The Promise (18 page)

 33 

W
as that . . . ?”

Tom had just turned onto the main road leading into his subdivision, lost in thought. But he could've sworn Michele's car had just gone by the other way. He glanced through his rearview mirror, trying to get a better look, but it was too far away. After turning a few more corners, he pulled into his driveway. He decided to check the mail before going inside. He wished he could think of a dozen other things to do first.

Tonight was the night he would tell Jean everything, after the kids went down.

He still couldn't think of what to say or how to introduce it. Every scenario he came up with ended badly. He pulled the mail out of the box and forced himself to walk back to the house. As he came up the curved walkway, the front curtain moved slightly, as if someone had peeked out. Probably just Tommy.

He unlocked the door, halfway expecting to be tackled at the knees by his son. But the house was quiet. Oddly quiet. Could the kids both be upstairs napping? It was pretty late in the day for that. “Hello? I'm home.” He walked down the hall.

Was that . . . crying?

Sounded like Jean's voice, just around the corner. “Hello?” He walked into the family room. Jean was sitting at the dining room table, holding her face and a wad of tissues in her hands. Tom rushed over. “Jean, what's wrong? Where's Tommy and Carly? Are they okay?”

She looked up, but her eyes weren't filled with grief or sorrow. He saw rage.

“How could you?” she said. “How could you do this?”

“Do what? What have I done?” He pulled a chair out.

“What did you do today?”

“What do you mean? I just got back from picking my parents up at the airport. But you knew that.”

“Before that!” she shouted.

What was going on here? “You know . . .”

“Tell me.”

“Jean, what's wrong? Why are you acting this way?”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“What were you doing before you picked your parents up at the airport? And don't lie to me. Could you do that just once? Tell the truth. You remember how to do that?”

Could she know? Had she found out? “I don't know what you're talking about. You're not making any sense.”

“What were you doing before you picked your parents up?”

What should he say? It seemed like she had found out. But how? He glanced around the room, stalling for time. If he kept up the lie, and she had found out, she might lose it altogether. “Jean, I wish you'd just tell me what's going on. Why are you so upset?”

She put her hands on the table. “You're not going to answer me, are you? You want to lie to me, I can tell. You're so good at it. Really, you've become a master. You want to just keep it going. But now you're wondering if I discovered your little
charade on my own, and what kind of trouble you'll be in if you lie to me right now.”

“Jean, I don't know what to say.”

She stood up. “It's called the truth, Tom. It's not hard. For most people, anyway.” She walked to the hutch, pulled out a fresh tissue from a Kleenex box, and blew her nose. “Were you with her?”

With
her
? “Jean, what are you saying? With who? Was I with who?”

“See? You can't even answer me straight about that. You keep answering my questions with questions. That's what liars do, to avoid giving straight answers. I read about that online. Did you know that? They have websites to help spouses figure out if their husband or wife is cheating. I read a list of all the tactics lying spouses use. You've mastered them all.”

Tom felt an odd sense of relief. She thought he was having an affair. Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad after all. When she realized the truth, that is. “Jean, I'm not seeing anyone. I never have, and I never will. You know how I feel about that.”

For a moment she didn't answer. “And I'm supposed to believe that?” she said, pulling out another tissue.

“Of course you are. It's the truth.”

“Oh, and you, you're the guardian of truth? Is that it?”

“Jean, would you come over here and sit down? I do have something to tell you. Something pretty bad. But it's not what you're thinking, not even close.”

She turned around and leaned against the hutch. “I'll stay right here.”

“I guess you found out somehow about my job situation.” It was a relief just saying it. “I've been wanting to tell you the truth about this for so long now.”

“You have? You've been
wanting
to tell me? Well, at least there's that.” She took a deep breath.

“How did you find out?”

“I went to the doctor today and—”

“You did? What's wrong?”

“Let me finish.”

Then it dawned on him: the insurance.

“Guess what I found out?”

“We don't have insurance.”

“And why don't we have insurance?”

He looked to his left, through the sliding glass door to the backyard. “Because I lost my job five months ago. But I'm sure you know that by now.”

“Look at me when you say it.”

He turned to face her. “When I say what?”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me what you should've told me five months ago. I want to hear you say it, looking at me.”

“I . . . I lost my job, Jean. Five months ago. And I've been hiding it from you and lying about it ever since.” Suddenly, a wave of emotion rose up inside him, and tears welled up in his eyes.

For several moments, she just stared at him. Then she said, “Why?”

“It wasn't my fault, Jean. It was Jared, you remember him, right? We sat across from each other at the Christmas party last year? He and his wife. When this whole merger thing went down, Jared stabbed me in the back and stole my job.” She was shaking her head. That's not what she meant. He realized that now. “You mean, why didn't I tell you?” He took a deep breath; he had to get this right.

