The Sick Wife Read online

  I can’t say that to her. Not now. Not anytime soon. I can’t even bear to imagine the look on her face. I feel like a monster. And what if I can never say it? What if I just string Milla along for years, while actually getting back together with my wife, and I can never be with her after all? Never start that family we planned?

  I feel sick.

  Did I propose to her for nothing? Did I get into a relationship with her and form this connection for no reason? Is there no chance for us? Are we never going to meet up? Did I just use her during a difficult time… and am I just going to break her heart and get rid of her now? Leave her alone and depressed while I give all my energy to my wife, and return to my backup plan?

  “Fuck, I need a cigarette,” I whisper to myself. I actually bought a pack the other day. It’s sitting on my desk. I have just been staring it for days, whenever things get difficult. I’m trying to be strong, but some days…

  As I enter the house, I see another text from Camilla appear: It’s like you don’t even want to make this work anymore.

  I can’t find the words to text back, and I just feel anger rising in my chest. What am I supposed to do? What the hell am I supposed to do? I smash my fist into the wall.

  “Gabe?” a voice cries out from deeper in the house. She sounds hysterical. “Gabe!”

  Forgetting my anger, I walk into the room where I’ve set up Yvette’s bed and wheelchair. I am startled to find my wife lying on the floor beside the bed. Crying. Her white nightgown is stained with urine.

  “You’re such a huge fucking asshole,” she whispers. “You’ve always let me down. Since the day I met you.”

  “What happened?” I ask with surprise.

  “I’ve been screaming your name for hours now. Where the hell were you?” she looks so upset and hurt, and embarrassed. She’s red in the face. “Gabe, I’ve needed to pee for like four hours now. My phone died and I didn’t have a charger… and I couldn’t get into the fucking wheelchair. I… I guess I fell.”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” I say softly, moving to her side to help pick her up. I place her in the wheelchair, and she shoves me aside angrily. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Where were you?” she demands to know again. “We’re on lockdown, where the hell did you even go?”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I just needed a walk to clear my head.”

  “Fuck this shit. I need a better physical therapist,” she says with determination as I push her chair to the bathroom to get her cleaned up. “I want to be able to walk again. I don’t want to depend on you, when you clearly don’t give a shit about me. You never did, Gabe. I’m nothing to you.”

  “That is not true,” I tell her, trying to stay calm. Both of them are driving me mad. I swear.

  “What woman are you texting?” Yvette demands angrily. “Is it one of the girls from the massage parlor? What stupid slut is more important than your wife?”

  I have to take a moment to take some deep breaths before I help her out of the wheelchair and into the shower. “Evie, please.”

  “No! I’m sick of this. I see the way you look at me, the way you touch me… you’re disgusted by me, aren’t you?” she asks. “You don’t even find me attractive anymore, do you? Is it because I’m sick and skinny like a skeleton now? I couldn’t eat properly for months!”

  “Evie, you’re beautiful. I find you attractive,” I tell her, as I turn on the shower and make sure the water temperature is comfortable.

  “Then why don’t you touch me? Kiss me? You must find me hideous now,” she says, and she’s sobbing as I try to gently lift her out of her wheelchair to transfer her to the chair in the shower. She clings to my shoulders for support.

  “No!” I tell her, as I remove her soiled dress gently, before placing her down on the chair. “You’re as beautiful the day I met you. I promise.”

  She looks so broken and defeated. “Then you don’t love me anymore?”

  “I’ll always love you,” I tell her, as I begin to gently wash her body.

  “Then fucking kiss me! Please.” There are tears streaming down her face. I feel so guilty. I know how much she needs this. I understand that she needs to be loved, and that’s part of healing too. That’s why she came home to me. And that’s not what I’ve been giving her. I’ve been a friend and a guardian, a caretaker.

  I haven’t been her husband. Not really. And this is part of my duty.

  The job I signed up for when I married her.

