At least not yet.
I rejected the hurt behind his features. I was too lost in the labyrinth of my own trampled feelings to spare any energy for his.
So I stared at him blankly for another moment. And then I turned my attention back to the window, to the blue sky above dark clouds.
A storm raged below. Strobes of lightning flickered at intervals, angrily striking the earth. But from our place above the clouds, the storm was mostly hidden, and virtually soundless.
***
We didn’t speak to each other again during the remainder of the flight. It was long and our friends surrounded us. I don’t think either of us wanted to sort through our issues in front of an audience.
When we landed in Chicago, I was still numbly cruising on autopilot. One of Quinn’s cars drove us home.
Wordlessly, Greg carried our bags—really, just his bags since I’d brought nothing to Nigeria but a Kevlar bodysuit and weapons—into the apartment building while I walked ahead and called the elevator. We boarded the elevator in silence. We rode the elevator in silence. We departed the elevator in silence.
Suspension of conversation continued as he unlocked the apartment and opened the door for me to enter. I almost immediately tripped over a pile of Grace’s laundry, the pile Greg and the kids had dumped into the living room nearly two weeks ago when he’d been home for a day, and I’d been so careful about keeping the apartment clean.
How long ago that felt.
Everything and nothing was different.
Except . . . I was out of sorts. I felt out of sorts. Something was wrong with me, really wrong. Physically wrong. I was not myself.
After a twenty-three-hour flight, I should have been tired, but I also should have been ready to move forward and plot a way through our latest marriage turbulence. I wasn’t a grudge-holder. As Buddha said, “Holding a grudge is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” I was not that person.
I knew this. I should have been ready talk, to listen. But I wasn’t. I remained greedy of my feelings even though I knew my irrationality could not persist.
Greg walked by me, carrying his suitcase into our bedroom while I picked up my cell phone from where I’d left it charging on the entryway table.
I had missed calls from each of the knitting girls, and several text messages welcoming me home. As well, there were several missed calls from my oncologist. In fact, there were a lot of missed calls from my oncologist. Seven to be exact.
An unpleasant and dark sensation, like inhaling smoke, crept into my chest and made breathing somewhat difficult.
Before I left for Nigeria to save Greg I’d been in denial about so many things. Bottling my feelings in the hopes that everything would just eventually work out was paramount on the list of my mistakes. Ignoring the headaches and loss of appetite had been monumentally stupid.
I did remember what it was like to have a brain tumor. It sucked. But living in denial wasn’t rent-free. Eventually it required a balloon payment, usually in the form of misery and pain.
Stiffening my spine, I pressed play on the last voicemail left by my oncologist’s office and braced myself for whatever news they’d been frantic to share with me.
“Mrs. Archer, this is Liz from Dr. Daud’s office again. I realize I’ve left you an ungodly number of messages, but I cannot impress upon you enough how vitally important it is for you to call me back as soon as possible. Please do not attempt to schedule an MRI with the hospital or elsewhere until you speak to Dr. Daud or me. The office number is . . .”
My hand was shaking slightly as I removed the cell from my ear, though I smiled at my phone—a humorless, bitter smile. My stomach was dually in my throat and at my feet, but waiting would accomplish nothing.
I heard Greg’s light movements from our bedroom, sounds that were usually comforting, but presently were not. I was caught in a spiral of self-pity and intense aggravation, with a chant resembling: Your apartment is a disastrous mess, so is your marriage, and so is your mind.
Perversely, I decided to rip off the band-aid rather than prolong the unknown.
I hit the return call option with my thumb and brought the phone to my ear. It rang three times. Someone picked up.
“Dr. Daud’s office, Alison speaking. How can I direct your call?”
“The nurse please, Liz Schaffer.” I was surprised by the sound of my voice, so cool and aloof.
“Just a moment.”
The line clicked, signaling my call was being transferred. So I waited. And waited.
And waited.
Eventually, the line was answered. “Liz Schaffer speaking.”
“Hi Liz, it’s Fiona Archer. I’m sorry I didn’t call back earlier, but we just got back in town and walked through the door. I’m just seeing your messages now.”
“Oh! Mrs. Archer. I am so glad you called. I was so worried you would try to reschedule the MRI without contacting us first.”
“No. I was just out of town. I haven’t rescheduled the MRI yet.”