“Yes. I just found out, two days ago.”
I quickly told the story of discovering Jack’s aptitude for music. Greg stared at me, disbelieving as I related the facts.
Greg crossed his arms over his chest, struggling to understand. “He was playing at the dance studio?”
I nodded, feeling perplexed and overwhelmed all over again. “Yes.”
“Well, what did you do about it? I mean, what are we going to do? This is serious, right?” Greg shifted his stare to Jack, who was still playing.
“She went to the doctor,” Matt said, entering the conversation with a non sequitur.
“What?” Greg’s gaze flickered between Matt and me. “You took Jack to the doctor?”
“No. Fiona went to the doctor. For her headaches. But the MRI machine was broken, so . . . That’s what you’re talking about, right?” Matt placed a cup of hot chocolate in my hands, adding, “I did put some alcohol in your cup, Fiona. But I was out of vodka. I hope you like rum.”
***
“When were you going to tell me about the headaches?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
Greg was pacing back and forth in our bedroom, his hands on his hips, more furious than I’d ever seen him.
“You didn’t want to . . .” He shook his head, his eyes skimming over my form like I was unknown to him, a stranger who’d suddenly appeared before him. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
Grace and Jack were still next door. As soon as Matt had mentioned the headaches, Greg grew very quiet and still. He looked at me. I flinched because I knew my husband and I saw that he was enraged. With a tremendously cold voice, he asked Matt to watch the kids. He grabbed me by my hand and marched me back to our apartment, and into our bedroom. He paced back and forth, obviously panicking, for several untenable moments.
And here we were.
I was sitting on the bed, hoping he’d sit next to me. I reached out to him and he recoiled, moving out of my reach, and continued his pacing. My heart lodged in my throat and my stomach dropped to my feet.
“Will you sit next to me please?” Despite my distress, I endeavored to keep my tone calm and reasonable.
“No!” he thundered. His tone was neither calm nor reasonable, and the single word made me jump.
“I’m sure it’s no big deal.”
“Do you not remember having a brain tumor?”
I ignored his heated question, instead opting to impassively explain. “I haven’t been sleeping well, Grace is having bad dreams—nothing I can’t handle—and I’m sure that’s it. Once she starts sleeping through the night again, everything will go back to normal.”
He stopped his pacing. Instead, he glared at me like I was a terrorist. “Nothing you can’t handle?”
“That’s right.” I nodded once.
“So, you don’t need me.”
“Right. I don’t need you,” I assured him automatically, hoping he would calm down.
Greg blinked once, his jaw ticked, and I didn’t miss the renewed inferno blazing behind his eyes. He said nothing, but I couldn’t help feeling like I’d done something wrong. A heavy ache settled in my chest, peppered with heavy helpings of guilt and doubt. We stared at each other across the ocean of our king-sized bed, both frowning.
Perhaps I should have told him about the headaches . . . but to what purpose?
He’d been thousands of miles away on a different continent. He couldn’t do anything from an oil rig in South Africa.
We’d never argued about the nature his work, about his leaving. After Jack was born and Greg’s year-long desk assignment was over, we’d discussed his job and the logistics of his absence like two rational adults. We’d made a pros and cons list, and money had been the deciding factor, on paper.
But in real life—so, not the cold, logical facts written in list format—Greg loved his job. He loved the important work only he could accomplish on-site. He made a difference to the world. The techniques he taught saved lives, and not just human lives. He was a pioneer. His methods for oil extraction were making a difference in the global environment. His ability to ingratiate himself to local governments and convince them to do the right thing was invaluable.
I’d decided years ago I wanted children, and I’d recognized at the time I’d likely be raising them mostly by myself. I’d made the choice and accepted the consequences. I was on my own.
I didn’t like the shuttered quality to his expression, nor the withdrawn, measured way he glanced around the bedroom. I debated what to do, what action to take, what I could say to make things better. In the end I decided to give in to the impulse to apologize.
“I’m sorry.”
His gaze flickered to mine and he held very still. “For what?”
“I’m sorry if you’re upset about the headaches. But if I thought they were important, then I would have told you.”