| Stephanie is a betta fish breeder and an expert at taking care of other people's pets. For the time being, she is biding her time in Scandinavia while she figures out how exactly she's going to make it home to the States on the income of one who breeds bettas. When she's not trying to make her fish fall in temporary love with one another, she enjoys crocheting to the strains of Metallica and having heated debates with her cantankerous laptop. |
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| The Things We Tell the Silence He doesn't know but I know. I haven't told him. The appointments are easy to explain away. Brunch with a friend, a drive through the countryside. The same excuses recycled into different words. Lies, all of them. I should have told him the truth after the very first check up. "How'd it go?" He'd asked. What I should have said was, "Oh, they're not sure yet. They want me to go to a specialist for further testing." It would have been so simple, but he always worries so much. It didn't seem necessary to give him more cause for worry over something so little, so seemingly insignificant. A wheezing sound picked up by the stethoscope. Asthma, probably. "Fit as a fiddle," I'd told Walt. "Healthy as a horse." I think I thought such ridiculous similes would make the lie less immoral. But I lied after the second appointment, too. I look at him lying next to me, breathing deeply, easily. The sheet caresses his waist, casting faint shadows over the contours of his hips and thighs. The hair on his chest, some of it peppered with gray, reflects the early morning light coming through the window. Two months ago, I would have snuggled close and gone back to sleep until the sun rose high enough to pull us out of bed. But now I can feel the coughs forcing their way out of my chest the way boiling water forces itself out of a geyser and I know I have to leave the bedroom so I don't wake him with my maladies. I don't even make it to the kitchen before the geyser erupts. A sudden fit catches me halfway down the stairs and I double over, grasping the railing as though it might save me. I've no idea how long it lasts except that when I'm finished I feel dizzy and I see specks of light floating in the corners of my vision. I taste blood and hurry to the kitchen to wash the flecks of it off my hand before I put the teakettle on. I hate mornings, the wee hours when Walt's still asleep and I drink tea in the silent kitchen while trying to think of ways to tell him the truth. I wonder if perhaps I should just leave little clues for him to find, like evidence at a crime scene. A bloody handkerchief in the laundry. An open pill bottle on the counter. I hear him moving about upstairs and part of me wants him to interrogate me when he comes into the kitchen. It's much easier to confess under pressure, rather than having to work up the nerve on my own, as though to put words to it would validate it in some way. Not that the doctor hasn't made it clear already. With pictures. "These are your lungs," he'd said while hanging X-rays on a lighted board. "Those are the abnormal cells." He didn't call it cancer. As I took in the thick patches dotting my lungs, I wondered why. "This is the cancer," he should have said. "This is how you're going to meet your maker." Instead, he'd laid a gentle hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. "Do you understand?" He'd asked. Perhaps it would be better if I didn't. "Good, you've made tea," Walt says, rubbing his belly as he walks into the kitchen. "Pour me a cup. I'll fetch the mail." Not a word about the coughing or why I didn't come back to bed. So I get up and pour him a cup of tea with two spoons of sugar the way he likes it. When he comes back inside, he tosses the mail on the table, the bills and brochures scattering across the varnished wood. He tastes his tea and nods his approval. "There's an invitation there," he says, gesturing with his cup toward the envelopes he's just brought in. "Erin's getting married next Saturday." "I'll run out and buy them something tomorrow afternoon," I say. "We can just write them a check." "I need a new pair of heels anyways." "Whatever you prefer, love," he says. "I'll just go watch the news, then." When I hear the familiar creak of the couch springs followed by the newscaster reading the details about the latest catastrophe in the world, I pull the appointment card out of my purse and write myself a reminder on the back to pick up shoes and a wedding gift. * * * "There are alternatives to the chemo," my doctor tells me. "We have pamphlets in the waiting room. Pills, herbal supplements, and several other natural remedies, but none of them give any guarantees. Chemo therapy is the only one I'll vouch for, but ultimately it's up to you. At this point, the best you can hope for is that it slows the process." "Slows the process," I repeat. "How much?" "I couldn't say. Even without treatment, there's no way of telling how fast it'll progress." I stare at the floor a moment, hating the uncertainty of it but appreciating it at the same time. "Why now?" I ask. It's a question I've had burning inside me since I found out. One I know doesn't have an answer. "I haven't smoked in twenty years," I say to clarify. