Mister Owita's Guide to Gardening: How I Learned the Unexpected Joy of a Green Thumb and an Open Heart (16 page)

D
ick had made a careless error, and it wasn’t like him.

Could he be rude, abrupt, downright prickly? Oh yes, all of the above. But breaking a commandment was another thing altogether. And of all the sins he might have committed, adultery was the one that was certain to hit me hardest.

It had been my worst fear, ever since I was diagnosed the first time, that Dick would leave me, that he’d grow tired of my broken body. And now the proof that he’d abandoned me was staring me in the face in the form of a size 6 woman’s dress. I found it zipped up with one of his suits when I was cleaning out the guest closet. I stood there staring at it, my brain struggling to comprehend how this item of women’s clothing that I had certainly never bought or worn had come to nestle against Dick’s suit.

I’d never mixed pills with alcohol. In fact, I didn’t drink much at all. But after finding that cozy his-and-hers packing job, I made an exception.

One Xanax. One glass of red wine. Next, I called Dick at the office. “Do you have any idea what a woman’s dress would be doing zipped in one of your suit bags with your suit?”

For once, my always-faithful husband had no answer. He didn’t plead work obligations or blithely say he’d check it out tonight. Before I knew it, he was home. If that wasn’t proof of guilt, I didn’t know what was.

I heard his key in the door and slammed my hand against the kitchen counter. I used a stool to climb up and sit on the chopping block surface, where, in anger and perhaps a little drunk, I teetered more than was really safe. But in that moment, I didn’t care.

“You forgot about it, didn’t you?” I said to him. “Did you need company, other than me, on your trip to Florida? Was it one of those seminars where you called me and we talked about the weather for forty-five seconds?”

“Carol, I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. What did you find? Can you show me?”

I marched upstairs to the guest room. He followed me. I indicated the closet and he took out the bag, unzipped it, and slung it onto the bed. His cheeks grew red and the whites of his eyes took on a rosy hue as well. The light green dress, size 6, was on top. I reached over him, pulled it out, and held it up.

“Could I ever wear this?” I said. “Maybe in the newborn nursery. Certainly not past the age of twelve.”

Dick thoughtfully handled the man’s suit. I could tell he was trying hard to remember something. Then he smiled in the way you do when you’re so relieved you could cry. “This isn’t mine,” he said. “I bought it for Chad. Don’t you remember? I liked it so much that I bought one for myself, too, in a larger size. That’s Ashley’s dress, I believe. They had a wedding to attend when they were home for Christmas. They must have forgotten it.” Dick laughed with a gasp.

I took a step backward until I reached the wall, then I slowly slid down to the floor. “I’m a horrible person. I think that sums it up.”

Dick tried to pull on the jacket in the suit bag. The sleeves were inches too short. The buttons didn’t reach. He laughed again and I joined in at first, then my laughter turned to weeping. He took off the coat and then, to my surprise, he gently pulled me up from the floor and took me in his arms.

We were both shaking, as if we’d just escaped being run over by a speeding train. Cancer had turned our lives upside down, and we’d lost some of our faith in how the world works. Even Dick, who knew for a fact that he hadn’t cheated on me, had been terrified. My illness had threatened to tear us apart—and in my worst moments, it still felt like a shadow hanging over us. Although I’d healed physically, the deeper wounds were still there, like a form of post-traumatic stress.

Finally, he held me away from him and we looked at each other.

It was almost more than I could bear. “I’m crazy, aren’t I?”

Dick held me again and assured me that I wasn’t. He’d been as confused as I was. Later that evening, after dinner, and when our hearts had stopped racing, Dick suggested that we go out to dinner for our anniversary the following night. He said he’d make reservations.

The next morning, Dick and I woke up to falling snow. School was canceled and I begged him to stay home from work. But being his obsessive, firstborn self, he pressed on. I watched him cleaning off his car, and wondered if he was as energetic as he seemed, or if it was only his eagerness to escape. He’d been sweet and understanding last night, but I sensed him pulling back into his shell again, turning away from the ugly truth that we’d faced together last night—that I could die and we were terrified of losing each other.

