He ran his finger along the scar on her belly.
"It's ugly, isn’t it?” she had asked, as she searched his face. It was fresh then, raw.
"No. I hardly notice it," he had lied. He wished when he said it that he had meant it. But the surgical scar was ugly, almost grotesque. Her beautiful flawless body, marred.
That was more than thirty years ago. Not the last lie he told her, nor his worst.
She lay in the tub now, passive, unaware of the scar, the tub, her nakedness. Unaware of him. Only when he washed the soap from her hair did she turn to him, puzzled.
"It's alright," he soothed. "I'm done."
She moved her eyes away then, and they became vacant again.
He wrapped her head in a mauve towel. Mauve. One of those colors he never noticed, one she used to enjoy. Now that she was indifferent to color, he paid attention.
"You won't be able to care for her at home, by yourself," the nursing administrator had warned when he signed Marisa out of the residence. The administrator, an angular woman. Tall, even as she sat in her chair. Small eyes behind rimless glasses.
He dropped the pen on the woman's desk, stood upright and glared at her. Jabez wasn't a violent man, but he wanted to tear the smugness from her narrow face.
"She's coming with me," he snapped.
Marisa had been in the care home for less than twenty-four hours. When he'd left her the day before, she was confused. Maybe a little frightened, but quiet. He'd combed her hair, the way she used to like it, off to the side and tucked under. There was very little grey. And her fair skin...she never used much makeup, so he hadn't bothered with it.
She was still beautiful. Tiny. Tinier than she ought to be. So frail. This residence was the best place for her, he was convinced. The staff was expert, and he could visit every day.
When he returned, in the morning, she was in the day room. Her hair was combed over her forehead, and straight. Her head was down. As he approached he could hear her weeping.
It shattered him. That sound, the quiet unobtrusive weeping, brought memories back in a torrent. Weekends he’d said he was on business trips. Nights he‘d said he was staying late to work. How many nights?
She knew. And when he'd leave the room, she'd weep. Quietly, and unobtrusively. Why had she never confronted him? Why did it go on year after year, until the weight of it, of her weeping and her silence, forced him to stop.
More than anything in the world, more than anything he’d ever craved, he wanted her forgiveness now. He was going to earn it, to make it up to her.
He turned to the caretaker.
"Get my wife's things. I'm taking her out of here."
The woman was plump, dressed in some floral, polyester thing with a white bib.
"Oh sir," a slight brogue." She'll get used to it. They all start out like this. It passes."
He must have looked fierce, because the caretaker stepped back. She uttered not a word but went to confer with someone at the desk.
Now he had Marisa, here, in the tub. She hadn't wept since she left the adult home. He never left her alone. If they needed supplies, he called out for them. If she needed a doctor he brought the doctor to the house.
"She hasn't got long, maybe a month," the doctor told him. Technically she was in hospice, but Jabez did not want to think about what came after.
He lifted her from the tub and wrapped her in a terry robe. He carried her to the kitchen and snuggled her in the lounge next to the garden window. Sun poured in. Her skin was luminescent.
"Remember when you planted those roses, Marisa? You took such good care of them, and every year they grew stronger."
He talked as he combed her hair dry.
Did she see the flowers? Hear his voice? There were things that had to be said, before she was gone, before it was too late.
She had to know. He had to tell her.
"I love you Marisa. You're a good wife, a good woman. I was never good, certainly not a good husband. I'm sorry. If I could take it back, if I had a giant eraser that could wipe it all away... You are the best thing in my life, have always been. I wish somehow you would know that."
He rested his hands in hers as he talked. Then he felt something on his upturned palm. A tear. Marisa was crying.
Did she understand what he said? Why was she crying?
All the years he hadn’t confronted her, hadn’t wanted to know, the years he welcomed her silence, now it cut through him. Did she still hurt? He’d used silence in their marriage as a license to act. That silence now became a yoke.
Did she forgive him? He would never know. Silence was his penance, and not knowing the punishment he would take with him to his grave.
Image @yaziris, LMAC Gallery, LIL
