Compass (Siren Songs Book 2) (21 page)

“Piper, I’m not sure what you’re expecting.”

“I don’t know. I just know I’m not happy.” It’s a painful admission but one that needs voicing.

“I’m not either. We’ve completely lost our connection; there’s zero intimacy between us. Physical or emotional. No marriage can survive this way.”

My mind reels with the veracity of the words I’m about to speak. He’s going to know I lied to him months ago when he asked me if I was still attracted to him. “I can’t do it.”

“You can’t do what?”

“Sex.” The monotony of my voice speaks volumes.

Slowly he nods his head in understanding, pain visible in his features. I hesitate to say more but have the overwhelming urge to explain.

Taking his hands in mine, I refuse to be a coward. “It’s two-fold. I can’t be intimate with someone I don’t like and I haven’t felt much of anything other than contempt for you since you came home.” Inhaling through my nose, my chest rises, exhaling before I take the plunge. “When you touch me, it feels like half of you is there and another person is in the bed with us. The dead weight of your left side is like a foreign body joining us. I hate it.”

I don’t allow myself to cry, I refuse to start a pity party. I just told my husband he’s not attractive to me and don’t want him to touch me. This isn’t the time for me to feel sorry for myself.

Studying his eyes, I wait for a response, he blinks slowly, two, three, four times, before raising his lids to meet my stare. “Wow,” is all he says. As if he needs to acknowledge I’ve spoken but doesn’t have a clue how to respond—I’ve verbally slapped him across the face. “That was brutally honest.”

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, Moby, but I don’t think us sidestepping the issues helps. We’ve both been doing it for months, and it led us here.”

“So you have no desire for any type of physical intimacy with me?” There’s regret etched in his features. His brow furrows in sadness or possibly confusion.

Unable to say the words again, knowing my voice will break; I shake my head in confirmation.

“What will it take to get that back?”

“An effort on your part to be my partner again. Not just around the house but you promised me your therapy would be your full-time job and other than taking you to and from sessions, I never see you doing anything to further your rehabilitation. You seem content doing the bare minimum. I haven’t checked your log recently, but my guess is it would reflect there as well. You seem to have totally checked out, Moby. You’ve become complacent, and I can’t figure out why.”

His silence confirms my accusation. Pulling his upper lip between his teeth, he silently chews on it, mulling my words over.

“Aren’t you angry? Mad at the world? Don’t you want to scream or punch something? Give me something instead of this blasé attitude you’ve adopted.”

“Okay. Anything else?” he asks without answering any of my questions.

“I think that’s a lot to start with. What about you? What do you want from me?” I know he has needs regardless of whether he voices them or not. It’s hard to have a conversation, much less a productive one, with someone who isn’t responding. “You know it’s okay to be pissed off, right? You lost a huge part of yourself—you’ll never be the old Moby again. I just don’t understand your total lack of emotion. Have you given up?” I try to keep my voice from rising but even if Moby’s complacent, I’m enraged. I feel cheated…like God stole from me. I want to shake the shit out of something or someone until I get answers.

He stares at me blankly taking in what I’m saying, or maybe it’s blowing right by him, it’s hard to tell. “The things I need from you aren’t going to come until I change things on my end. So let’s just begin with that.”

I relent and let the topic go for now. I want him to really push, challenge himself to something greater than where he is. My heart is heavy with the burden of our failing marriage, but it’s as if Moby’s lost interest in life altogether. For the first time since I met him, there’s a part of me wishing I never had. A shard of doubt is creeping in. The thought of walking away and starting over appeals to me. Slamming that door in my mind shut, I close myself off to the notion of divorce being an option. If the thought ever crosses my lips, if I ever verbalize the idea, it will sink so deep it will be a part of my psyche and come to fruition.

I
f Piper knew
the half of the depth of my betrayal, there’d be no chance to attempt to revive our relationship. The truth is I’m not doing
anything
I should be doing. Yes, I go to therapy, and I do what they tell me to while I’m there, but when it comes to what I should be doing at home or on my own, it’s not happening. If she checked my log she wouldn’t know the different, it’s all there, I take the time to write it down, make it believable, but I can only count a handful of times I’ve actually attempted any of the exercises.

None of my physical therapists or doctors have been able to tell the difference, so why bother? They sing my praises, showing me my statistical progress in comparison with other stroke victims, but none of them seem to take into consideration I’m forty years younger than their average patient. I was in prime physical condition prior to this. Parts of me wonder where I might actually be in my recovery if I bothered doing half of what’s assigned, but I don’t have enough curiosity to actually make it happen.