I sipped my second cup of coffee and watched from the doorway as Dick’s shovel made repeated stabs around each tire to set it free. We used to love to watch the snow together.

Dick came in for a quick kiss goodbye, then left, his footprints crisply outlined in the snow. He didn’t turn back. I decided to cheer myself with wrapping the presents I’d gotten him for our anniversary—a handsome leather wallet, which he really needed, and a favorite picture of the kids, which I’d enlarged and framed for his office.

Dick phoned as soon as he got to the office to tell me that
he’d made reservations at Charlee’s, my favorite restaurant, for that night. Then he added, “If you’re looking for something to wear, there’s a green dress in my suit bag.”

The warmth had returned to his voice, and I sensed a hint of the playfulness that had always made him so attractive to me. How silly I’d been since my surgeries and chemo—doubting him, when he didn’t deserve to be under suspicion, not for one second.

I tried out several outfits. A low-cut black V-necked sweater looked best—it showed off my new breasts. I still wasn’t entirely used to them, but I had to admit they looked good. I decided on tan wool pants and a pair of black leather boots to go with the sweater.

Later, when Dick picked me up for dinner, he said, “Well, look at you.” I wondered if he realized how long it had been since he’d given me that kind of affirmation.

That evening we sat in our favorite corner booth. The glow of candlelight cast slimming shadows on our faces. The music of a string quartet and murmurings from other diners mixed in with gently clinking tableware.

Dick gave me a single, polished amber stone set in a silver necklace. I was pleased when he told me that he’d had it custom-made. He said he returned to the jeweler three times to add tweaks and adjustments to make sure it was just what he had in mind. The necklace hung down almost to the enhanced cleavage that was still new to me. I looked up quickly from the deep V of my sweater. I wasn’t accustomed to such abundance. The skin of
my breasts was still numb, and I could have been spilling out without noticing it. So I kept a careful check.

I wanted to say,
We’re still us. Right?
But although I desperately wanted to know the answer to that question, I kept it to myself. It would only start a testy conversation and lead to an argument.

Dick wore a passive, thin-lipped smile that was hard to read. In the wash of wobbling shadows I lifted my wineglass to my lips. I thought how, many years ago, there was a time when we were less self-conscious. One of us might have asked the playful, clichéd question:

“Happy?”

Then we both would have laughed. Now laughter was no longer easy, and every word had to be measured in advance. Still, I asked Dick the clichéd question, this time from my heart. “Happy, Dick?”

He nodded to say that he was. It struck me with fresh pain that I wasn’t sure of Dick anymore. I’d always felt that Dick considered me an asset. I was nice-looking and friendly, and once I’d gotten over my youthful awkwardness, he often had me join him for social occasions with important clients. I was good at softening Dick’s sharp edges—and Dick had a lot of those. I always laughed when someone in town asked me if I was the Carol Wall married to Dick Wall, the lawyer. Dick had pissed off so many people over the years that my typical response to that question was, “Well, I don’t know, tell me more. Was he for you, or against you?”

Dick hadn’t asked me along on a client dinner in a long time. Of course for months and months I wasn’t well enough to go. Now I wondered if my absence had become a habit. I’d gone from being an asset to a liability—or perhaps a cause for sympathy. I knew that Dick had told his colleagues and clients all the gory details of my illness and in my less charitable moments I accused him of making an avocation of being the cancer spouse, the long-suffering husband. It took all the strength I had to hold on to a vision of myself that was firm and solid, and not permanently shaken by cancer. And that included how I viewed myself as a wife. It shook me to the core to realize that it wasn’t enough for me to be a good wife. To hold on to my husband, I would also have to be a lucky wife to have chosen a man who would stick by me, no matter what.

At home, I opened more wine and Dick unwrapped his gifts. He especially loved the picture of our children.

I leaned over his shoulder, looking at it. “This is really a handsome group, don’t you think? Those are all the children I’m going to have. I’m not so sure about you, though. You may not be finished yet.”