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hannigan," he says. "These things just happen." "Yeah," I say. "Are we finished?" He nods and I leave his office with a stack of pamphlets. In the car, I look a few of them over but I don't get very far. They're full of families hugging and looking optimistic but the doctor's words are still ringing in my head. Slows the process. These things just happen. I stuff the pamphlets in the glove compartment and drive to IKEA to guy Erin a wedding present. There's no sense in buying new shoes so I'll just tell Walt I couldn't find any I liked. * * * When I get home, I find Walt finishing dinner and the smell of lasagna in the oven washes over me. I smile as I push the door closed and try to catch my breath. I'm glad I married a man who likes to cook. "Right on time, love," he calls from the kitchen and the oven door slams. "Bring us in a bottle of Sherry, would you?" I set the microwave oven I bought for Erin on the floor next to the door and head for the liquor cabinet. I'm still wheezing with each breath, a high whistle emanating from my throat not unlike the squeak a dog toy makes when it's being squeezed. My hand is on the knob when a sharp pain tears through my chest. The room is spinning. Something hard hits my knees. Nausea. Blackness. * * * I'm still alive. My hand is touching something cool. And moist. My knees are sore. I smell lasagna cooking and I remember that I'm supposed to be getting a bottle of wine. I'm still holding the handle to the liquor cabinet. Walt hasn't come looking for me, so the attack can't have lasted long. I grab the Sherry and walk into the kitchen, hoping I don't look as miserable as I feel. "Thanks, love." Walt smiles and sets the steaming plate on the table. He pours the wine. He has no idea I believed myself to be dying only moments ago, and a picture from one of the brochures pops into my mind. A man with his arm around a woman's shoulder while they look at a bottle of herbal pills. If only it were that simple. * * * The reverend is saying, "Do you promise to love him, honor him, keep him... " and I glance at Walt seated next to me, wearing his freshly pressed suit with his tie slightly off kilter. The tears that I've been holding back for months threaten to escape from the corners of my eyes. Walt catches me watching him and gives my knee a squeeze. "For as long as you both shall live," the reverend says. Something warm and wet trickles down my cheeks and Walt puts his arm around my shoulder. "You cried at our wedding too," he whispers in my ear. I nod, unable to tell him why I'm crying this time. The ceremony ends and I compose myself enough to go to the reception. We eat veal and potatoes, we sit through the toasts, we chat with relatives whose names we don't remember. I watch the girls on the dance floor but I don't join them. Instead, I lean close to Walt and point at the group of people doing the Electric Slide while the soft, funky tones drift from the speakers. "Do you remember?" I ask. He turns to me with a smile. "Excuse me, miss. Could you show me how to do this dance? It looks like fun." "And then you turned out to know the steps better than me anyways." "Well how else was I supposed to get you away from your mother?" Walt says. We've had this conversation many times. The story of how we met. Our story. We've told it to each other many times over the years. After fights, during moments of insecurity, after making love while we're both still catching our breath. I wonder if he'll tell it to anyone when the cancer finally wins, if he'll tell it to himself as comfort. The DJ plays a slow song and Walt and I join the others on the dance floor. We sway to the music, our bodies moving in unison and I feel the tears coming again. I blink them back but Walt hears me sniffle. He lifts my face to look at his and says, "What is it, love?" Steve Tyler sings, "I just wanna stay with you in this moment forever and ever." "Nothing," I say. "Can we leave after this?" "Of course," he says and pulls me closer. The song ends sooner than I'd like and we say good night to Erin and her new husband. Walt drives us home and I pick at the skin by my thumbnail. We don't speak. I know he's waiting for me to begin. He parks in the driveway and leans back in the seat, gripping the steering wheel the way he does when he's waiting for a green light. I get out without a word and head upstairs for a bath, shedding my clothes along the way like a trail of breadcrumbs. As the bathtub fills with water, I turn to the sink to remove the clips and pins from my hair. The makeup around my eyes is smudged and streaming. Inky