Suspicious Minds

I awoke to the smell of coffee brewing. When she saw me sit up, Marsha brought me a cup, doctored just the way I like it. "Is this to help me wake up?" I asked her.

She gave me a half-smile. "No, it's to try to stave off a headache from caffeine withdrawal," she said. I hadn't even considered that, and was grateful for her thoughtfulness.

Thirty minutes later, my gratitude had disappeared. The coffee had worked its way through me, and when I went to the bathroom to urinate, it was all I could do not to scream. It felt like an ice pick was being rammed somewhere up inside me.

Marsha must have heard my gasp, and she was waiting for me when I walked out of the bathroom. She settled me back on the couch. "That's one of the after-effects of the procedure," she assured me. "It's all on the sheet they gave you." I found that only slightly comforting, but she told me it would hurt less every time I had to go. "Damn, I hope so" was all I could say.

I think I slept most of the afternoon -- I really don't remember much about it. I do know I had to use the toilet twice more, and the sheet had been right about the pain lessening. "It's a hell of a note," I thought, "when you're happy because it only huts a little to pee."

Marsha made a light meal for us which I ate hungrily, not having had any food since dinner on Thursday. We talked a bit about the procedure -- what I could remember about it -- and the post-op instructions. The main thing was that I'd be on a strong antibiotic for the next few days to minimize the risk of any infection. I'd filled the prescription several days ago, and Marsha made sure I didn't miss a dose.

That night when I went to bed, Marsha put on her pajamas and came with me. "Please let me stay," she begged. "It's the only way I'll know if you need something during the middle of the night."

I wasn't up to arguing with her, and, to be truthful, I wasn't sure I wouldn't need something during the night anyway, so I let her crawl under the covers with me. Once again she wrapped her arm around my chest, and it felt good to have her warmth pressed against my back. I went to sleep quickly.

The next morning I found myself alone again, but this time when I came downstairs I found a big breakfast waiting. After eating and having my coffee, I was pleased to note that there was very little discomfort in urination. I guessed my body must be healing. I was also relieved to find that there were no aches and pains as a result of the procedure. I was pretty certain I'd be able to go to work on Monday without difficulty.

The effects of the anesthesia had worn off completely, and I no longer had any feelings of disorientation. Yet my mood was still oddly elevated; I guess it was relief that the biopsy was behind me.

When I told Marsha how much better I was feeling, she asked if I'd like to get some exercise. "I'd definitely like to get out of the house," I told her, "but I don't want to try anything strenuous."

"I have an idea," she said, "let's go for a walk in the park," and that's what we decided to do. We used to do that often when we were married, but . . . no, I didn't want to get into that.

It was a beautiful fall afternoon and the leaves were in full color. I found myself invigorated by the air and the exercise, and was surprised to see how much energy I had, so we walked a long time. At one point, we came to a fork in the road. The right fork seemed to spiral up the hill, and I vaguely remembered a meadow up there with a great view. "Want to try it?" I asked.

Marsha peered up at the trail and an odd look came over her face. "No," she said, "if you don't mind, I'd rather stay on this path." It didn't matter to me. It was a beautiful day no matter which way we walked.

As we were heading back to the car, she suddenly took my hand and stopped. "Marshall, I'd like to stay at your house tonight, if it's alright."

I was surprised. "You don't have to do that, Marsha. I think I'm fine now."

"I know, but I'd feel better about it if I could just make sure. Please, Marshall."

There was almost a hint of desperation in her voice, and I'd been very grateful for all her help, so I didn't want to upset her. Besides, if I was honest with myself, I'd enjoyed the company. Sitting alone in that big house was not something I enjoyed.

"Sure," I told her, "that'd be fine."

We resume our walk back to the car, but she didn't release my hand.

That night there was nothing to eat in the house, so we decided to go out for dinner, choosing a little place we both used to enjoy. I hadn't been there in a long time and was gratified to find that the food was just as good as ever. I was also pleased to see that Marsha and I were able to talk so easily without opening up old wounds. Sure, there were topics we avoided, but for the most part it was like old friends catching up with one another. When we got up to leave, I think both of us were surprised at how late it had gotten.

I had assumed that our sleeping arrangements would be the same, and indeed Marsha came into the master bedroom again clad in her pajamas. But when I turned the light out, she turned away from me. I had expected that she would reach for me as she had the last two nights, and was a little disappointed when she didn't. We lay there in silence for a while; then I felt a slight quiver in the mattress. At first I couldn't figure out what was happening, but then I realized she was crying! I could tell she was trying to keep silent, trying to hold it in, but there was no doubt in my mind what was happening. The only question was "Why?"

What should I do? What did I want to do? She'd broken my heart and made me suffer more than I could ever imagine. Yet when I'd been in need, she'd responded without hesitation, and the last two days had felt really good.

