CHAPTER 12
SAM
Invitation
Now
Health fair day is always tiring. It’s not that it’s particularly taxing work for my skills; it has more to do with the volume. I see nearly a third of the people in Molly’s Knob on health fair day. They come out in droves, not just to get a free basic check-up, but also to socialize. And that socializing extends to me, making it a very long day by the time I finish seeing everyone.
It’s five minutes before eight when I finally get home. The house is quiet, so I make my way upstairs. As my foot hits the top step, I hear the hushed voice of Sara reading a bedtime story to Noelle. Sadness presses in on my ribs, crowding my heart. How long before Sara won’t get to enjoy this ritual with her daughter anymore?
I pad quietly to the edge of Noelle’s bedroom door and peek in. She’s already asleep, one hand curled by her head, tiny lips slightly parted. I listen as my wife finishes the story. She could probably leave now, but she always stays to finish the story. She says she doesn’t want for Noelle’s subconscious to miss the happy ending.
When she’s done, she closes the book and slides off the bed, the mattress hardly moving, partly because she’s careful and she’s done it a thousand times, but partly because she doesn’t weigh very much anymore. It seems like she’s getting thinner every day. I always notice it with a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach.
There isn’t much time left.
I watch as she makes her way silently across the room, smiling up at me as she pulls the door mostly closed. She takes my hand and leads me down the hall.
“How was the rest of your day?” she asks in her hushed Noelle-is-asleep tone.
“Fine. Busy. How are you feeling?”
I always ask. And I always know by just the tone of her answer if it was a good day or a bad day, which is what I want to know.
“Better than usual.”
Her answer surprises me. “Really?”
She laughs lightly. “Don’t sound so surprised. Even people who are dying can have good days.”
I’m a doctor. I dealt with death often during my residency. The exposure rapidly and relentlessly thickens your skin. These days, although I don’t see people die often, I still deal with grim diagnoses. I’ve learned how to be compassionate but direct. It’s practically a job requirement. Sensitive detachment comes with the territory.
But this…this is different.
This is my wife. And when it comes to her being so direct with me, it’s like a punch to the solar plexus every time. I don’t like to think of any form of the word “death” when it comes to Sara—death, dying, dead. But my squeamishness about it doesn’t change the facts, and she knows it. Maybe her nonchalance and her persistence in mentioning it is her way of trying to help me work through it.
It’s not working.
I guide the conversation into more comfortable waters. “What made your day such a good one? What happened? I want details.”
She stops at the top of the stairs and turns to face me, her hand still in mine. “Abigail happened.”
My abdominals tense at the name, especially the sound of it on my wife’s lips. To say I feel conflicted about the cyclonic tangle of emotion in me is like calling a category five hurricane a good, stiff breeze.
Sara smiles. “I thought so.”
“Huh?” I frown. “You thought so? What does that mean?”
“She’s the one you were trying to get over when we met, isn’t she? You never told me her name, but when I met her, I knew it was her.”
“Sara, I—”
“I knew because she never got over you either. I could see it in her eyes. She wishes she had, especially when she met me, but she didn’t.”
“That was a long time ago, Sara. A different life. She—”
“She still loves you, Sam.”
I close my eyes and drop my head. Now I see where this is going. Now I know why she’s so happy. “Please don’t do this.”
“If I don’t, who will? I know you won’t. You keep saying you’ll look, but you aren’t.”
“I love you. How can you expect me to go looking for someone to replace you?”
“Not replace, Sam. Just…resume. Step in. Take over. Carry on.”
“Semantics.”
“I just asked you to look.”
“I have neither the time nor the inclination to look. My place is here with you.”
“It’s not like I asked you to visit bars every night, Sam. But it doesn’t matter now anyway. For this, you won’t even have to leave the house.”
For this?
My frown returns. “And why is that?”
“Because I invited her for dinner tomorrow night. And she accepted. You’re grilling. Hope that’s okay.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to answer. She simply rises to her tiptoes, gives me a peck on the cheek, and starts down the steps.
I run a hand through my hair and follow her down.
Jesus. What kind of messed up predicament is this? My wife is more or less setting me up with my ex girlfriend. The mother of my child is trying to hook me up with the first girl I ever loved. The woman I swore to be loyal to until death do us part is asking me to be open to a relationship with the girl I never quite got over.
Some men might dream of a situation like this.
Not me.
For me, it’s a nightmare.
I don’t see a way that this could end well. At least not for me. For my peace of mind. For my conscience.
But what choice do I have?
My wife is dying. And this is what she wants. This is the one and only things she’s asked of me.
As I descend the stairs, guilt surges through me, guilt because, if I’m being honest, I’m not unhappy about the news that Abi is coming over. As much as I hate it, some part of me really wants to see her again.
That’s the part that never let her go.