tears etched into the contours of my cheeks, making the act of crying appear all the more painful. Walt comes in just as I'm stepping into the water. He doesn't say a word. He sits on the edge of the tub and twirls his fingers through the soapy bubbles on the surface. I know I have to tell him, but the words stick in my throat, unwilling to come out. I watch him watching me. His jaw clenches and unclenches. He looks tired, worn out. It almost feels as though he's been carrying around the weight of a secret as well. "I'm going to die," I say. I've planned this moment for months but those words were never a part of any plan. I start to wonder where they came from but then I notice Walt hasn't flinched. He's still caressing the water. Most of the bubbles are gone. "I'm going to die," I repeat as though he didn't hear me the first time. "I have cancer." He takes a breath and looks at the floor. The seconds pile up on my chest, making it more difficult to breathe with each passing tick of the clock. "Aren't you going to say anything?" I ask finally. Water drips from his fingertips as he removes them from the tub to loosen his tie. "Fit as a fiddle," he says. "Healthy as a horse." He chews on the words more than speak them. I bite my bottom lip and he closes his eyes. I want him to say more but I'm afraid of what he might want to say. I want him to tell me we'll get through it like everything else we've gotten through over the years. I want him to wake me up and say it's all just been a horrible dream. I don't want him to get up and leave the room, but he does it all the same. I lay motionless as I listen to his footsteps thudding down the stairs. He walks into the kitchen and I hear cupboards opening and slamming, dishes rattling, something scattering across the table. And then silence, long and complete, pressing down on me. It curses me for keeping such a terrible secret from the one person I can tell anything to. The figures in the painting on the wall look down on me in shame. I want to close my eyes to block them out, to close my ears from the dreadful silence from the kitchen. But then I hear footsteps again. Soft, contemplative footsteps climbing the stairs and treading down the hallway. Walt appears in the doorway and looks at me lying in the tub. I watch his gaze move from my face to my nakedness under the water. He smiles a slow smile, a small smile, but I can see the warmth of it in the blue hues of his eyes. I wonder why he doesn't ask the important questions, the ones people tend to whisper like small children when they're testing out the sounds of curse words. What kind of cancer and can they remove it and how long have you got? He asks none of these, but kneels down beside the bathtub and wipes the makeup from my eyes with a washcloth. It's only when he cups a hand to my cheek that I realize I'm crying again. "I should have told you sooner," I say. "But I didn't want you to worry. I thought I could get through it alone, I thought it would go away, I thought…" I'm babbling and I know it so I shake my head to stop myself. Walt helps me out of the tub and hands me a towel. I wipe my face with it instead and let the water run off me to form a puddle on the tiled floor. "Don't cry, love," Walt says and takes the towel. But I can't stop, so I stand in the middle of the bathroom sobbing while Walt dries me gently. "Please, love, stop crying," he says. "We'll battle this together. Tomorrow we'll do research, we'll call people, specialists. We'll figure something out." I nod, relieved even though I've already heard what the specialists have to say, and Walt leads me into the bedroom. My wet hair clings to both our faces as we make soft love to the steady cadence of crickets chirping in the backyard, and when I fall asleep I can almost pretend I'll sleep until morning. * * * In a dark bedroom on the second floor of an old house, a man lies awake crying silently while his wife sleeps. He won't tell her how frightened his is or show her how much it hurts him to see her suffer. He'll be strong for her sake. He'll smile when she needs encouragement, hug her when she needs protected. He'll be the rock she clings to when the current tries to pull her under. And when she's gone, he'll put fresh flowers on her grave every week and he'll finish building the deck out back like he promised. And on their anniversary he'll do the electric slide in the living room by himself. But for now, he weeps. For now, she is sleeping and he doesn't have to be strong. "Oh please oh please oh please," he whispers to no one in the dark. In the kitchen downstairs, old appointment cards and prescriptions litter the table like discarded wrapping paper on Christmas morning. A purse sits on its side, empty, defeated. Little white pills scattered. A crinkled wedding invitation with flowing script. "Before you, I never dared hope," it says. |
| Stephanie Kraner |
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