Page 124 of Every Good Thing
All I have to do is walk through that door, and Lena will never ask if I’m ready to come home again.
Thirty-Eight
LENA
Ben meets me outside Becca’s two-story colonial when I drop off Ruthie for another sleepover. It’s Saturday afternoon, and Ruthie has been an adorable hive of excitement over their plans—movie night with the cousins, blueberry pancakes for breakfast, and Sunday at the beach.
He’s been diligent about spending time with her, going out of his way to be there for pick-ups, drop-offs, and downtimes—as he should. The other night, he asked to stay and put her to bed for me—a good thing because that’s been the most difficult time of day. She’s gotten teary in her bath when I can’t do her dad’s play-voices right with her toys.
And teary again when I tuck her into bed. Alone. I didn’t report this to Ben, but maybe Ruthie did. I didn’t want to make things worse, especially after Dr. Reese assured me he was working hard to “find his place again.”
His place is with us, I told her.
Now, Ruthie bobbles to him, barely managing her overstuffed backpack. “This is going to be epic, Dad.”
He chuckles, giving her a quick side hug, and she rushes into the house without looking back at me.
Our eyes meet after the front door slams, and an awkward beat passes. He looks unsure.
“You left before we could talk yesterday,” I say.
“Sorry, we should talk.” His eyes narrow. “I’d invite you in, but with everyone, it’s—”
“It’s okay. This is weird, so that’ll be even weirder,” I blurt with a sardonic laugh. I’m trying desperately not to cry—I love this man, and he’s treating me like his daughter’s chauffeur, not his wife. “It’s hard getting used to this. But I guess we have to, unless…”
I hesitate, knowing I need to stop asking. “Unless, are you ready to come home yet?”
His brow pinches, and I know the answer.
“That’s okay. Take your time. I know how hard you’re trying.” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. “I just want you to be happy, Ben. Truly. Happy. I’m sorry for losing sight of what you needed. I wasn’t there, even when I was. By the time I realized it, it was probably too late.”
Every word is true—something I realized this morning when Mr. Wickers showed up at my door with a bin of badly executed homemade cupcakes—lemon with cream cheese frosting and purple smiley faces adorning their messy tops. They reminded me of Millie Davis’s cupcakes that smeared my windshield in the accident.
I thought of her divorce, too. The sexless marriage she didn’t notice until it was too late.
Mr. Wickers’s cupcakes were delicious, regardless of their style. And I appreciated the gesture.
He handed them over and said, “You showed up for me, Lena, at one of the toughest times in my life. I’m here for you now.”
“I can always count on you, Mr. Wickers,” I cried.
“Yep, I learned long ago as a mailman. Consistency means everything. There’s nothing like a sunny day and hitting your usual route.”
I broke into tears then, remembering how Ben showed up for me at my worst time. No matter my mood. No matter the awful state of me or my house. No matter what we were doing—sometimes nothing at all. Ben was there. He made me feel human again, worthy and capable, and after that, he made me feel so loved and safe that I thought I could do anything—and I did. I did the impossible, all because of him.
Ben made everything better just by being present.
I failed to do the same for him. I remember after he found Adam—I knew something about it had cracked his typically rigid surface. That event hurt him, made him question his future, and dredged up his past. And what’d I do? I went to work, baked hundreds of cookies and cupcakes, and never pressed him to talk. Or even spent time with him. I waited too long to be present—that’s all Ben really needed from me.
Hope drains now, and I’ll soon follow—turning into mush in my boots that Dot’ll have to suck up with her wet vac.
When I cared for Mom, I let tasks take priority. My quest to make one thing better helped my anxiety, but at a cost. Tasks don’t equal happiness. I kept myself busy when I should’ve spent more time with her… with him… Now, it’s too little, too late.
Now, Ben stares at me with what looks like sympathy and confusion—I don’t know anymore. His lips part as if he wants to speak, but nothing comes out.
I wave him off. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…This is our new normal, right?”
I sling the tote from my shoulder and hand it to him. “Ruthie’s extra dresses, normal shoes, and sandcastle gear. Oh, and your vitamins, protein powder, and migraine prescription refill. I was at Publix, and it was ready, so…”
