“Damn.” Max’s voice comes through the receiver. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Why do you keep calling me?” I ask, exasperated.
“I haven’t heard from you in a few days. Everything alright?”
“Yes. Everything is fine.” My answer is dry.
Hesitant, he asks, “Shakes, what’s going on?” His voice is full of concern. The sympathy from him feels like salt being rubbed into a deep wound. It stings.
“I’m fine.” I do my best to keep my voice from breaking.
“You can talk to me. Remember that.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, tapping my foot, staring down at my pink toenails to prevent tears. It doesn’t work.
I’m quiet a beat, and then I sigh. “It’s…John—” Finally, I break down. I break because I can’t even say his name out loud without feeling an ache. “It’s John.” My voice is thick with tears. I want to wail but, somehow, I keep my composure.
“John? What do you mean? What happened?”
I can’t speak. I have so much to say but I can’t fucking speak. Never in my life have I felt so weak. So helpless. So worthless. Never. I can’t travel, can’t breathe, can hardly talk.
“Shannon?” he calls.
I crumble, dropping the phone and sobbing. When I’ve gathered enough composure, I bring the phone back up, gulping in air.
Max curses beneath his breath. “I’m coming to Charlotte.” He hangs up and, with little effort, I drop the phone on the floor, walk to the light switches, and turn all the lights off. The sun is still out, but the black curtains help me hide.
I slide beneath the sheets, curling up in the fetal position, allowing more darkness to cover me. Tears slide across the bridge of my nose, landing on the pillows.
My body shudders and shakes for nearly twenty minutes. Before I know it, I’ve fallen asleep.
When I wake up, it’s brighter outside. The gray clouds are long gone. I sit up, glancing around the room, expecting my husband to walk in at any given moment. But then I remember he’s not here. I can’t be with him because I’m worthless and sick.
I look at the alarm clock. 11:15 a.m.
Sighing, I curl beneath the sheets again. Maybe I can sleep my days away until he comes back.
TWENTY-TWO
A hand touches my shoulder, then gentle fingers run through my hair. For a moment, I think it’s John…that is, until I hear the familiar voice.
“Shakes?” I look up into honey irises. Max smiles. I close my eyes again.
He lowers to a squat in front of me. “What the hell is going on with you?”
I look past him, realizing the curtains have been drawn and the sun isn’t so high in the sky. “What time is it?” I croak.
Max flips his wrist to check his watch. “Nearing 5:15 in the evening.” He sighs. “Tessa told me not to bother you while you sleep, but you’ve been in this room for two days. Your doctor has been in and out, but he says you’re fine.”
“He has?” Wow. I didn’t even notice. I remember waking up a few times to use the bathroom, but mostly I just remember crying myself to sleep.
“Talk to me,” Max pleads.
My bottom lip twitches and at this point, I’m emotionally exhausted and ready to dump it all on him. I don’t think he’ll be able to handle the pressure, but as he looks at me, fully concerned, I feel I have no choice but to let some of it out. “It’s John,” I whisper, then swallow thickly.
“You’re upset that he’s gone?”
“A little more than upset.”
He struggles between giving me a sympathetic smile or a frown. My worries subside for the briefest moment. It’s cute the way his face tries to configure to just one emotion.
“I wanted to go with him, but I can’t even do that, Max. I can’t even make memories with my husband anymore. I’m stuck here. I’m fucking useless.”
“That’s bullshit. You can still go places.”
“But I couldn’t go there because of my stupid fucking lungs.”
He watches my face, studies it. “You shouldn’t think of it that way. That’s only one place in the world. There are more places to go.”
“It’s too late to go anywhere or do anything, Max.” I sniffle. “I’m slowly dying. I could barely walk through a fucking park. What’s the point?”
He presses his lips, placing a hand on the top of my arm. “He will be back. I’m sure he misses you already.”
“How would you know?” I ask with a hint of frustration. “You don’t even like him.”
“Because I would miss you.” His eyes soften as he strokes my arm. My eyes latch with his warm honey irises before moving away. Wiping a tear away, I pull my arm away from his hand and he stands to his feet, sighing. “Come on, Shannon,” he murmurs, holding his hands out. “You gotta get up. We have to get you out of this house. That might be what’s bringing your mood down. He’s everywhere in this place. You smell him. You see pictures of him. Everything in this house probably reminds you of him.”