  Stepping closer, I ignore the shower soaking my clothing as I lean down to kiss her soundly. I kiss her with every ounce of strength I have left, trying to show her how much I care. How much I’ve cared for years, and how much I want her to be okay.

  When I pull my lips away, she is still crying, but they are happy tears. She has wrapped her arms around my neck, and she is clinging tightly.

  “Gabe,” she begs. “Make love to me.”

  I hesitate. “Are you sure you can handle that?”

  “Handle that?” she slaps me across the face, although she is still weak and it does not really hurt. “Stop rubbing it in my face that I’m a useless invalid. Treat me like I’m a woman. Like I’m your wife. Make love to me here in the shower, like we used to.”

  “Yvette…” I say softly.

  “Please,” she begs. “Just help me feel normal again.”

  I know I have to. Although it hurts my soul a little bit, and I feel like I am betraying Milla. But this is important to Evie, so it’s important to me. I just want her to feel healthy and whole.

  Chapter 28

  There seems to be no way that I can help one woman without hurting another.

  I’m starting to realize this, and I just feel stuck—everything I try to do causes pain. So I have stopped doing much of anything. I can’t seem to work. I hate to admit it, but I’ve been drinking a lot. Every time I talk to Camilla, it’s not fun and happy anymore. She’s angry and far away. I can feel that she no longer trusts me. I can feel her giving up and pulling away, and I don’t know how to stop it.

  I drink myself to sleep sometimes, so I don’t have to think about it. Sometimes I feel like I have to shut Camilla out of my mind in order to function. In order to keep living my life. It’s too painful to remember her, and to remember how happy we were a few short weeks ago. I can’t manage living like this, faking things with Evie while my heart is stuck somewhere on the other side of the planet. I feel sick about it.

  There’s nothing I can do to make it better. I’m so tired of sneaking away to text Camilla like a teenager hiding from his parents. I hate that I’m constantly disappointing her, and making her question us. I hate that I’m the major source of her pain, and I’m starting to feel like I need to push her away or end things in order for us to both be okay. It’s just not sustainable to be stuck in this relationship halfway. Not even halfway…

  It’s like we dipped our toes or feet into paradise, but have all these heavy chains anchoring our whole bodies to dry land, to reality… and we can never seem to find the strength or bravery to just dive in. I wish I could dive in, let go of my chains, and just start to do the things we dreamed about. All the things we planned for and spoke about every day. We created such a beautiful idea of a future that I can never seem to completely let go.

  I still think about Sunday Delacroix, and sometimes I even dream about her. I dream about holding that tiny little baby in my arms, for the very first time. Her little fingers wrapping around mine. “Milla, she’s perfect,” I would say. I can imagine her tired smile, the same way she always smiled at me on video call. Sparkling eyes, creases beside her mouth… just melting my heart. Just pure happiness. “I love you, Milla,” I would whisper, while kissing her forehead.

  “What the fuck did you just say?”

  I blink.

  Fuck. I fell asleep. Drunk and out of my mind—beside Yvette. Fuck! What did I say? She must realize that I am clueless from the look on my face.

  “You were calling for Milla,” Yvette says s
lowly. She hits my arm and shoves me away. “My nurse Camilla? Fuck you, Gabriel! Really?”

  I am too dazed and drunken to really make sense of what is happening. What I do know is that Yvette must be getting stronger, because she is able to sit up and push me entirely out of the bed, with considerable force. I stumble forward and have to grab a piece of furniture for balance. “You misunderstood me,” I try to tell her, but I can tell from the look on her face that I’m not fooling anyone.

  I think about lying. I think about making up some kind of story to explain this.

  “You were saying that you loved her. Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Yvette asks me, her face contorted with rage and jealousy. “My nurse, Gabriel?”