He was just about to explain when she said, “Do you have any idea what you've put me through these past five months? I've imagined everything from you don't love me anymore to you must be seeing someone else. I've felt sick and tense every day, walking on eggshells around you, and you haven't noticed it for a minute. It's like I'm invisible. You come home every
night—from who knows where—and you're totally focused on yourself, till the moment you leave the next morning. I have no idea what happened to the man I married.”

She walked over toward the sliding glass door, talking toward the glass. “You treat me like one of the kids! You think I can't handle the truth so you had to protect me. Well, guess what? I haven't felt protected, I've felt shut out and ignored. I've even been struggling with guilt and shame because I'm not good enough for you. I've gone out of my way cooking your favorite meals, trying to cheer you up. I've gone out of my way trying to keep the kids quiet, so they wouldn't set you off.”

She turned to face him. “Do you have any idea how it's been for me all these months?” A new look came over her face. “You know what? I don't want to hear it, any of it. Not now, anyway.”

Tom was stunned. For several moments, he didn't answer. What could he say? “But I want to tell you,” he finally said. “The whole story.”

“Well, I don't want to hear it.”

“Then what . . . what do you want me to say?”

“I don't want you to say anything. I'm exhausted. I feel sick inside. Just looking at you makes me nauseated. I actually want you to leave.”

“Leave?”

“Yes, leave. I want to be alone.”

“For how long?”

“I don't know. A few days anyway. I just . . . I need some time alone.”

Tom stood. He wanted to protest, to insist she sit back down and hear him out. They needed to talk this out. But it was clearly pointless. “I don't want to leave you like this, Jean. Not like this.”

“Well,” she said, “you're not going to be the one to help me. That's for sure. So please just go.”

He turned and walked back toward the hallway. Just before
he reached the stairs, something dawned on him. Walking back into the family room, he said, “Will you at least tell me why you went to the doctor?”

“To confirm something I already know.”

“What's that?”

“That I'm pregnant. Now, will you please go?”

 34 

A
bout an hour later, Jean received two texts.

One from Tom, which initially she didn't read. She forced herself to. Ignoring it became a total distraction. It said: “I love you, and I'm beyond sorry. I know you're not ready to forgive me yet. I hope you can soon. Tom.”

Was that supposed to make it all better?

The second text was from Michele, asking if it was safe to call yet. Jean texted her back and said:
I asked Tom to leave, and he did. Give me about thirty minutes?

Michele got right back and said,
Sure
.

Jean spent the next thirty minutes sitting on the sofa, staring at the wall. All her tears had been spent, for now. She felt equal parts numb and exhausted. Her deepest fear in this whole thing had been that Tom was unfaithful. She had never imagined he had lost his job. That was a blow, but it was something she felt she could deal with.

Could just the layoff explain the way he had been acting these past few months? To her, that didn't make any sense. Why not just tell her something like that? True, she probably would've lost it a little; had a couple of bad days wrestling with her fears.
But then she would have bounced back and gotten to a place where she was trusting God for their future. If he had told her right away, she could have started finding out about government programs that would help them through. But instead, he'd treated her like a two-year-old. He didn't see her as an equal or even as a grown-up.

Okay, she worried about things, but like most people did. Average fears. The kids getting hurt or sick, roaches and spiders, riding next to semitrucks on the highway.

So why hadn't he told her when he got laid off five months ago? She could understand if he'd waited a day or two, maybe trying to pick “the right time.” She'd have been mildly upset at a delay like that. But there was no rational excuse for what Tom had done. Five months.

And that was her problem.

She reached for the phone and called Michele. “How are the kids doing?” she asked.

“They're doing fine. Allan's playing with them on the rug.”

“I'm glad. But, can I ask you something, Michele? Do I seem like a basket case to you? The kind of person who freaks out all the time and can't handle any pressure?”

“No,” Michele said. “You seem pretty average to me—emotionally, I mean.”

“Well, that's why I asked your brother to leave.”

“For good? Are you guys splitting up over this?”

“Not over this. If by
this
we're talking about Tom losing his job and lying about it.”

“Isn't that what this is about?” Michele asked. “Did Tom do something else, something worse?”

“I don't know if that's
all
this is about,” Jean said. “That's my problem. How can you trust a word someone says if they can lie about something that big every day for all that time?”

Michele didn't answer right away. “That is a problem,” she
said. “What else are you afraid of? That there's something else he's not telling you?”

“Yes. I'm afraid that he's . . . I'm afraid what's really going on here is . . .” Jean began to cry.

“Jean, I can't see Tom being unfaithful to you. Is that what you're worried about?”

Jean wanted to believe her, desperately. But how could she know for sure?

