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The next morning, we got up and performed the usual routine—she went into the bathroom while I made coffee. I handed her a cup when she came into the kitchen.
“You were making strange sounds in the night,” she said. “You were talking in your sleep.”
“What did I say?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. Didn’t make sense. Probably because you were so stoned.” She gave me
a withering look and glanced at her watch. “I have to go. I’ll be late.”
Kathy finished her coffee and placed the cup in the sink. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.
The touch of her lips almost made me flinch.
After she left, I showered. I turned up the temperature until it was almost scalding. The hot water
lashed against my face as I wept, burning away messy, babyish tears. As I dried myself afterward, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I was shocked—I was ashen, shrunken, had aged thirty years overnight. I was old, exhausted, my youth evaporated.
I made a decision, there and then.
Leaving Kathy would be like tearing off a limb. I simply wasn’t prepared to mutilate myself like that. No matter what Ruth said. Ruth wasn’t infallible. Kathy was not my father; I wasn’t condemned to repeat the past. I could change the future. Kathy and I were happy before; we could be again. One day she might confess it all to me, tell me about it, and I would forgive her. We would work through this.
I would not let Kathy go. Instead I would say nothing. I would pretend I had never read those emails. Somehow, I’d forget. I’d bury it. I had no choice but to go on. I refused to give in to this; I refused to break down and fall apart.
After all, I wasn’t just responsible for myself. What about the patients in my care? Certain people depended on me.
I couldn’t let them down.