  “Yes,” I answer weakly. I’m too drunk to say anything else and I just want to be honest for once. Maybe that will ease my heavy soul. “It was really difficult when you were sick, Evie. I talked to her a lot…”

  “Don’t fucking make excuses!” she shouts, throwing a pillow at me. It’s funny how when someone has been really weak, you feel happy to see them being violent because it means they’re growing stronger. I almost want to celebrate every time she throws something at me.

  “Milla and I got really close,” I tell my wife.

  “How close? Gabe, how close?” she demands to know. “Tell me!” she shouts, throwing another pillow.

  “I do love her,” I say softly, my eyes closing in my intoxicated state. I just want to go back to sleep and forget all this happened.

  “Putain!” Yvette shouts. “Get out. Get the hell out, now. Take your drunk ass and go. You stink!”

  “Fine,” I say, stumbling to the door. It’s past curfew, but it doesn’t really matter. I grab a half-empty bottle of white wine before heading for the door.

  The streetlights pass by me in a blur as I stumble toward a park. I find a bench to sit on and take a few gulps. The scenery is beautiful. I’m overlooking the Seine, and there are trees all around. I stand up and move closer to the water, as close as I possibly can without falling in. I find an area underneath a tree that is partially extending into the river, and I sit at the roots of the tree, drinking.

  When I finish the bottle, I toss it aside angrily, and lean my head back against the tree. I fall asleep there for a little bit. It’s quite lucky that I don’t fall into the river and drown. Lucky for who, I’m not exactly sure. Is it lucky for me? Possibly.

  When I wake up, a few small clouds are turning pink with the sunrise. I try to stand, and find that I am still quite drunk, but possibly less than before. I am not less angry, confused, and upset. I see a few guys wearing dark clothing, gathered in the park. They look to be smoking together. I stumble toward them, without really questioning the direction of my feet.

  “Hey, what’s up,” I say, still speaking English for some reason.

  “Yo, man,” one of the guys says. “What do you want?”

  “My wife kicked me out of the house,” I tell them. Then I see that one of the guys is eating from a bag of chips. My stomach growls. “Hey, can I have some of those chips?”

  “What? No,” the man says. “I don’t know you.”

  “That’s rude. I’m just a fellow human being, in need of some chips,” I explain, stepping closer to him. His buddies intervene protectively, and step forward, pushing and shoving me away from their friend and his chips.

  “Give your fucking hands off me,” I say, shrugging them off. One guy tries to hit me, and I dodge his punch. I smash my head into his nose. His buddy comes at me then, and I slam my elbow into his ribcage. I get in a few good hits, and I manage to defend myself well—okay, who am I kidding? It’s not self-defense really. I came over here looking to start something… and chips.

  But I’m outnumbered, five to one. Eventually, they overpower me and get me onto the ground. They proceed to beat the shit out of me, punching my abdomen and kicking my chest and face and head. I lay there, letting them do their worst.

  I almost don’t care if it kills me. I almost feel like I deserve it. I’ve been such a toxic presence in the lives of people I care about. The only thing that disappoints me is that I didn’t get any chips first. That’s the real tragedy here.

  I am still thinking about the chips, and my stomach is growling, while they beat me into unconsciousness. Okay, maybe I think about Evie and Milla a bit, too. And all the things I haven’t done with my life. But mostly chips.

  Chapter 29

  “Oh, Gabe,” Yvette says when I come home from the hospital several hours later. A random passerby called for help and saved me, and I had to get some scans of my head done before they could release me.

  “What did you do to yourself?” she asks softly.

  “Nothing, really. I just got the hell out, like you told me to.”

  “Did you do this just to get revenge on me for yelling at you?” she asks. “Gabe… I’m so sorry. I don’t know how difficult things were for you when I was in the hospital. I don’t care if you got close to Milla. I’m glad she was there for you.”

  “Yeah,” I say gruffly.

  “Come here.”

  She opens her arms to hold me, and I go to her and let her comfort and take care of me. See, that’s the benefit of having a wife. I don’t mind the fact that my face is busted open and I’m swollen and disgusting with stitches. She’s seen me in every possible state. I know that she’ll love me at my worst.

