Mark was quiet for a moment.
“I’m sorry. So sorry, Cadence. I can’t . . . I can barely even say her name out loud.”
“Exactly! She’s a HUGE part of you and your past!”
“She was,” he said finally.
“She still is,” Cadence argued. “Look how angry you are.”
“I’m mostly angry that you went through my things,” he lied. “That box was buried.”
“Bullshit! You aren’t upset I found those rings. You’re upset about your life. That it didn’t turn out the way you wanted it to.”
Mark stared at her. What did that mean?
“I like my life just fine,” he replied. “I love my life, actually.”
“Bullshit.”
Cadence felt the tingle in her fingertips—that aching that signaled the worst kind of fear and betrayal. It was worse than the fear she felt when she sat on the bathroom floor and cried after Mark broke up with her. Yes, the fear and anger stemmed from his secret, but most of it stemmed from the words he said to her and their inherent meaning: You have no past. You’re brand new and shiny. Blank slate. Easy.
You’re unimportant.
She wasn’t crying anymore. She wasn’t feeling anything apart from the fear.
“Cadence?” she heard from far away.
She looked up at Mark. He was mere inches from her. Why did his voice sound so far away? And that’s when she realized what was happening. In those few seconds, the wall flew up. A great big divide. And she was too tired to start tearing it down now.
“Cadence?”
“I need to go think,” she said absently. She pushed past him for the bedroom. He followed.
“I’ll answer any question you have,” he said, watching her climb into bed. He sensed the wall, too, and he wanted to tear it down immediately.
“I don’t have any.” She looked at him, perplexed.
“That’s impossible,” he replied. “You’re the most curious person I know.”
She shook her head. “I don’t have any.”
He sensed her need to be alone, so he left the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. He pressed his ear to the door and listened. He’d go back in if he heard her cry.
He never did. He only heard her tiny voice repeating the same words over and over:
“I’m important. I’m important. I’m important . . .”
He couldn’t stand it and burst through the door. He crawled into bed beside Cadence and took her in his arms. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t respond to him either.
“Yes, Cadence. You are. I never meant to make you feel like you weren’t. I said those cruel words because I was angry. Not with you. I’m still just angry about everything that happened.” He paused for her reaction, but she stayed silent. “You’re the most important person to me. Your life. Your past and present and future—they’re all important to me. They matter.”
“Okay.”
“We can talk about it. I’ll tell you anything you wanna know about Andy.”
Cadence stiffened. It was the first time he said her name.
“I’m just tired,” she replied. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Okay.” He kissed her shoulder and waited for her to fall asleep against him. She usually did. But not this time. She pulled away from him, turned her back on him, and hugged the edge of the bed.
“We did everything we could . . .”
Mark blinked, focus going in and out. He tried to concentrate on the doctor’s words. He saw lips moving, but no sound. There was no sound. There was only a look of concern and defeat. The doctor was defeated. He’d lost the fight, and now Mark was left to clean up the ashes.
“. . . highly irregular . . .”
He didn’t know how to clean up after a battle. He’d never had to do it before. Even when his father fell ill, everyone was prepared for it. The cancer didn’t take long. The doctor said he had three months. And it was almost three months to the day when his father died. Everyone was ready. The plans had been made. Clean up was minimal.
“. . . need to know when you’d like to see her . . .”
Mark stared at the doctor’s mouth, dazed. He might as well have repeated “watermelon watermelon watermelon” over and over for all Mark understood of the doctor’s words.
It was over. Pointless. His world gone, and he burst out laughing.
His mother grew frightened. “Mark, honey?”
Mark pointed to the doctor. “My wife’s dead, and he keeps saying watermelon!”
He roared with laughter—hideous laughter. It reverberated in the lobby of the hospital, and a nurse was called. Too much commotion. He needed to be taken away.
“Mark . . .” His mother cried softly as she stroked his arm.
“What? It’s funny,” he said, then collapsed in a wheelchair that was rolled into the lobby for him. “Dead wife. Watermelon. Dead wife. Watermelon. Dead wife. Water—”
“Mark!” Cadence yelled, shaking him.
He tore off the sheets and sat up in bed, wiping his face. He’d been crying.