I’ve misled everyone. My doctors. My therapists. My parents, friends, family. Piper. I haven’t left anyone out. They’ve all received the same bullshit lies, so it’s easy to keep them straight. Piper has a sixth sense; she knows something is off. She didn’t come out and say it. Well, I guess she kind of did, but she knows my progress should be faster if I were devoting myself to the process.

I finally got my driver’s license back after the medical suspension. I now have some freedom I haven’t had in months. After Piper leaves for work, I make an appointment with Ralph, our therapist. I need some guidance, and as much as I hate to do it, I’m going to have to admit what I’ve been doing. I’m going to start with the least threatening person, the only one I have nothing to lose with. If Ralph thinks less of me, big deal. We pay him to talk to me. The stakes are much higher with everyone else in my life. I run the risk of losing my friends, family, and wife. My doctors could refuse to continue treating me since I’m in a state-funded program. The consequences are enormous, but hopefully Ralph can help me put things in perspective.

When I arrive, he ushers me into the all too familiar office. I see him at least once a week with Piper, and frequently another time alone. Piper doesn’t like him, but humors me because she knows he’s the only person I’ve opened up to.

“Good to see you, Moby. I take it from your call you have some concerns?” Ralph is an older guy, probably late sixties, three daughters, and a wife of forty-five years. He’s tall, roughly my height, bald, and fit. He’s a bike rider, distance, so he’s lean. I’d guess he runs too, but I’ve never asked. I only know about the riding because of the pictures adorning the walls in his office.

“Piper and I had a pretty frank discussion this weekend.”

“That’s to be expected. You guys have faced a lot in a very short amount of time. You seem to be handling it together as a couple very well.”

Lowering my head in shame, I dive into my admission. It’s not going to get any easier, and he’s the easiest to tell. “I haven’t been honest with her.”

He adjusts in his seat. “How so?”

“Well, not just her, everyone.”

He doesn’t probe, doesn’t say anything, he simply waits for me to reach a point where I can push the words past my lips.

“I’ve been lying about my rehab.” I wait for him to question me, helping me draw the information out, but it never comes. The silence causes verbal vomit. “I’m not doing any of it. I mean I’m going to the appointments, but that’s it. Every word in my journal is a lie. I’m not even checking my blood pressure like I’m supposed to. My entire recovery is bullshit.”

When I finish my spew, he clasps his hands together as he crosses his legs. For the love of God, say something, old man!

“I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you I’m disappointed but, Moby, you’re cheating yourself more than you’re cheating those who love you. Why go to the lengths to create fake journals?”

“I wish I could tell you I have some great reason behind it, or justify it logically, but the fact is I can’t. I promise myself every day I’m going to change things. I have every intention of doing the work, but as soon as I get ready to, I can’t find the motivation.”

“But you have the wherewithal to write out elaborate lies to show your wife and physicians?”

His bluntness stings, but it’s exactly what I’m doing. The truth is a painful slap in the face.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Since the day I came home.”

“How does Piper not know?”

“She suspects something’s not right but doesn’t have confirmation. She works during the week, so I always tell her I did the work while she was gone. On the weekends, she normally leaves to run errands, go to the grocery store, or something, so it gives me time while she’s away.” I shrug at how easily the lies come.

“Do you feel like your lack of motivation is related to your depression?”

“I’m not dealing with depression. I just don’t want to do these stupid exercises. Do you know what it’s like to go from deadlifts to barely able to pick up a tennis ball?”

“So you’re admitting defeat before you even start?”

“I wouldn’t call it defeat. I would say it seems pointless. What’s moving a tennis ball from one basket to another going to do for me?”

“I don’t know much about occupational therapy, but my best guess is it’s to retrain your brain how to do simple cognitive functions. I’m sure you’ve heard a thousand times your brain has to learn new pathways to create the same actions it did without you thinking. What you’re not taking into consideration is how long it took you to learn those functions to begin with. You likely didn’t learn to walk until you were close to a year old, learning to write took years of practice and your handwriting continues to evolve for years. Why are you expecting instant gratification?”

I’ve heard it all before but maybe not with a very open mind. Somehow today the words seem different, they are more intelligible, easier to comprehend.

“I don’t expect instant gratification, I just hate doing it. I hate doing it when I’m at the center, I sure as hell don’t want to do it when I’m home.”

“Do you ever hope to resume the life you lived before the stroke?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then when are you going to start putting in the effort to make it happen?”

I don’t answer because I’ve promised myself every day since the day I came home today would be the day, and so far it hasn’t happened.

He lets that question hang in the air moving on to another. “You said Piper doesn’t know?”

I nod, chewing on the side of my lip.

“Do you have a plan to tell her and the rest of your family?”

“I don’t have a plan. I could lose them all.”

