Humans logo

The Diary

Trust

By Mary MelcerPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
Like

For three nights now, the dream just will not stop. There’s a box, plain, cardboard, the size of a $15 flat rate shipment. Something makes her flinch, worried, afraid of being caught, but she opens it anyway. Inside are haphazard stacks of dollar bills, twenties, fifties, hundred-dollar bills, some in red rubber bands, some in green, some in blue, no system, no order. When she reaches for a stack, to touch it and make it real, to feel its weight, her hand falls to the box’s bottom. As if a mirage, the money is gone and her head is banging and she’s so, so thirsty.

Way too much wine and worry last night. Clearly this situation has been foremost on her mind. Maybe strong chicory coffee will help.

She pushes back the covers and slides out of bed. He’s gone already, as usual, early bird and all those worms blah blah blah. The sun through the east window is bright and makes her catch her breath for a moment. Ahh…ibuprofen and coffee, yes.

She wanders back to last night, turning over every word, inspecting every phrase. He had never lied to her before, but she just knew. No one really has an old college roommate with no family leave them a small fortune, this fortune, enough to pay off the bills and still put some up for the boys’ college. This just doesn’t happen. Not to ordinary people. Not to us.

The clinking of the glass pot against the faucet is enough to remind her of the headache that won’t quit. She pours the water in, fills the filter with ground beans and pulls out a chair to sit.

Trust was a word he insisted on putting in their vows. She didn’t care, honestly; it had just always been assumed. Ben was the honest one, better at it than she, admittedly. Not that she’d lied or cheated. More like “yes I made the deposit” while I’m on the way to the bank kind of lies. Nothing serious. But Ben was better than that.

When the pot quits its belching, she hunches over her coffee while wrestling the cap off the child protective lid of the Motrin. She takes three, thinks better of it, and adds a fourth, then gulps them down with the still steaming coffee, gasping at the shock of it hitting the back of her throat. By the time the cup has cooled and is half gone, staring out the window at the squirrels racing across the neatly cut lawns has gotten old and her headache begins to wane. She stretches her calves out, flexes her toes and feels her legs crying out for hydration and a good long run.

Not this morning. Was it two bottles or…eek…three? He had ended their conversation like he often did, telling her to “take it easy” and heading up to bed. He hadn’t wanted to talk about the money, as if he could brush aside the topic. They were twenty thousand dollars richer! Ben is a dedicated project manager, but after two kids and a house payment, twenty grand makes a dent. It isn’t “nothing” as Ben had yelled over his shoulder on the way out.

She had wanted to celebrate their newfound wealth last night, even while searching for a way to understand it. She’d never heard of Chris. No drunken frat stories, no I’m in town want to grab dinner once every few years, no nothing. No photos. No Chris from his college. No Chris in his phone. She’d looked. For both.

It didn’t make sense, but suddenly being gifted a lot of money didn’t seem to be something one questioned.

After another hour of moving from chair to couch to recliner, she felt clearer headed. This is crazy, right? Just outta the blue. What should she buy? A Gucci bag? Maybe go on vacation?

Ben was always so conservative. He had allowed her indulgences from time to time. The $3000 sofa was one of them, but he worked, she made a beautiful home and that was the deal. Honestly, it was a life she built to revel in. Her boys were kind and respectful, like their dad, did well at school. Her immaculate home was full of soft colors and light and smiling photos and overwhelming proof of having done it all right. Their marriage was solid. Ben was the one who planned surprise getaways for the two of them around his hectic work schedule. After twenty years together, he still made her smile every time he walked in the door. Everyone loved Ben, his gentle manner, his transparent nature, his generosity.

This morning, though, she feels something odd, out of place. She mulls it over, twirling her slept-in ponytail, trying to put her finger on the word or the look or the moment, but she just…can’t.

And that’s why she looks.

It isn’t optional. It is a question she has to have the answer to. Who is this guy and why have I never heard of him? Simple enough.

She grabs her laptop off the kitchen counter and heads back to bed. This research would be done beneath the covers while she further recuperates from last night’s Merlot.

First, social media. Facebook. Instagram. Twitter. Nothing.

His email contacts. She runs her finger down the list of Cs. Casey, Catherine, Charles, Christian (maybe?), Connor. Christian turns out to be another dad on one of the boy’s baseball teams from elementary school. Not him.

She yawns, a big full body yawn that pushes her deep into the covers. This is fruitless. She reaches for her glasses on the bedside table and glances down at the two drawers there. A thought. She shouldn’t. He would never do this to her. They both had diaries, she to vent and complain so her sunny disposition wouldn’t suffer any public hiccups, he as an homage to his dad, who kept diaries for years. He had always said he wanted to leave a message for his boys as his dad had, a picture of who he really was as a man.

