Page 11 of Letting Go at 40

“Why?”

“Because I know it’s going to get tough, and there will be things I don’t want you to do.” Ben sheepishly looks away from me. His pride is on the line.

“And Mason will do those things?” Mason will do all the intimate personal actions Ben will need as the disease debilitates his body? I doubted it.

“He will.”

“How do you know?” I cock my hip and cross my arms over my belly.

“I just know.” Ben holds his head higher. His eyes narrow at me. His decision is final.

I don’t want it. I don’t like it. But Mason is staying.

Chapter 5

2 Years, 9 Months Ago

November

Mason Stays

[Anna]

As much as I’d rebelled against Mason’s moving into the garage apartment, he has not been what I’d expected. He’s like the shadow permanently attached to you but only present during certain times of the day. His presence confuses me. His attention. His compassion. It’s puzzling. This version of him isn’t one I’ve seen before, or maybe I haven’t recognized it in him.

Mason gives us space as a family when we need it and assistance when we ask for it, like carpools to the kids’ activities and a live-in sitter when Ben and I travel back to Chicago for doctor visits. He orders food in on nights I haven’t cooked and does laundry when I forget to check hampers. I work as a substitute teacher during the day to give myself something to do other than fixate on Ben’s condition. I’d been a high school English teacher in Chicago, and I plan to take on a full-time position again.

But not yet.

In the quiet of a November evening, Ben has gone to bed early. He tires quicker with each passing day. His symptoms have been a slow drip now turning to a steady trickle. I’m afraid of the moment when it will be more.

Outside the windows, our surroundings are dark. Living on the lake, off a curvy shore-line road, there aren’t streetlamps to illuminate the landscape. A single light highlights the driveway at night when Calvin works in town at an after-school job and Mason does whatever Mason does in the evenings.

Most nights he goes out. He doesn’t bring women back to the garage apartment, that I know of. I’m certain Ben mentioned that type of behavior wouldn’t be appreciated around our children.

I’m not a prude about sex and modern attitudes about it. Calvin has slept with a girl or two starting at the ripe age of sixteen, but he isn’t traipsing them through the house. He does what kids do, I guess. Backseats of cars. On the beach in the dark. Maybe even in his room when we are out. I don’t know and I never ask.

I feel displaced from my kids at times. My head is elsewhere. I’d never admit how I’m struggling. The move. The cancer. The uncertainty of our futures.

Tonight, I’m standing in the kitchen, lit only by a light over the sink, and I’m scrubbing the pots and pans left over from I can’t remember when. A new heart-shaped rock has appeared next to the faucet. I find them in the strangest of places. On the surface of my nightstand. In the bathroom on the sink. Even on the end table closest to my spot on the couch. At times, I’m still convinced the small gesture is Ben’s doing. Other times, I wonder if my deceased parents are sending me a message. Like a reminder from the grave. You’re stronger than you know. Maybe it’s them simply telling me they love me. Or maybe the universe is just playing some kind of joke on me.

With my thoughts circling, two arms extend over mine into the sudsy water. One hand removes the sponge in my hand. The other takes the pot out of my grasp. A subtle hip check forces me to the side.

“You don’t need to do them,” I argue, my tone rougher than it needed to be. We’ve had some particularly upsetting news earlier in the day.

Ben isn’t responding to his treatments.

“I’ve got it,” Mason says without looking over at me. I’m only inches away from him. With his shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows, his long, lean arms flex as he scrubs the pot. He’s never struck me as a man who’d know how to wash dishes.

“I got it,” I reply, pushing at his bicep, willing him to move out of my way and let me finish scrubbing the pot. “It’s my house.”

Mason doesn’t budge. His firm, tall body stays in position. He rinses the pot and sets it aside before turning to face me. He leans his hip against the sink cabinet and stares at me with dark, molten eyes. He looks like a tiger ready to bounce.

I straighten my shoulders and lift my head. “My dishes. My house,” I repeat, my voice rising. “My husband. My life.” My voice cracks. Dammit. I place a hand on my upper chest. My shaking fingers spread out over my rapidly beating heart, as if I can keep all the cracks and fissures there from expanding, shattering. The only thing reminding me I’m alive and whole is the acceleration of that heartbeat.

Mine. Mine. Mine. I sound like a petulant child on the verge of having a tantrum. I’m ready to explode and it’s a result of my once orderly life continuing to spiral out of control.

“My friend,” Mason counters. His voice isn’t stern but desperate, claiming his own possession over Ben. “I love him, too.”