Fear, guilt, recognition that we were about to cross into territory we couldn't come back from. Marcus, she said, and her voice was almost perfect. Almost? Yeah, he did great. You know him?
Always prepared. I do know him, I agreed, flipping the sandwich. That's why I was surprised when I found out. Found out what? She was still scrolling, but her thumb had stopped moving.
This was the moment, the cliff edge, the point where our marriage would either bend or break. I played at her sandwich, cut it diagonally the way she liked, set it in front of her with a napkin and a pickle spear. Then I leaned against the counter, crossed my arms, and asked the question, "I'd been rehearsing for 6 days. Do you know what illness he has? " The color drained from her face like water from a tub. The phone slipped from her hand, clattered on the marble countertop.
Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. She looked at me like I just spoken in a foreign language. Like the words needed time to translate into something her brain could process. What? It came out as barely a whisper.
Marcus, I kept my voice calm, almost clinical. The illness, I'm assuming he told you given how much time you spent together these past two weeks. Her hand went to her throat. An unconscious gesture of panic. James, I don't What are you talking about?
It's serious, Rachel. The kind of thing that doesn't go away. The kind of thing that spreads if you're not careful. I let that hang in the air between us. Watched it sink in.
The kind of thing you'd want to get checked out soon. Like today soon. She stood up so fast the bar stool scraped against the floor. What illness? James, what the hell are you talking about?
I didn't answer, just looked at her with the kind of steady gaze that said everything and nothing. That confirmed her worst fears without giving her anything concrete to deny or defend against. I need two. She grabbed her purse, her keys, her phone. I need to make a call.
Doctor's office is probably it open for another hour, I said helpfully. You might want to ask for a full panel. Given the circumstances, she stared at me like she'd never seen me before, like I was a stranger wearing her husband's face. Then she turned and walked out the door, her sandwich untouched, her suitcase still unpacked upstairs, her lie hanging in the air like smoke. I heard her car start, heard the tire squeal as she backed out too fast, heard the engine fade as she sped toward town, toward the clinic, toward whatever test she thought she needed to prove or disprove something I hadn't actually claimed.