Hate, resentment and anger are parasites that feed off the heart until there’s nothing left for love to live on.
Beth Cardall’s Diary
Over the next few weeks Charlotte’s health remained about the same, except I was having more trouble getting her to eat and she was still losing weight.
Ironically, I hadn’t had Marc around the house that much since we first got married. It’s like I had to get rid of him to get him back. He seemed changed in other ways. He seemed more of a homebody, as if his previous ambition had drained from him. He even started going to bed early. I asked him if he was all right, but he just shrugged. “It’s just a hard time,” he said.
As things fell back into a natural rhythm, I found myself mulling over what Roxanne had said about beating the car. She was right about one thing. I still loved Marc. That’s why his cheating hurt so much.
Forgiveness requires selective memory, and after several weeks I decided to move his dalliance from center stage. His sin may not have been forgotten, but it wasn’t dictating our every interaction either. I began to see the man I loved again.
Five weeks after he had moved back in, I decided to make a change. I was sitting in the break room eating my lunch with Roxanne when I announced my decision.
“I think I’m going to do it,” I said.
Roxanne wrapped a paper towel around a frozen burrito and put it in the microwave. “Darling, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She pushed several buttons, and the oven started.
“I’m letting Marc back in.”
“You already did that, babycakes.”
“In my bedroom.”
I suddenly had her full attention. She sat down next to me. “Really.”
“I’m ready to move on.”
She smiled. “So things are going pretty well.”
“More than well. Better than ever. Marc’s been a complete saint. I think this whole thing was a giant wake-up call for him.”
“Won’t be the first time someone walked through hell to get to heaven,” Roxanne said. The timer bell rang on the microwave, and Roxanne got up, opened the microwave door and reached inside and pulled out her burrito, lifting it by the corners of the paper towel. “So when are you doing this?”
“I was thinking of making him a nice dinner and telling him tonight. Do you think Jan could sit?”
“She’s probably free and you know how she loves Char. Why don’t you just have Charlotte sleep over? Just in case one thing leads to another.”
Jan was available, and I arranged for her to pick Charlotte up from school, then run by the house for pajamas and a change of clothes. The more I thought about the night, the more excited I got. I didn’t call Marc to tell him—I wanted the evening to be a complete surprise. I left work at four, stopped at the grocery store and picked up a bottle of red wine, a loaf of peasant bread, asparagus and a couple of steaks. I put the steaks on to broil, then set the table with china, silverware and tall candlesticks.
Marc had told me that he would be home by 6:30, so at 6:20 I lit the candles, put on some perfume and waited for him in the front room. He didn’t come. By 7:30 I began to worry that something had happened. By 8:30 my emotions started running wild and I began imagining him with the other woman. I called his office line, but it went straight to voicemail. I waited for him until eleven, then I blew out the candles, put the steaks in foil and went to bed without eating. My emotions vacillated from anger to worry. Where was he?
He didn’t come home during the night. The next morning I called his work. His secretary, Gloria, put me through to Marc’s boss, Dean.
“I was just about to call you,” Dean said. “We were worried when Marc didn’t show up today. Yesterday he was acting rather peculiar. He left work at noon to go to an appointment and missed an important meeting later in the day. No one has seen or heard from him since. We assumed he was at home.”
“No, I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning,” I said. “What do you mean by peculiar?”
“He offered another salesman his two biggest accounts.”
“Why would he do that?”
“It makes no sense,” Dean said. “Gloria also said she overheard him on the phone earlier in the day. She thought he was . . . crying.”
I thanked him and hung up. I was frightened. Had I been too harsh? That night, after Charlotte was in bed, Roxanne came over to the house and sat with me while I made calls to whoever I could think of who might have seen him. I called the area hospitals and police stations to see if he’d been in an accident. It was around nine when the headlights of Marc’s car flashed through our picture window on our living room wall. Roxanne looked at me. “I’ll go, babe. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Roxanne went out the side door to avoid bumping into him. I heard the door unlock, then Marc opened the front door and walked in. I walked into the foyer to meet him. He reeked of alcohol.
“Where have you been?”
“Gone,” he said, avoiding eye contact.
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Aren’t you sharp.”
“Marc, where have you been?”
“I don’t have to answer to you.”
“You’re still my husband.”
“Not for long.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve been drinking,” he said. “That’s what it means. That’s where I’ve been. That’s all you need to know.”
“You’re on a real winning streak here. First cheating, now drinking.”
He waved a clumsy hand to brush me off. “Don’t talk to me. I’m through talking. I’m getting my things and leaving.”
“You’ve been begging me to stay and now you’re leaving?”
“Pretty much.”
“What about Charlotte?”
“She’s going to have to get used to it anyway.”
“What are you talking about? Get used to what?”
“Being fatherless.” He stopped to look me in the eyes. “Not that you care, but I found out why I’m not feeling well. I have pancreatic cancer. The doctor’s given me two to six months to live. How do you like them apples?” He walked to our bedroom, knelt down at the dresser and began pulling out clothes.
I followed him, dumbstruck. When I could speak, I said, “Marc, I didn’t even know you weren’t feeling well.”
“You weren’t doing much thinking about how I was doing.”
I crouched down next to him. “Marc, please stop. I do care. I was so afraid that something had happened to you. Thursday night I made us a candlelit dinner. I want you back.”
He stopped what he was doing. “It’s too late for that.”
“No, it’s not. Where will you go?”
He looked at me sadly. “If I’m lucky, I have maybe thirty to forty days left of any kind of quality. I’m not going to waste a single one of them being abused by you. I told you I’m sorry for what happened. But I’m done now. I’m not going to spend my last days on earth beating myself over what I can’t change. Or let you do it.” He stood, his arms full of clothing. “Where’d you put my suitcase?”
“Marc, what happened, the other woman, it broke my heart, because I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I forgive you for what happened.”
He looked at me in disbelief.
“I forgive you, Marc. Completely. I want you back. I want things to be the way they were.”
“They can’t be the way they were.”
“No, but there can still be love.”
He took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”
“Where will you go?” My eyes welled up with tears. “Do you really want to die alone?”
His eyes began to moisten as well. He shook his head.
“You belong here with your family. We’ll take care of you.”
He laid his clothes on the bed, then wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
I took his hand. “I married you for better or for worse. Most of it has been better. You’ve been good to me. You’ve given me Charlotte. You’re a good father. I want to be with you. I want you in my bed. It’s forgotten. I promise.”
“Can you really do that?”
I put my arms around him. “I will. I promise. Let me care for you.”
He suddenly began to cry. “I’m so sorry about everything. I’m sorry I have this.”
“We can beat this. Together, we can beat this.”
He shook his head. “It’s too late for that. My oncologist said that even if they put me through chemo and radiation it would only buy me a few months at best. He said, ‘Go home, put things in order and cherish every minute with your loved ones.’ ” He began to cry again. “I told him I didn’t have a home.”
“You do. You have us. And that’s what we’ll do. We’ll make the most of every minute. I love you. I always have.”
Marc dropped his head on my shoulder and we both wept.
