Page 146 of We Drank the Dawn

A few notifications rolled over my screen.

Some emails.

And another text from Lynn.

I sighed. After Peter got served divorce papers yesterday, the grapevine likely exploded and the Thompsons probably figured out why I’d been avoiding them. It was awkward talking to his family, and I didn’t want anyone to tell me how he was doing. Over the weekend, I dropped off Peter’s stuff at the Thompson’s house. Lynn was there, and I couldn’t make eye contact with her.

Lynn

Hi sweetheart. Do you want some spaghetti and meatballs? I’m in the neighborhood this evening and can drop them by. I know you’re working a lot so I thought a quick dinner might be helpful.

I blinked heat away from my eyes. Why was she being nice? She didn’t have to do that. I didn’t want her to do that. How could she even offer such a thing when I was divorcing her son? She’d faithfully reached out to me a couple times a week over the last month…surely it would taper off soon…

Unsure what to say, I didn’t text her back.

Jackie and I hadn’t talked since yesterday. Would she be mad at me? I quickly dismissed the thought because I didn’t want to consider how much that question worried me. Or how much it would hurt if I lost her friendship forever.

Fifteen minutes later, soft music from my bluetooth speaker filled the room and my new client, Martha, laid facedown on my table. She was in her early seventies and this was her first-ever massage, given to her as a birthday gift from her best friend—a long time client of mine, Tammy. Martha seemed a little nervous, so we made some small talk. I’d learned to lean into the level of conversation the client wanted. Some liked silence or nap time, and others, like Martha, needed to talk in order to let their muscles relax into the table.

“Your intake form said you’re on your feet a lot. Do you work?” I applied pressure with my thumbs into her arm, dragging them in a circular motion down to her triceps tendon.

“Well,” she said, her voice prim, “I’m actually retired, but my husband needs a full time caretaker.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” I lifted her forearm off the table, continuing my path all the way down to her knotted fingers, careful not to pull her loose skin.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s just life as we know it at this point.”

“Is he sick?”

“He was diagnosed with Parkinson’s almost…” She clicked her tongue in thought. “Let’s see…almost ten years ago. He has dementia among some other health complications, so”—she gave a soft laugh—“it’s a lot of time on my feet keeping him happy and clean and healthy.”

“Wow.” I shook my head. “You don’t hire anyone to help?”

“For some things, yes. But, I’ve never wanted anyone else to take care of him.”

“Does he remember you?”

“Only sometimes.”

“That has to be hard.”

Her response came easily, and there was no note of self-pity in her tone. “After being together for almost fifty years, watching him decline has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But caring for him is easy.”

A soft frown pulled my brow, I placed her arm back on the table and rolled the sheet down, moving to the other side. “It doesn’t sound easy.”

“Well, maybe easy isn’t the right word. Sometimes the work itself is draining. But, Kenny has blessed me in many ways…so…” She shrugged, drawing a canvas of lines between her shoulder blades. “Loving him as he passes into a new life is just a small way I can say thank you.”

Sudden tears pricked my eyes. My words nearly caught in my throat. “That’s beautiful, Martha.”

She hummed softly in agreement as she smiled, her cheeks bunching where they were squished against the table. “It’s what I promised to do.”

We went on to chat about her grandkids and other things, but my brain snagged on those words: It’s what I promised to do.

I was sure she meant her wedding vows. Because didn’t we all promise some version of sickness and health? Richer or poorer? Better or worse? I rolled her sheet to her waist and oiled my hands to work on her back. In the light of Martha’s saint-like love, the words I said to Peter came rushing back to my brain with sickening forcefulness.

“I didn’t sign up to have a handicapped husband.”

I shook my head, hating the blur in my vision and the growing tremble in my hands.