Page 2 of Letters of Faith
I don’t understand what God’s doing here. Why would he let me love this man and take him away?
“You…You can’t…You can’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”
His coarse fingers run over the silk of my hair in tender strokes meant to soothe me. My breaths come in shallow gasps, a crushing weight on my chest. It’s a pain that will be there long after he is gone.
“Georgia, I promise I will always be with you even after I close my eyes. I need you to promise me something, though.” He pinches my chin and tilts it up so I’m looking at him again before he continues, “I need you to promise you won’t be mad at God for this. I can’t leave here knowing that will happen. So, I need you to promise me that no matter what, you won’t think that this is a punishment for something you’ve done wrong. I know you, and I know that at some point, you will question that.”
The air in the room is non-existent. My lungs squeeze as I tryto drag in a breath. Nate is asking for something I’m not sure I can promise. Mainly because it already feels like a punishment.
My heart throbs with each beat, and the underside of my jaw goes numb. I have to get out of this room soon.
I thought I was having a stroke the first time my face went numb. It was the day I found out about Nate’s cancer. I was at work when Nate called me. It was supposed to be a regular follow-up. It wasn’t supposed to be this.
After I got the call, I hid in the bathroom stall while I cried. When my face started to go numb, I called my family doctor, and she examined me. She explained that it was a panic attack, not a stroke. They’ve happened often since then, but I’ve never let Nate see them. My poor husband has enough worries. I don’t want this to be another one.
So, with a panic attack filling my chest with pressure, I do the only thing I can to escape—I lie.
“Okay, Nate. I promise. If that’s what you need from me, I promise.”
It’s a promise I won’t be able to keep in two months when my husband is gone, and burning anger eats at my soul, but it’s one I make now to keep at least one thing easy for him.
______________________
Two hours later, all remnants of the panic attack are gone, and I’m walking back to Nate’s room in the hospital—composed, ready to pretend I’m not breaking.
Earlier, the doctor said Nate would go home on hospice because there’s nothing left for us to do except make him comfortable. We’ll spend one more night here and go home tomorrow to face this.
The thought makes my throat ache.
I don’t want to do this—none of it is fair.
Why Nate? Why the best man I know?
If I sit in those thoughts too long, though, I start to get angry—at the world and God—and that’s not a place I can let myself go.
Standing outside the doorway of Nate’s room, I steel my expression before stepping through the door. When I hear his voice floating through the room, I pause, staying behind the curtain separating the hospital bed from the door, adding an extra layer of privacy for families.
“I’m worried about her, Gray,” Nate says, lowering his voice as if speaking those words aloud pains him.
They hurt me, too, because I thought I was doing a good job of hiding the weight on my shoulders, but I failed if he’s calling Grayson instead of talking to me.
Grayson, Nate, and I met in elementary school, and there was a time in my life when I thought I would marry Grayson instead of Nate. We were ten the first time I noticed how handsome Grayson was. He was my first crush.
Then high school came, and I realized that Nate was the guy you relied on, the one who took you on dates and made you feel special, while Grayson was the kind of guy who broke your heart because he was broken himself.
Nate and I started dating my senior year of high school, and I never looked back. It was the best choice I ever made, and even if someone had told me then that I would be facing losing him ten years down the road, I would still choose this life with him again.
He must have Grayson on speaker because I hear his strong voice come across the phone and say, “She loves you, Nate, and she’s worried about you. It’s hard to think you have your whole life ahead with someone, only to be told you have months instead of years. Man—you’re my best friend, and I’m not dealing with it well. She’s your wife. Let her cope the way she needs to.”
“It isn’t coping when she refuses to face reality.”
My stomach churns. Is that what Nate thinks I’m doing? Doesn’t he realize I spend every day thinking about what comes after him—planning ways to convince myself to keep breathing without him?
Reality is all I’m thinking about, but reality sucks.
“She has the town. They all love her. She won’t have to go through this alone.”
“Listen, I need to tell you something before—well, you know,” Nate says.
