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I’ve been tossing empty boxes in here for a while now, knowing I’d have to deal with it eventually. Tonight feels like a good time since my emotions are all directed elsewhere. I start with the file cabinet and fill black plastic trash bags with tons of stuff to be shredded. Why did he keep every bill he ever paid? I throw that shit out the minute it’s taken care of. I toss notebooks from college and pilot training, old textbooks and outdated FAA directives.
When I have the file cabinet cleaned out, I move on to his desk, going through each drawer, making piles of things to keep while filling more trash bags. Mike was a pack rat. I knew that about him before this, but my trip through his office only confirms it.
I find a card with a flower on it and open it.
Mike, I’ll never be able to tell you what our time together meant to me. I’m sorry that it has to end, but I understand why. If you ever get back to Boise, you know where to find me. Love you. Kelly.
What the actual fuck? Who is Kelly? I know the names of all his significant exes, and there was no Kelly. If I wanted proof that Eleanor wasn’t the only affair he had, here it is.
“How could you do this to me?” I ask him. “You son of a bitch.” I tear the card into tiny pieces and toss it in the trash.
When I first lost him, I never imagined the day would come when I could say I’d grown to actively hate him. But here we are. He was a lying, cheating asshole who played the role of devoted husband and father when he was home. The minute he left the house, though, he became someone else altogether. Staring at the framed photo of the five of us on the corner of the desk, I speak my truth to him. “I hate you for this. I hate you for the mess you left behind and how someday I’m going to have to tell our children how you came to have another son. You unfaithful, cheating, lying motherfucker.”
Hey, at least I’m not crying my eyes out over the demise of my so-called relationship with Gage or the possibility that I might have breast cancer. That makes me laugh until I cry.
My phone chimes with a text from Gage.I’m outside. Can we talk?
I want to tell him to fuck off and leave me alone, but I’m aware enough to know that directing my Mike-fueled rage at Gage wouldn’t be fair.
Come in. I’m in the office.
I gave him the code to my house weeks ago, back when I thought we were on our way to something lasting. Now, I have no idea what we are. All I know is when shit got real, he left, and that can’t happen again. Especially when I could be facing something serious.
He comes in a few minutes later and stops in the doorway to take in the chaos I’ve unleashed in the once-orderly room.
“It was time,” I tell him, shrugging as if none of this is a big deal when it all is. Everything is a BFD these days, and I yearn for a time when the BFD of the day was what to have for dinner. How funny that seems now. “I found proof of yet another woman. He was a busy guy, my husband.”
“Should you be doing this now?”
“It beats rocking in the corner waiting to hear biopsy results.”
“You had a biopsy?”
“Two of them. One on each side.” As I say that, I sift through another pile of papers that I move to a third trash bag.
Gage crosses the room to me and stands awkwardly next to the desk. “Did they give you any idea what to expect?”
“Just a long couple of days waiting to hear. Thus, the office project. It’s something to do while I wait.” I absolutely refuse to look at him out of fear of losing what’s left of my composure.
“Do you think you could take a break from that so we could talk?”
“If I stop, I’ll think, and I don’t want to think.” The large bottom desk drawer is stuffed with more file folders. I pull out a chunk of them that I put on the desktop.
“Please, Iris. I need to talk to you.”
“Too bad.” I look up at him for the first time, and I’m sure my eyes are blazing with fury. “I wanted to talk to you last night, but you left, and today, I went through the scariest thing of my life completely alone. So, I’m sorry if I don’t want to talk to you right now. I want to keep moving so I won’t lose my mind worrying about what’ll become of my kids if I die of cancer.”
“I’ll take care of your kids.”
That gets a bitter-sounding laugh from me. “You say that now, but can I trust you to be there for them and me if shit gets real? I don’t know anymore.”
“I freaked out. I’m sorry. I worked it out.”
“Good for you. I’m happy for you.”
“I’m sorry I left. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, you really shouldn’t have. What if we’d found the lump on one of your testicles? Where do you think I would’ve been while you were getting that checked? And PS, I lost my husband, so don’t tell me I don’t get the fear.”
