CHAPTER 41
*PRESENT*
“Back home”
Aaron
Maya and I left my parents’ house a week later, after we were able to control her fever.
I was still reliving the moment that I found my wife in my parents’ house over and over.
I didn’t think I could ever forget how scared she was. She looked like a ghost, and she would torment my nightmares for as long as I lived.
We decided to go to a therapy session this week, thinking that maybe she could explain better what was going on.
Today was the first day that Maya and I were supposed to return to our routine. When we had to part ways, she started to cry. And I canceled everything, hugged her, and laid her on our bed.
“Sorry, I—I don’t know why I can’t stop crying, Aaron,”
she said between sobs.
“It’s fine, my love,”
I said, caressing her hair.
“How are we going to be able to work if I can’t get apart from you for more than a couple of minutes?”
“We’ll figure it out,”
I said with a sad smile.
“Your patients need you,”
she cried. “I’m being selfish.”
“Maya, don’t worry about it. Are you ready for therapy today?”
She nodded. Soon after, she fell asleep crying in my arms.
We arrived at therapy on time after deciding to take a walk instead of going by car. The motorcycle was out of the question.
Our therapist tried to hide it, but it was clear she was shocked to see my wife in comfort clothes, no makeup, and red, puffy eyes.
It was disarming, seeing her like this after being used to her polished looks and being such a strong force of nature.
She looked younger, too, her skin fairer than usual from not getting out of the house.
“I followed your advice,”
started Maya, surprising her even more. “I searched for the truth.”
I looked back at her. She was stuck to my side, her head low, playing with her hands.
I grabbed them and squeezed.
“A detective sent me all the proof. They were playing us.”
I tensed next to her. “I saw the proof. Well, not all of it, but enough to know she kept contact with him after everything. After he hurt me.”
I draped my arms around her, holding tight. “We thought she understood, that she chose me, but she played us. She played me.”
“Maya, grief is a complicated, messy feeling. You’re grieving, even when you say that you don’t want to care about them. The truth is you’re grieving their deaths, but also grieving the person that you thought your mom was, and the unanswered questions that you have,”
our therapist said in a calm, soft voice.
“After all the love and support that we showed her, after the forgiveness, I thought—”
Maya hesitated.
“That she chose you,”
I said softly. I understood my wife; I knew how much she had wanted to be seen by her mom, how much she had adored her. How she thought things had been healed between them. I saw her smile after passing time with her mom, the lightness in her steps. I could even see all the plans that she was creating for the future with her.
It was painful, watching your wife being betrayed by a person she loved so dearly, watching her distress, watching a part of her wilt.
Even if I tried with all that I had, and I was going to, I couldn’t fill up the space that her mom left in her heart.
I couldn’t give her the answers that she needed, because for me, it was the gravest mistake someone could make, not choosing Maya. Among other people, other things, above everything.
But people made the stupidest mistakes all the time.
“I broke down last week,”
my wife continued. “I got home, and—I don’t know how to explain it. It was like I was out of my body.”
She paused.
“Yes, when I looked at you”—I gulped—“it was like you didn’t recognize me, Maya.”
Tears started to fill up her eyes, and a sob came out of her mouth, hands trembling, covering it, trying to keep it inside. She shook her head. I hugged her, and she cried for a while in my arms.
“I’m sorry,”
Maya sobbed. “I want to continue the session. I want us to get better,”
she said in a whisper. “I want to get better.”
Little by little, my wife started to tell the therapist memories she had from her childhood. I kept quiet, my only function to be the anchor to the present, making sure she knew I wasn’t going to lose her to her memories.
After the session ended, my wife could hardly walk. I called Dad and asked him to pick us up from the therapist’s office.
Maya’s phone rang.
She sent her boss to voicemail.
He called again.
She answered.
“Willow, what’s going on?”
he asked her. “I thought you were coming today.”
“I can’t,”
she said in a small voice. Silence. He sighed loudly.
“Yuri!”
he screamed. “You called the wrong number.”
“No, I didn’t, sir,”
replied his secretary.
“It’s me,”
said my wife, rolling her eyes, but with a sad smile.
He cleared his throat.
“I didn’t recognize you.”
He hesitated. “I wanted to tell you that we want to make sure you’re doing alright.”
“Thank you, sir,”
replied Maya. “I wanted to talk to you.”
My wife breathed deeply. “I want out of Mrs. Musk-Smith.”
I left her some space, far away that she could talk to her boss without me having to overhear their conversation, but close enough that we both could check on each other. Maya seemed relaxed. Maybe it was the tiredness; maybe she didn’t care anymore.
My dad appeared, and Maya hung up, entering the car.
“Are you okay?”
I asked her. She nodded, her eyes shining a tiny bit brighter.