Chapter Four—Chris #2
I stare at the wall. “You already told me that.”
“I know.”
“Twice now.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to overstep.”
That takes some of the irritation out of me. “Then why are you?”
“Because you’re exhausted, she’s frightened, and neither of you is going to hear the other clearly right now.” He hesitates. “If she’s having a mental health crisis, you might put more pressure on her without meaning to.”
His thoughts are rational when I’m not right now. I look toward the bathroom and the washcloth Lorna left in the sink. “She wanted me here last night.”
“I know.”
“I should’ve come.”
He sounds pragmatic. “You were in Denver, and this wasn’t the first incident.”
I close my eyes. “I could’ve left.”
“At midnight?”
“There are private planes.”
Fenton doesn’t answer.
I have enough money to get almost anywhere I want at almost any hour. I didn’t even check. “I told her I couldn’t come home.”
“Chris, you had no reason to think she was physically unsafe at the hotel. Willa was there. You have responsibilities she can’t understand now that she’s not working.”
“That’s what I told myself.”
“It was true.”
Maybe. I look at the rings again, and my chest constricts.
Fenton speaks more carefully. “Last night was frightening for her. I’m not minimizing that.”
“She says someone choked her unconscious.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying frightening.”
A pause follows. When he answers, there’s fatigue under the patience. “Because I don’t know what happened, and neither do you.”
I don’t respond.
“I’ve watched this build for months,” he continues. “So have you. Every incident makes her more frightened. Every time you’re away, she needs more reassurance. Last night was obviously worse, but going after her immediately may not be the best thing for either of you.”
His frustration doesn’t surprise me.
If I’m tired of having the same argument, Fenton must be too.
He’s taken most of the calls when I couldn’t.
He’s listened to Lorna describe packages and messages, rearranged security, dealt with building staff, moved my schedule when she needed me, and probably absorbed more of her anxiety than I realized.
He doesn’t have four years of loving her to balance it like I do. “She’s not trying to be difficult.” I find myself apologizing for my wife.
“I didn’t say she was.”
“No, but you’re talking about her as if this is behavior we need to manage.” My tone is sharp.
Fenton is quiet.
I lean forward, elbows on my thighs, still holding the rings. “She’s scared. Whether she’s right about why she’s scared or not, it’s real to her.”
“I agree.”
“Then have a little sympathy.”
The silence lasts a beat too long. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re right.”
Some of my irritation fades. Fenton rarely needs to be corrected twice.
He continues in a gentler tone. “I think she’s hurting, and I think leaving the rings was meant to tell you how badly.”
I stare at them.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean she wants the marriage to end. It may mean she needs you to understand the seriousness of what she’s feeling.”
“What she feels.”
Fenton stops.
I don’t know why the wording bothers me. It’s accurate. Lorna is frightened. Hurt. Angry. Whatever happened in the penthouse, those things are real.
Still, I hear her from last night.
I told you the facts.
Then my answer.
You told me what you remember.
I rub my thumb across the inside of the wedding band. “What do you think I should do?”
“Give her a little time.”
My first reaction is rejection.
Fenton must hear it in my silence because he continues. “If you find her today, what are you going to say that’s different from what you said last night?”
I don’t have an answer.
“You’re still worried about her. You’re still waiting for the access records and alarm history. You still don’t know what happened in that apartment. She isn’t going to hear any of that today without hearing that you think she’s lying.”
“I don’t think she’s lying.” I say it too quickly and too defensively. Part of me does think she’s imagining it. Illness is making her delusional. I don’t know if my presence or absence is best for her mental state right now.
“I know.”
“She doesn’t.”
“No. She doesn’t think she’s lying. She needs help. Professional help. You could make her worse.”
I look down at the engagement ring. Thinking of making her more upset makes it hard to breathe. Maybe space and time away from our pressured life in Charleston is what she needs.
Fenton’s voice stays quiet. “Let her rest. Let her get some distance from last night. When she reaches out, you can talk without both of you being exhausted and angry.”
There’s logic in that too. I hate how relieved I am to find it.
Going after Lorna means finding her first. It means feeding her delusion if I pander or alienating her if I’m honest again. It means facing her when I still don’t know how to explain the difference between believing she’s terrified and believing every conclusion she’s drawn from that fear.
Giving her space sounds kinder. It also asks nothing of me today. I don’t examine that too closely.
“I’ll stay in Charleston.”
“All right.”
“Clear the week.”
“I already moved most of it when you booked the flight.”
Of course he did. He’s excellent at his job. “Keep Highfield where you moved it. Jensen can handle financing.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Send me anything that actually needs my attention. Otherwise, I don’t want to spend the day on calls.”
“I can do that.”
“Thanks.”
I end the call. For a while, I stay on the edge of the bed with Lorna’s rings in my hand.
I should have come home last night. That much I know.
She called me after waking up on the floor and told me she needed me. Instead of hearing that, I heard the timing, the pattern, the months of escalating fear, and every conversation Fenton and I had already had about what might be happening to her.
I was trying to help, and I still am. The problem is different from what she believes, and I don’t know how to make her see that.
I don’t know when helping my wife became something I could do from another state.
I put both rings in the inside pocket of my jacket. My phone is already out before I decide what I’m doing. I open Lorna’s contact.
Her picture is from Lisbon. I took it our first morning there. Her hair is still damp, and she’s laughing because I complained that the coffee was strong enough to strip paint.
I remember that morning better than I remember most meetings I’ve attended this year. I press my thumb against the edge of the screen.
Last night, she told me I’d stopped being her husband months ago.
She’s wrong about that.
I love her.
I’ve always loved her.
I almost call.
Then Fenton’s question comes back.
What are you going to say that’s different from what you said last night?
Nothing.
Not yet.
The police are getting the access records. The alarm company has the history. Facts will give us somewhere to start that isn’t another argument about what Lorna remembers and what I think fear may have changed.
I put the phone down.
A few days.
I’ll give her a few days to rest. I’ll wait for the records. Then I’ll know what I’m dealing with, and I can help her without making things worse.
For once, I won’t chase after the problem before I understand it. I lie back against the pillows and close my eyes.
The rings rest against my chest inside my jacket, and I leave them there.