And why was she crying in any case? I was the one who'd had the biopsy, I was the one she had cheated on.

But I couldn't let her lie there and cry. Tentatively, I reached out my hand and rubbed her back. At first her crying grew louder, almost sobbing, and I thought about stopping. But gradually she quieted down. I rubbed her back for a few more minutes, then let my hand rest on the mattress, still touching her spine. I guess we both fell asleep that way.

For the third morning in a row, she was already up when I awakened, and once again, the smell of coffee and breakfast greeted me as I came down the stairs. When I walked into the kitchen, she was wearing the clothes she had worn on Thursday night. Her overnight bag was sitting on the floor.

We ate almost in silence, and after we had cleared away the plates, she picked up her bag.

"Do you have to go now?" I asked.

"Yes, it's best that I get going. Sis will be expecting me." Her voice was flat, almost brusque.

I walked her to the door, and as she moved to leave, I stopped her.

"Marsha, I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't helped me. It's been a terrible, painful year for me, and I haven't forgotten what happened, but I want you to know that I'm truly grateful for your help this past week."

"No problem," she said quickly. "Glad I could help." Then she turned and headed quickly down the walk toward her car. I was stung by her brusqueness. But then she stopped and looked back at me. In a softer voice, she said, "Please let me know how the test comes out."

That made me feel a little better, and I promised her I would. With that, she drove away.

That afternoon, I tuned into football again. The back-up quarterback somehow managed to produce another miracle and our home team won again. But the unexpected victory didn't give me the pleasure I would have expected. Indeed, it was as though the clouds had moved back in and everything seemed once more dark and dreary. I wasn't sure why; the only thing I could figure was that the relief of getting past the biopsy had worn off and the gravity of the upcoming test results was beginning to weigh on me. That probably also explained why I didn't sleep as well Sunday night.

When she arrived at the office Monday morning, Karen anxiously came into my office to inquire how everything had gone. "Piece of cake," I told her blithely. "I'd recommend it to anyone." She stuck her tongue out at me. I hoped my bravado had fooled her.

The next few days were worse than the preceding week. I could not get my mind off the upcoming encounter with the urologist. I spent long periods trying to convince myself that the results of the biopsy had to be good, and equally long periods trying to rationalize away the significance of bad test results. Every time something came up at work that would require action on my part, I wondered if I should commit or defer. What if I were undergoing surgery at that time? What if I had to have radiation or chemo? Once again, the lack of anyone to talk to just magnified the uncertainty.

The nights were the worst: sleep seemed unattainable. My bed felt cold and uncomfortable, and I couldn't seem to turn my brain off long enough to fall asleep. I desperately wanted to take sleeping tablets but was fearful of becoming addicted. "Now I know how Michael Jackson must have felt," I thought.

When Friday finally came, I must have looked pretty bad. Several people at work stopped to ask if I was feeling OK, and Karen wanted to send me home. It didn't help that I had little breakfast and no lunch at all. I had no appetite, and, frankly, I didn't think I'd be able to keep anything down if I did eat.

When it was time for my appointment, I slipped out so I'd avoid seeing any of my colleagues. I even avoided Karen, just leaving a note saying I'd see her on Monday.

Walking from the parking lot into Dr. Bannerjee's building, I couldn't stop myself from calling it the "last mile." Gallows humor is the last refuge of a coward.

It got worse after I'd checked in at the desk. When the nurse called my name, instead of leading me to one of the examining rooms, she took me to a lounge-like area with a leather-covered couch and side chairs. "What does this mean?" I asked myself. "Is this where they break the bad news?"

As I looked around, I spotted an anatomical model of a human torso laid open to reveal the organs. I shuddered. On the end tables were numerous popular magazines, most of them long out of date. There was a pamphlet lying on the couch, and when I picked it up I saw the title: "Living with Cancer." Had they put that out for me?

The minutes ticked by, and I felt as though I might cry. "Come on, man up," I told myself angrily. Then, just when I felt I couldn't bear it any longer, the door opened and Dr. Bannerjee appeared. He clutched a folder in his hand, my results, I presumed. I held my breath.

When he looked up at me, his face broke into a broad smile. "Good news, Mr. Harrison, the tests were negative!" He said some other things to me, but there was a roaring in my ears and I didn't hear any of it. He shook my hand and pointed me toward the door.

As I walked across the parking lot, my legs were wobbly. The feeling of relief was so overwhelming I was almost afraid to drive. All the fears I'd had for the past two weeks came back to me, and as I thought about each of them, I realized they no longer held any power over me. I was happy but not yet calm; that would take a while to come.