  But the thing with Milla is so new, just a few months… I think I would terrify her if she saw my face all busted up like this. I don’t know if she’s really ready to love me in my darkest moments like Evie is. There’s definitely something precious about the security of having a wife you’ve been with for years, instead of a brand new girlfriend, or fiancé.

  You don’t need to worry about impressing the wife, really. You can come home from the hospital with your face smashed open and that’s just a normal day. I would never let Milla see me on video call like this. And I don’t really want to tell her all the details about what’s been happening, either. I know it’s creating a lot of distance between us… but it’s probably better that she doesn’t worry.

  Maybe it’s even better that she moves on, and forgets about a toxic fucker like me.

  How would she ever think I’d be a good father if I told her about this? I would seem unstable, chaotic, dangerous. It’s immature, self-destructive behaviour. I know she wouldn’t expect that from the sophisticated professor and writer she fell in love with. I’ve told her about some of the darker moments of my past, but she hasn’t really seen me like this so far. My life wasn’t always easy and glamorous.

  Anyway, I am amazed by the face that Yvette is actually feeling well enough to take care of me a little. Maybe it’s just because she feels bad for kicking me out of my own house that she’s trying. It’s not the first time she’s done that, not the first time I’ve gone wandering the streets at night with a bottle of wine, looking for a fight—and it probably won’t be the last. This is just how we’ve always been.

  It’s a mess, and it’s not always healthy between us. Sometimes we don’t seem to work at all. But it’s my mess, and it means a lot to me that we are both still here, after everything. After all the time apart, all the fights, all the cheating. We both always come home to each other. Sometimes, I do feel that the right thing to do is stay with Yvette. Especially when I talk to her parents, or my own family, and they are so happy to see us back together.

  This marriage isn’t just about us—it’s about our loved ones and social circle too. There is so much I would lose if I lost Yvette or ended things between us. So many people, so much respect. But sometimes, I just don’t care. Sometimes I want to throw it all away, burn it down to ashes, and start over new. Something doesn’t feel the way it should. At the end of the day, Evie doesn’t want to have children, and I really do.

  There’s so much I could gain by starting a different life. Things I really want and need.

  “My poor Gabe,” Evie says, kissing my inju
red head. “What kind of trouble did you get into this time?”

  “Just a fight with some guys,” I explain to her.

  “Honestly, you will be the death of me,” she says with a sigh. “What did they say at the hospital?”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. But my head is pounding fiercely.

  It turns out that I didn’t get any brain damage from getting drunk and getting the shit kicked out of me by random street thugs. This surprised me, because I definitely feel severely brain damaged. I know that I am completely fucked in the head.

  But my MRI was perfectly normal.

  I’m just in love.

  Chapter 30

  I have been trying to get some writing done in my office today, while Yvette has hours of physical therapy. Her new trainer, Lukas, seems to have some methods that are really helping her. She’s been making faster progress in moving around while using a walker for support. Her legs are gaining stability, and we hope she can progress to using a cane soon. Her nightmares have also been less intense lately, so I feel like I am helping her to recover and heal.

  Now that she can take care of herself a little better, get to the kitchen for food and take a shower on her own, I feel more comfortable taking some time for myself. She has even started smoking again… despite the fact that I encouraged her to use this whole experience as motivation to stop. So, I’m trying to focus on my own needs. I am in the middle of writing a chapter in my latest book when I hear a noise coming from the bedroom. At first I am not sure what it is, but then it gets louder and I realize it’s yelling. Is Yvette fighting with Lukas? I hear cursing. Crying. What the hell?

  I finish typing my sentence with a deep sigh, and save my work before getting up. I move across the house quickly to check what’s happening. I find Yvette struggling to use her walker with one arm as she carries clothes and packs them into a suitcase. She’s going somewhere? But there’s no way she’s healthy or strong enough to travel on her own. What is she doing?