echoing in the house.
I followed her, my steps more gentle, less hurried.
Our bedroom’s light was the only one on in this part of our home.
Her frantic figure moved in our room, a big suitcase in the middle. She was grabbing stuff from her closet and throwing it inside, each item an arrow to my heart.
I wanted to grab her, put her on my shoulder, and lay her down in our bed, seize her up with the blankets, and take away all the pain.
I breathed deep.
I couldn’t mess this up.
I needed to keep my head cool.
I sat on the bed, not removing my eyes from her, seeing how she was picking her stuff up to leave.
I wanted to scream.
I didn’t open my mouth until I felt more in control of myself.
“What are you doing, Maya?”
She kept putting her clothes in the stupid suitcase. I rose and took advantage that she went back to the closet, to put myself between her and the pile of clothes.
She crashed into me, the stuff in her arms falling to the ground.
Good.
She lowered herself, hurriedly recollecting each garment.
I grabbed the same one as her. She was tugging, a frown in her face, her knuckles white.
Just when the shirt was about to break, I released it, making Maya lose control in her squat pose.
I grabbed her and pushed her into my chest.
Her hands were between us, her shoulders moving side to side, making a sound in the back of her throat, reminding me of a wounded animal.
“Get off of me!”
were her first words. “Get off,”
she chanted. “I need to leave,”
she said in a raspy voice. “You’re hurting me!”
This was torture.
Worse.
Death by a thousand cuts.
“Where am I hurting you?”
My voice was failing, showing that my heart was bleeding.
“Burning,”
she said, moving her body as far away from mine as I let her, “everywhere.”
Her head moved side to side.
“I’m being burned,”
she said. “Please, make it stop!”
she screamed close to my ear. My ears were ringing.
My hands let her go softly. She let herself fall, a thump echoing. Her eyes closed, her breath uneven, her arms hugging herself.
“What do you need, Maya?”
I said softly.
“I need to leave,”
she said, replying to me for the first time. Her voice was hoarse. I nodded.
She isn’t leaving.
“I’ll leave,”
I said. “It’s clear I’m hurting you with my presence, but I need to know that you’ll be fine. That you won’t hurt yourself.”
“I promise,”
she replied, a single tear falling from her cheek. “I promise, Aaron. Please, I need to be alone.”
“I’ll sleep on the sofa,”
I said, still scared of even blinking in case I missed something important that could tell me what was going on.
“No,”
she whispered. “Can you please go to your parents’?”