The dark clouds that had hovered over me might have dissipated, but it was still getting dark when I got home, so I didn't notice the car parked on the street. But when I started up the walk, I saw a figure sitting on my porch with her arms wrapped around her knees. As I drew nearer, I realized that it was Marsha!

"How long have you been here?" I asked in astonishment. "What if I hadn't come straight home?"

Tears began to run down her cheeks, and she jumped up angrily to face me. "Never mind, never mind! What about the test? What did the doctor say?"

Why was she so angry with me?

"There was no sign of cancer," I said. "The tests were negative; I'm fine."

To my amazement, her face drew up and she began to cry in earnest. I stepped up to her and held her arms. "What is it? What's wrong? It was good news."

But her crying turned into sobbing, so much so that she could hardly stand. I put my arm around her and helped her onto the porch and into the house. She sat heavily on the sofa, unable to control herself. I sat beside her and held her, dumbfounded at her reaction.

Suddenly, she slipped off the sofa and knelt in front of me. She threw her arms around my knees and laid her head on my lap. "Oh, Marshall, I lost you once, and I was sure I was going to lose you again, this time forever."

She clung tightly to my knees and rocked side to side, reminding me of the way a young child sometimes cries when she can't be consoled. As I tried to smooth her hair and pull it out of her face, she looked up at me again. "I've been so afraid. My father died of prostate cancer," she whispered, and then began to cry again.

Now I began to understand. In some ways, I realized, this must have been as bad for her as it was for me. All I could do was hold her; I could think of nothing to say that would help.

Finally she got control of herself and looked at me with pleading eyes. "I'm so sorry, Marshall. Please don't send me away again. Please let me stay, please."

I didn't say anything, and she went on. "Once when I was a little girl, my parents took me to the sea shore. They warned me to be careful of the waves, but I didn't see the danger and got out a little too far from shore. Suddenly, a big wave came in and knocked me down, rolling and tumbling me helplessly, until it dumped me out on the sand, scraped, bruised and crying."

She sniffled. "It was the same way with Bill. I didn't see the danger, and suddenly I was caught up and helpless to resist. And just like before, when it was over I was left hurting." She looked up at me mournfully. "But this time I hurt other people too."

Then her resolve seemed to strengthen, and she said fiercely, "But I learned, Marshall. I learned that there are waves out there that can knock you down. I learned there are people out there who can play on your vanity and seduce you into something you don't want. I won't make that mistake again either, Marshall, I swear to you I won't. If you'll just have me back, you'll see."

I looked at her and I could see the little girl on the shore who was powerless in the grip of the wave. And, though it still hurt to think about, I could see the grown woman who had lost control in a moment of vulnerability. I knew what it felt like to be helpless and vulnerable when I'd gotten my diagnosis and things suddenly spiraled out of my control.

Marsha must have taken my silence for doubt, because she began talking faster now, as though her words were rushing to get out before she lost her nerve. "I know you don't trust me, Marshall. I know you're wondering how you can ever believe me again. But I'll do anything to prove it to you. I'll give you my cellphone every night so you can see who I've talked to. You can put a GPS tracker on my car. You can even get me one of those ankle bracelets like they make criminals wear to prove they haven't left home confinement. I'll do anything you want, Marshall, anything to make you believe in me, anything to get you to take me back."

"No!" I shouted at her. "I can't live that way anymore!"

She recoiled as though I had struck her, but I went on, this time in a quiet but urgent voice. "It's a trap, Marsha. I can't live my life in constant doubt and suspicion. That's the way I was before, and I know what it did to me. I also know what it did to you."

I cupped her chin and lifted her face so she was looking into my eyes. "You should never have given in to Bill, but I was the one who made you vulnerable in the first place. I didn't trust you, and my suspicions made you feel isolated and unloved. If I hadn't acted the way I did, a predator like Bill might not have been able to seduce you."

"No, Marshall," she said bitterly, "it was my fault. Yes I was hurt and angry at your lack of trust. Yes, Bill tricked me, drugged me and even blackmailed me, but I still have to take responsibility for what I did. I have to live with that."

Tears began to run down her cheeks again. When she looked up at me, it seemed that all the resolve I'd seen before had washed out of her. "Do you think you could ever trust me again, Marshall?" she asked.

"You said you've learned from your mistakes," I told her. "Well, I've learned too. When I had my cancer scare, you were the last person I wanted to ask for help. But I was forced to, and you said yes. I had no choice but to rely on you, and you were there for me. Even when the anesthesia left me powerless and vulnerable, you didn't desert me or take advantage of me."

"And there's one more thing I learned, Marsha. Even though I was loathe to ask for your help, even while I was consumed with fear of cancer, I learned I was still happier with you here than I've been in a long time."

I took a deep breath. "I don't want to live with doubt and suspicion any more, I want to live in faith and hope. And I want to live with you."

We clung to each other on the sofa for a long while.