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Gabe nods slowly, his eyes clouded with a pain so raw and deep that it’s almost tangible. He looks away, as if the memories are too much to handle. As if looking at me is bringing all the hurt back.
“I don’t talk about it,” he mumbles. “Now you know and there’s nothing more to say.”
“But why wouldn’t you tell me?” I press on, needing to understand.
He closes his eyes briefly, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “It hurts too fucking much to even think about, let alone discuss it,” he confesses, his voice breaking. “It was one of the most agonizing moments of my life.”
“But it happened to me,” I argue. “You should’ve said something.”
Somehow, this information changes the narrative of our past. I’m not sure how, but it does. And how could such a crucial part of my story be kept from me?
“While I was recovering from the surgery, you behaved strangely, and then . . .” I can’t say it. I just can’t.
“Then we lost her.” Gabe swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Yeah, we lost her before we even knew she was coming. And, somehow, it still hurts. Suddenly, I feel it rising from deep within—a sob, gut-wrenching and unguarded. It claws its way up my throat. I try to swallow it down, to keep it contained, but it’s too powerful. So much stronger than me.
My eyes burn, tears stinging, but I refuse to shed them. Not here. Still, the sob breaks free, a guttural and trembling sound that seems foreign to my ears.
It rips through the silence. My chest heaves with the effort to breathe, to get oxygen through the constricting band of sorrow. I dig my fingers into my own arms, nails digging into my skin, as if the physical pain could keep me from breaking down, here in front of Gabe and his sister. But the façade cracks, and I’m just a person, broken and real, dealing with old emotions that crush me deep down into my soul.
Wounds that will never heal.
I take a shuddering breath, trying to compose myself, to rebuild the walls that momentarily crumbled, but it’s impossible. The memories come flooding back to me.
* * *
(Then)
I’m still in bed, feeling like I’m carrying a weight much heavier than the blankets draped over me. Every cell in my body has been injected with lead. My limbs are also uncooperative. I know I should get up, but the fatigue pins me down. It’s so much stronger than me, turning even the simple act of leaving my bed a daunting task.
I close my eyes again, trying to escape the queasiness. My stomach churns, and I breathe slowly, in and out, trying to control the nausea. The anti-nausea meds help, but they can’t seem to erase it completely.
“Morning, baby,” Gabe greets me. “I brought you breakfast.”
“Not hungry,” I mumble weakly.
He brushes the hair back from my forehead. “But you have to eat,” he insists.
I crack my eyes open to find his worried face.
“Mom’s coming later to bake with you,” he says, brushing the hair from my forehead.
His family has been very welcoming and helpful despite them not knowing I’m married to Gabe. To them, I’m just Gabe’s temporary roommate—the poor girl who recently lost her mom and found out she has a brain tumor.
I appreciate their thoughtfulness, but part of me wishes they knew I’m Gabe’s wife and that they’d treat me like a part of their family. Not just some addition because they like to rescue those in need.
That’s your insecurities speaking. Gabe knows when is best to tell them the truth, I remind myself.
“Let me help you sit so you can eat,” Gabe encourages. “I prepared your favorite ham omelet with mushrooms and sharp cheddar cheese.”
Sounds great, except I won’t be able to taste it. All the food I’ve consumed seems to taste like it’s coated with dirt and metal. I remember how I used to savor my morning tea and whatever Gabe and I prepared together. Now, just the thought of it makes my stomach turn. I haven’t been able to enjoy anything in weeks.
“Baby, please, just a few bites,” Gabe coaxes desperately.
Do I? I run a hand over my head, my fingers brushing through thinning hair. It’s not the dramatic hair loss some experienced, but it’s enough to make my heart sink. I should just shave my hair and be done with this. It’ll eventually grow back, right?
“Ame, what can I do for you?” he pleads softly. “You need to move and eat.”