She sidles across the king bed to his side. She knows she should just accept the facts as they were, as she always had. Whatever Ben said was the truth, not just THE truth, but the truth of their life and how it would be lived. He had called the shots and she had allowed him to take the reins in their marriage, in their life. It was a silent vow that honestly had allowed her to shirk a lot of responsibility. She still looked around once in a while wondering if he’d find her out , if he realized he did all the work and she spent all the money and he was okay with that? She was a twenty first century kept woman and loved the idea of it, even while fearing that one day he’d figure it out and then what? Kick her to the curb? Make her get a job? So she didn’t complain too much, other than on the delicately lined pages of her diary.

She reaches to open the drawer and hears something tap on the window. She jumps up, clutching the covers as a pair of blue jays fight just outside. Her chest tightens and she draws in a deep breath. If you aren’t doing anything wrong, what the hell are you so afraid of ?

She isn’t shirking now. She yanks open the drawer and picks up the small black leather bound journal. It is embossed with his monogram, BLS, a gift she had given him four years ago for Christmas, when his last journal had become filled. She runs her finger over his initials, and drew in her breath. Here goes.

She opens the book carefully, as if her every movement is being monitored and judged. The first page, headlined in his sharp handwriting, like that of a draftsman, was dated December 25th, 2017. She begins to read.

On this date, Ben was grateful for the kids, for a happy Christmas. He was glad to have a new journal to begin writing again, but he “ached inside”. Ached? She turned a few pages and began again.

January 15th, 2017

Today was a good day. I love this screwed up, intoxicating life that always keeps me on my toes. Everything worked out exactly as planned today. Whew! Go Ben.

Weird. He never talks like that in real life.

She flips another chunk of pages.

February 22, 2017

It’s getting too complicated. I love them all so much. It’s hard, but which is harder? Today started with a beautiful sunrise and ended with a crashing thunderstorm. Of course it did. Need to work on doing more miles.

Ben the runner. Or whatever that was about.

But hard? Complicated? Ben is the coolest cucumber, never ruffled, good hair, nothing confuses or confounds Ben. Not my Ben.

She flips some more. Work notes, personal best at the gym, a heartfelt tribute to his Aunt Mary who died in 2018. She isn’t finding Chris, but she is beginning to feel dirty. He would never read her diary.

But she continues on. Because she’s not Ben. She’s not that good.

And then, in that so familiar careful but scratchy print, on August 15th, 2019, there it is.

Chris.

On her son’s birthday. August 15th , Danny turned 15, his golden birthday. They rented a boat at the lake and spent a beautiful breezy day on the sparkling water, watching their son grow into manhood while his cheeks turned pink from the sun and he took turns driving, a natural. A beautiful boy surrounded by those who loved him. Ben’ d had to leave as soon as they’d docked though, some work emergency.

August 15, 2019

She was right. It wasn’t “nothing”. It is stage 4 esophageal cancer, and I don’t know how I am going to live without her. She is already too thin and so small now. Her smile is already fading. The doctor said she has a year maybe. She won’t do the chemo. Her mom had gone from vibrant to bitter after three rounds and she just can’t do it. I tried so hard to convince her, for us, for our future one day. But she doesn’t believe in that any more. She is already becoming bitter, so unlike that lovely butterfly who flittered into my life and grabbed a hold of my heart.

She stops reading and grabs a handful of the duvet, as if it would anchor her back to the moments just before this one. “For us”. “For our future”.

Not my Ben.

This isn’t my Ben.

She doesn’t know if she’s angry or sad or hurting for this dying woman or wants to throw the book across the room. Her breathing is so shallow. Calm down, calm down.

This is the moment Ben prepared you for.

We are calm in a crisis, he’d say, thoughtful first, no need to be overly emotional, he’d say. Think it through, Ben always said. Don’t make rash decisions.

She reads the story of her disease, of his sadness, of his feeling lost, their fights over chemo. She reads of her growing fearfulness and anger at this injustice. Of her acceptance, their last days together, of just being still with one another.

She fingers the pages and finally finds the one she was looking for, the one warped and dotted with raised spots that bleed the lines into one another and spill blue ink across the misshapen page.

The one he cried over.

January 20, 2021

She is gone.

My heart will never be the same.

She turns her head and feels the pillowcase soaked with her own tears. She is gone. She was his. He loved her, and now she is no longer.

Carefully, she places the monogrammed journal back into his drawer exactly where it was, crawls back across the bed to her side. She swaps pillows, taking the tear-stained one with her, turns on her side, closes her eyes and falls asleep.

love
Like

About the Creator

Mary Melcer

Aspiring writer of both fiction and non-fiction

Florida girl

Lifelong learner

Believer

Gigi, my favorite title

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.