The Day He Asked For Divorce Was The Day I Was Dying Chapter 5

Sam stared at the words on the paper.

Out in the corridor, the first cold rain of autumn began to fall. When Sam pushed open the door to the room, it was very quiet.

The woman on the bed looked like she was sleeping. Her hair was spread across the pillow, and ber cheeks were more sunken than he remembered.

And I stood at the foot of the bed, light as air, invisible as the wind.

When had I gotten so thin?

He didn’t know. He only remembered that I always said I was fine. Always wore loose clothes. Always cleaned up every bit of misery before he came home.

Margaret sat at the bedside, holding my hand.

Sam walked over slowly and reached out to touch my face.

Cold.

He had been a surgeon for twelve years. He had touched a thousand faces just as cold. He knew

better than anyone what it meant.

“Grace,” he said.

No one answered.

Margaret, her voice raw from crying, stood up and handed Sam a small wooden box. “Grace told me to wait. But I can’t wait anymore.”

Sam looked at the box, a label was stuck to the lid. He recognized my handwriting: [For Sam.]

The doctor stood in the doorway, holding a complete medical file. “Mr. Bennett, Ms. Holloway was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer forty-three days ago.

“She came alone, refused admission, and took only a prescription for painkillers. We advised her repeatedly to tell her family, but she said…”

The doctor paused and opened the file. A sticky note was clipped to the front. “She said, ‘He’s a surgeon. If he can’t fix it, I don’t want him to see it.””

Sam stared at the words.

He knew my handwriting, every letter neat and careful, just like me. Always afraid of being a burden.

Forty-three days ago. He started counting backward.

Forty-three days ago, I had come home from an errand carrying a pot of white camellias.

That same day, he had ordered the workers to tear out my roses. I had asked him, “Does it have to

be today?” -and he hadn’t thought twice about it.

Forty-three days ago, in the morning, I had been sick in the kitchen, and he thought I’d had too

much coffee.

Forty-three days ago, late at night, I had said, “Will you take a look at me? —and he had gone to Juliette’s instead.

Sam’s hands began to shake.

He finally opened the box.

On top was a signed copy of the divorce papers, dated today.

Under the papers was a life insurance policy, with Margaret Bennett named as the beneficiary.

And beneath that, a letter.

Sam pulled out two pages covered in my handwriting.

[Sam, if you’re reading this, I’m probably already gone.

Don’t be angry or think I’m being dramatic. I thought about telling you, a lot. But every time I tried,

I remembered the things you wrote in that note file.

I don’t blame you. Ten years is a long time. Of course you got tired of looking at the same person. I just didn’t realize you were that tired.

Do you remember our first winter after we got married, when the furnace broke? You piled every

piece of clothing you owned on top of me and slept wrapped in the curtains.

The next day, you had a fever of 103, and you told me it was because my snoring kept you up all

night.

You said, “Grace hates being cold. From now on, I’ll keep her warm every winter.”

Later, we fixed the furnace, and you didn’t have to sleep in the curtains anymore, but I never forgot that night.

I never forgot you putting the heaviest coat over my feet. I never forgot you shivering and saying you weren’t cold.

I know the way you are with Juliette. It’s the same way you were with me. You can’t help it. You help

anyone who cries. You give in to anyone who needs you.

You just forgot, somewhere along the way, that the first person who needed you is still here, and

she’s cold.

I should stop. Any more of this and it’s just a suicide note.

Your knee brace is in the closet. Margaret’s blood pressure prescription needs to be refilled next month, and her insurance information is in the second drawer of the shoe cabinet.

Tell Margaret I’m sorry I couldn’t spend one last Christmas with her.]

The letter slipped from his fingers.

Sam bent down to pick it up. When his fingers touched the edge of the paper, his legs gave out and

he fell to his knees.

A nurse passed by in the hallway as Margaret closed the door.

From behind it came the sound of low, broken crying, the kind that can’t be stopped.

On the bed, I lay still, no pain on my face.

I didn’t have to hold myself together anymore.