Broken Read online

  “It’s just that sometimes, I get so pissed off….”

  He was quiet. I said nothing, hoping that maybe, for once, he’d stop pretending he was okay. Then I could, too. That we could both forget the roles that had so long bound us.

  I waited a bit longer, but he didn’t continue. I stroked his cheek. “Adam, it’s natural for you to be angry.”

  His jaw tightened under my fingers, and he cut his gaze away. Steely. Stoic in a way he’d never used to be.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I want to talk about it—”

  He whipped his head around. “I said I don’t want to talk about it! Jesus! Don’t push me!”

  I pulled my hand away. I so desperately didn’t want to fight with him again. I took a few breaths but the tears from before threatened to slide down my cheeks again.

  “Don’t you do it,” he warned me. “Don’t you fucking start.”

  It was so unfair, that I shouldn’t be allowed to cry. I understood. I knew why he didn’t want to see it, but it was so damned unfair, just the same.

  “I liked it better when you used to throw dishes!”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed,” he said, voice thick with the sarcasm I loathed, “I can’t throw anything.”

  “You never used to never hold anything back. You used to let yourself be angry. Or sad. Or delirious with joy, Adam, you used to let yourself be overcome—”

  “And you used to hate it!” His shout was hoarse and I couldn’t stop myself from fussing with his blankets. His face clenched. “Stop it, just fucking stop it, okay? Dennis can do that.”

  “I want to make sure—”

  “I said stop it.”

  I stopped. We stared at each other. Glared, really, and I waited for him to let fly with the blistering invectives that would reduce me to tears.

  He reined it in. I was torn between relief and despair. I crossed my hands under my arms, tight against my stomach. They were cold.

  “I didn’t hate the way you were.” The words slipped out before they could stop them. “I miss it. I miss you, Adam.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. He turned his face from me again. I walked around the side of the bed to force him to see me.

  “I think it would be better for you to talk about it with me. I think we need to talk…I need to talk about this. About us. About this. You never tell me stories anymore.” I gestured at the bed, the wheelchair.

  “What are you, three years old?”

  I refused to let his words sting. “You never talk to me about what you’re feeling anymore.”

  “I don’t want to talk.” The emphasis he put on the last word made it sound dirty. “You can put shit on a Kaiser roll and call it a sandwich, Sadie, but it’s still shit.”

  “Well, it’s shit I think we need to talk about!”

  “Stop fucking trying to analyze me!” He tried to shout but it came out more like a wheeze.

  “I’m not your analyst. I’m your wife.”

  “Then be my fucking wife,” he snapped. “And quit trying to get inside my head. I’ve got nothing to share with you. This is my thing, Sadie. Mine. Not yours. Quit trying to make it all about you. I’m so fucking tired of you trying to make this about you.”

  It wasn’t the nastiest thing he’d ever said to me, but it was the cruelest. It hurt worse than being called a cunt, or stupid. I recoiled as physically as if he’d slapped me.

  He turned his head again, expression stony. I thought I’d cry, but my own face felt like it had been carved from marble. I blinked, hard, but my eyes stayed dry.

  I left the room and bumped into Dennis in the hallway. He put out a hand to pat my shoulder. We shared a look. I was in his arms before I could stop myself, my face pressed against his chest while I cried in silence. Dennis patted my back, his big strong arms like pillars around me.

  Adam shouted for him. The next second the intercom buzzed, and I pulled myself from Dennis’ comforting embrace though I was far from finished needing it. Dennis wasn’t there for me.

  He looked concerned, though, and I forced a smile. “Go on. He needs you.”

  Dennis chucked my chin. “This happens, Sadie….”

  “I know.” I swiped my tears. “I know. I’m okay. Go ahead.”

  He nodded again and patted my shoulder before disappearing into Adam’s room. I thought I might cry some more, but I took a page from Adam’s book and forced myself to stoic calm.

  September

  I was twenty minutes later than usual on the first Friday of the month. I’d told myself I wouldn’t go, but I left my office fluffing my hair and applying my lipstick in the shiny reflection of the elevator doors on the way down. I held my brown lunch bag crumpled in my hand like a prize, and my heels click-clicked on the pavement as I headed for the spot on the bench I thought of as ours. September afternoons were still warm enough to sit outside, but today was a little overcast, the breeze cool enough to make a sweater necessary.

  There was no way for me to pretend my heart didn’t leap when I came around the corner to the small, hidden spot that held our bench. He was there. He wore a suit I recognized, the tie I’d complimented, and his eyes caught mine. I could have used a hand to catch me, because in the next moment my shoe slid on a stray piece of gravel and I ingloriously stumbled.

  Joe was there, but he wasn’t alone.

  I knew at once who she was. The blond hair in the twist and the pearl earrings gave it away, as did the cool way she turned her head to view my graceless approach.

  Joe did not stand. He did not smile. His hand snaked along the back of the bench to rest upon the sleek, padded shoulder of his companion, and she inched closer with a look down at the bench as though she wanted to scold it for being dirty.

  “Are you all right?” His voice was neutral. It stung more than if he’d been cold. “Watch your step.”

  “They really should clear these paths more often,” said Priscilla, and fucking hell, even her voice was poised and perfect. “You could have turned your ankle.”

  “I’m sorry,” I heard myself say as though from very far away. “I didn’t realize this bench was occupied.”

  Priscilla glanced at the side of her not nestled against Joe. “We could move over…”

  “No, that’s fine.” I shook my head. “I’ll find another one.”

  “Are you sure?” Joe asked. I watched his finger trace the back of Priscilla’s neck. “There’s room for one more.”

  We both looked at him, and if our faces wore similar expressions it was because we both were feeling the same thing.

  “No. Thank you.” I shook my head and put my foot back to the path leading away from them. “Enjoy your lunch.”

  Bastard. Motherfucking bastard. Asshole. The invectives filled my head as I stalked away. Behind me, I heard him murmur. The soft trill of Priscilla’s laughter made me want to vomit.

  Behind the wheel of my car I gave in to disgusted tears I hid behind my hands. They didn’t relieve any of my tension. They only made it worse, and I stopped them with the heels of my hands pressed to my eyes so hard I saw flashes of color. I wouldn’t allow myself the luxury of wallowing in grief I had no right to feel.

  The face in my rearview mirror didn’t look like me at first, until I blinked a few times and wiped my face with a handful of crumpled tissues that came apart in my hand. Picking off the tiny pieces of shredded paper gave my fingers something to do while my mind caught up. By the time I’d cleaned off my skirt and shoved the tissues into a plastic grocery bag I kept for trash, I regained enough calm to be able to drive.

  I’ve never been one to reapply my makeup, but I sorely needed it today. I spent another ten minutes retracing the line of my lips with color, coating my cheeks with powder. I had no mascara or liner to undo the damage my tears had wrought, but it was the best I could do.

  My sobs had felt like thorns in my throat. And that’s what it was, with Joe, wasn’t it? All briars. No roses. Lesson learned, the