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“You just don’t, not like you need to. That trust isn’t going to return until you fall back in love with me. I hate to say it, but it’s the truth,” he says with downturned eyes.
I feel my heart stop momentarily, or perhaps it just feels that way.
He’s right. I know in my heart that he’s right. I don’t love him, not as a wife should. I can’t imagine how painful it must be for him to see me like this, to look into my eyes knowing that the person in front of me is a stranger. I’m sure it’s broken his heart every time he’s thought about it.
“You’re not to leave the house until you can walk on your own again,” he adds.
His comment brings me from guilt to instant fury. “How the fuck do you think you can put me on house arrest just because I’m disabled? You’re being way too protective. I’m still a fully-grown adult. I can navigate the world on my own without you,” I spit, seeing the betrayal come over his eyes.
“Well, even if you believe that to be true, I still have the final say. I’m your caretaker, literally and legally. I decide what happens to you until you’ve proven that you’re capable of making those choices on your own. So far, you’re just being impulsive and bratty,” he replies angrily.
I’ve had enough. I wheel myself past him, throwing open one side of the French doors and sending myself down the hall to the elevator.
He doesn’t chase after me, putting a pit in my chest. Why isn’t he following me?
It feels silly and a little immature of me to want my husband to follow me out the door after I’ve made a dramatic exit. But at the same time, he’s so caring and devoted the rest of the time. Why can’t he just indulge my stupid redemption fantasy?
Either way, I don’t feel like I’m wrong at all. I just want to leave the house once in a while, that’s it. It’s not like I have an autoimmune disease that prevents me from being out in public. My head might be all scrambled, but I’m pretty sure that we’ve made enough strides as a society to allow wheelchairs in most public places.
I make my way down to the courtyard, noticing that the doors aren’t open for me like they were before. Of course, they wouldn’t be. Adas had no reason to believe that I would storm out of the room straight to the yard.
Even still, remembering how he’d left the door open for me is bittersweet.
He loves me more than I love him, and that fills me with guilt and shame.
I know he doesn’t blame me for this, which makes it so much worse. His undying patience is half of what causes me to be guilty. He does nothing but give to me, day in and day out, and I’m still so cold and uncomfortable around him. I feel more like he’s a well-meaning but annoying guy at a bar who won’t leave me alone than my husband who has been caring for me in sickness and in health.
There has to be some kind of support group for people like me, people with severe amnesia who feel like a burden to their loved ones. Even if there was such a group, I know Adas wouldn’t let me go, but it would be good to know that I’m not crazy, at least.
Just as I’m about to call for somebody to assist me, Leo the gardener sees me stationed inside and walks over slowly to let me in.
He doesn’t say a word, not that I’d understand him anyway. But his eyes are warm and kind, and I nod a thank you to him. I should at least learn to saythank youin Russian.
Spaciba.
I think that’s it, but I’m not sure.
He returns to his gardening, so diligent and efficient despite his old age. I watch him meticulously, noting how well he maneuvers himself even though he clearly struggles with his mobility.
Maybe I can take some notes.
Maybe watching Leo will help me gain my freedom back.
Eventually, my mind drifts away from my paralysis into the issue at hand, the true issue; Adas feels unloved, untrusted. I need to learn to love him again, even if it’s more painful and confusing than learning to walk again.
I could never, ever doom him to a lifetime in such a prison of a loveless marriage. He’s clearly worked very hard for everything he’s given me, and I’m completely incapable of giving him anything back. I feel like a chore for him, though he feels no such way about me. He deserves to feel loved, and if learning to walk is the only way he’ll believe me, I’m going to make it happen.
I need to do it for him.
There’s no other way.
7
RIVER
It’s been a week since my doctor’s visit, and Adas still hasn’t tried to kiss me or initiate physical contact at all.
While I can’t say I’m necessarilybotheredby this since I’m still warming up to him altogether, it does shock me a bit that he’s been so distant.