Instantly, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake.

Dick looked at me with a wounded expression. “With you, no one can win. When you found the dress, I could defend myself. But how can I take responsibility for something that may or may not ever happen? You may outlive me. All I have to do is come home late from work and you accuse me of avoiding you, or for God’s sake, having an affair. You’re mad at everyone.
You’re pissed at the people who sent you sentimental cards when you were sick and you’re pissed at those who didn’t send cards at all. Are you the only perfect person in the world? Are you some kind of saint because you have cancer? This is not my fault.”

I was stunned, and I felt the velocity of our emotions increasing all around me, as if I’d fallen from a cliff but hadn’t hit the ground yet. “When did things start to change? Was it the first diagnosis, or the second? The surgeries, the complications, or the chemo? Something’s wrong,” I insisted. “I’m not crazy to feel this way.”

Our argument continued up the stairs, my footsteps pounding out a jagged rhythm on each wooden step. Dick followed me, telling me that I was in fact crazy. I replied by calling him a “rotten bastard,” rage erupting inside me with a force that frightened me. I yanked the sheets and blankets from our king-sized bed and piled them on the floor. I pounded the mattress with my fist. Dick snagged my wrist and held on tightly.

“Let go!” I said, but he ignored me. “Are you sorry you married me?”

“No,” he said. “Are you?”

His gaze was unwavering. It was one of the first things I loved about him, back in high school when he was willing to take a stand for something that was right, even if it meant he would be unpopular. Our sadness was like a broken wafer, half of it in his hand, half in mine. We each had our portion, and our ability to bear it was a far more meaningful token of our love than any of the happy talk we’d shared in less troubled, less tested times. I
started to weep, considering all the ways I loved him. I prayed he felt the same for me. I wondered how I could ever be sure.

Later, I was calm enough to realize that no one could ever be sure. And I knew that I shouldn’t still need the reassurance. I had thought I was cured of that kind of uncertainty years ago—I even remembered the exact moment when I thought I’d learned my lesson once and for all. We’d been married only a few years, and we were invited to a barbecue at a neighbor’s home. They seemed perfect in every way—perfect couple, perfect kids, perfect clothes. The food and table settings were like something right out of
Southern Living
. After dinner, the husband, an amateur photographer, brought out all these gorgeous pictures he’d taken of his wife in various tasteful poses. It all seemed so romantic, and I wondered to myself,
Why doesn’t Dick take pictures of me? He could at least write me a poem.
Of course, about a year later, Mr. Perfect was caught writing graphic letters to his teenage assistant and his marriage was over.

So yes, I knew better than to doubt Dick. But while some people might have pointed out to us that my illness should have brought us even closer together and deepened our relationship even further, I felt like our relationship was deep enough, thank you very much. I didn’t need cancer to make me love or appreciate Dick more. I already loved and appreciated him so much that it was almost more than either of us could bear.

Dick walked away from our argument, the way he always did after an emotional storm. It was for the best, I knew. I glanced in the mirror and was shocked to see how haggard I looked. My
fingers sought the smoothness of the amber stone Dick had given me. Touching it, I was given the grace to know that Dick and I would soon be face-to-face again, with our apologies at the ready. I retrieved the covers from the floor and made the bed. I spotted my marble notebook on the nightstand, and, remorseful, I began to write:

Dearest Dick,

I hope you are receiving mail this evening. And even if you are not, please do give consideration to this writer who loves you quite a bit more than you may imagine. You were right. You have done nothing to cause my suffering or your own. Still, you have not yet weathered the experience of tucking yourself into bed each night and wondering if the sun will come up tomorrow for you.

This is the hell of it. Should I succumb to my disease, much will be lost. Yet until the end, I can’t help but be haunted by the specter of you putting your arms around another woman—probably younger, healthier, and a little less crazy than I.

When we were arguing, it suddenly occurred to me that I’d better do whatever it takes to make myself a little less crazy. How ironic it would be if my love for you actually made my world a sort of living death. Unlike you, I must bear some of the blame. Not everyone is perfect, like you are.