“My brother's done a stupid thing, a really stupid thing. And I'm not even going to try to defend it. But I really don't think that's what's going on here. It would totally shock me if it were true.”

“It doesn't shock you that your brother lost his job five months ago, didn't tell anyone about it, and drove off to . . .
someplace
. . . every day as if he still worked there?” Michele didn't answer. “See what I'm saying? If he can do that, how can we know what else he's capable of?”

“I can see your point,” Michele said. “But there's something else I want you to think about, Jean. As part of the big fix in your relationship with Tom.”

“Assuming it can be fixed.”

“Assuming that,” Michele said.

“So, what is it?”

Michele hesitated. “I shouldn't . . .”

“Shouldn't what?” Jean could tell, she wanted to say something she thought would hurt her feelings. “What is it, Michele? Really, I want to know.”

Michele took a deep breath and tried to measure Jean's readiness to hear what she wanted to say. “I'm not saying this to hurt you. And after living most of my life under my father's rigid outlook on life, I get how easy it can be to feel pressure just to get in line.”

“What are you trying to say, Michele?”

“You've got to stop being such a doormat with him.”

“With Tom?”

“Yes, with Tom. You've been letting him walk all over you these past few years. You've got to start speaking up when things bother you. Not just sit there and take it. You don't have to be nasty. The Bible talks about being gentle when we correct each other. But it sounds like you just sit there and take it, and don't say a thing. That's not what I've been taught a Christian wife's role is supposed to look like. That's not how our pastor described it to Allan and me in our premarital counseling. He said God made Eve as Adam's helper because Adam needed the help. Then he said we're not helping our husbands if we sit there and say nothing when they go off track.”

“You're right,” Jean said. “You're absolutely right.”

“So when you're praying,” Michele said, “don't forget to pray for a new backbone.”

Jean tried to smile. “I will.”

Henry and Myra Anderson, sitting in their favorite chairs, sipped coffee as they watched
Wheel of Fortune
. Myra heard the sound first, but she didn't need hearing aids like Henry. “Someone just pulled into the driveway,” she said. They rarely got visitors, unannounced ones anyway. She got up to investigate.

Henry hit the pause button on the remote and sat up.

Myra peeked out the front window. “I'm not sure, but I think that's Tom's car.”

That got Henry's attention. He stood and walked toward her.

“It is,” she said. “He's getting out, and he's dragging a suitcase.”

“A suitcase? That can't be good.” Henry walked over and opened the front door just as Tom turned into the walkway. His face was all red, his eyes puffy, his shoulders slumped with the weight of the world.

“Hey, Uncle Henry. I'm sorry to do this, show up like this uninvited. But I didn't know what else to do or where else to go.”

“Come on in, Tom. You're family. You're always welcome here.” He put his arm around Tom as he came close and just let him sob.

Myra walked up and put her arms around him too. The suitcase fell backward to the floor. “You poor thing,” Myra said and patted his back.

Henry walked over to the hutch and grabbed a box of tissues. After a few moments, Tom regained some of his composure. He picked up the suitcase.

“Don't worry about that,” Myra said. “You come on over here and sit down. Had anything to eat for dinner? I could heat up some leftovers. Made some chicken parmigiana, plenty of it left.”

Tom shuffled over to the sofa. “Thanks, but I can't eat.”

Henry sat nearby in his chair. Myra said, “Well at least let me get you some iced tea or cold water.”

“Some cold water maybe, thanks.”

She headed for the kitchen.

“So, I guess your conversation with Jean didn't go so well,” Henry said. “I thought you were going to wait a few days. You change your mind?” Henry had hoped to get with Tom beforehand, to help him work through how to handle it.

“She didn't give me a chance. God didn't give me a chance.” He exhaled a deep sigh, looked down toward the floor.

“What do you mean?”

“Just like he sent you to the restaurant the other day, he sent her to the doctor's office this afternoon. She found out we lost our health insurance five months ago. Then she called my old employer, who confirmed I got laid off at the same time. Why didn't God give me a chance? I was gonna tell her. Tonight, I was gonna tell her.” Myra walked back into the room and handed Tom the water. “With her finding out about it this way,
she doesn't want to have anything to do with me. She wouldn't even give me a chance to explain. She just threw me out.”

Lord
, Henry prayed,
please give us wisdom here
. Henry sat a moment, not sure what to say. A Scripture verse played through his mind: “For the Lord disciplines those he loves and he punishes each one he accepts as a child.” It was somewhere in Hebrews. Was that what this was? Was God lovingly disciplining Tom here? “I'm not pretending I have all the answers, Tom. But I do know one thing—despite how this happened, God still loves you. Jean may have thrown you out, and she may even feel like she has good reason. But God hasn't rejected you. You know that, right?”

Tom looked up at him. Tears filled his eyes again. “Feels a whole lot like rejection to me.”