“I think you’re more likely to lose them continuing this charade than if you tell them the truth. Own up to what you’ve been doing. The deceit.”

“How the hell do I do that?”

“I would suggest you start with your wife. Sit her down and just be blunt. Don’t sugar coat it or make excuses, just tell her.”

“She’s going to be pissed.”

“Do you blame her? She’s been pulling the extra weight under the assumption you’ve been playing your role. You’ve allowed her to work really long days and take up your slack. She has every right to be angry. Justifiably.”

“What if she leaves me?”

“I think you face that if it happens and not before. It can’t be a reason you keep the truth from her.”

“She’s not going to take it well.”

“Likely not, but once you come clean the two of you can figure out how to ensure it doesn’t continue. She wants what’s best for you, Moby. She may be angry initially, but I think you might find she knew anyway, and her resentment isn’t from what you’re not doing, so much as you telling her you are.”

“What about my family? My friends? How do I admit to everyone I love that I’m a liar?”

“You simply sit down and tell them the truth. They love you, Moby. My guess is you’ll receive more sympathy than condemnation. But if not, you have to own the consequences of your actions and do what’s necessary to earn their trust again.”

My allotted hour flew by, leaving me in more turmoil than when I walked in here. The reality of the situation is not good. I think I’d rather tell Piper I had an affair than what I’ve done. She deserves more. Better. I love my wife, but my actions have shown her the opposite. They’ve been careless, and I’ve disregarded her feelings. I didn’t allow myself to believe I was hurting anyone other than myself.

* * *

I
know
Piper won’t be home before seven o’clock, but I’ve been sitting at the bar in the kitchen waiting for her to walk in the door since about six. I cooked dinner, although I can’t guarantee the quality, I made vegetable soup and cornbread, both from a package. I’m hoping they soften the blow I’m going to deliver over dinner. I can’t keep it in; I have to unload the burden.

When she comes in, I see the exhaustion just beneath the surface, the darkness under her eyes. Through it all, I still see the gorgeous woman I married even if she’s lost a good bit of weight and her cheeks have begun to hollow. I wonder if she’ll ever be able to see the man I promised her I’d be.

“Hey,” she says, dropping her stuff on the counter. “What’s up?”

“I made dinner.” I point out like a daft duck.

She returns my gesture with a smile. “It smells fantastic. I’m starving. Let me go change and I’ll serve it up.”

I attempt to do the chore for her. I can’t get them to the table, but I put the soup in the bowls and put the cornbread muffins on a plate. She rewards me with another grin of appreciation. I hate I’m about to ruin the gesture by telling her the truth of my indiscretions.

Settled at the table, she waits for me to start. It’s one of those little things about her that endears her to me even more. I take a bite knowing she won’t eat before I do, and I figure it’s better for me if she has food in her mouth when I spill my guts.

“I went to see Ralph today.” I use this as my opener. She knows I see him on my own, so it doesn’t raise any suspicions.

“I didn’t think your appointment was until later this week?” She takes a spoonful of the soup in her mouth, swallowing. “This is really good. Thank you for cooking.”

“You’re welcome. It wasn’t. I called him to see if I could come in.”

Her spoon stops mid air. “Is everything all right?”

I shake my head. “No. It’s not, but I’m hoping it’s going to be. I need to tell you something.”

Wiping her mouth with her napkin, she sets it down on the table, folds her arms across her chest in a defensive posture, and erects a wall of protection around herself.

“I haven’t been honest with you, or anyone else and I need to come clean to try to move forward.”

“Okay…”

I practiced what I was going to say, over and over before she got home. I rehearsed it well, but nothing is coming to mind now that I need it. “My journals are a lie. Every page of them.”

“You mean your blood pressure and therapy logs?” Her brow creases with concern and confusion more than anger.

“Yes.”

“What do you mean they’re a lie?” She clips her words, but she hasn’t raised her voice…yet.

“I mean I just make shit up, so it appears I’m doing what I’m supposed to do but in actuality I’ve done none of it.”

The whites of her eyes become overly large as her eyebrows rise in question. “Have you been doing anything? Checking your blood pressure at all?”

Here lies the opportunity to continue my fabrication, to tell a half-truth, and get off, or at least partially. Knowing in the long run not completely owning up will get me nowhere. “No. I haven’t done any of it. I have checked my blood pressure a handful of times when I wasn’t feeling well but not the way I’m supposed to, and I haven’t done any of the at-home therapy.”

I had hoped getting it out in the open would relieve some of the internal pressure; instead, the silence is suffocating. Her eyes never leave my face, the expression on hers never changes. The mixture of sadness, anger, and disappointment are unbearable.