Page 691 of The Tempted

Shamefully, I peel my eyes from her and bend down to pick up the pieces of the shattered canisters and ceramic bowl. Gina closes her hand over my wrist and cups my chin with her other hand, forcing my eyes back to hers.

“Grace,” she soothes.

“Where is your mother?”

“Bert took her upstairs when we heard the commotion,” she replies.

“Good, I don’t want her to see this,” I mutter, taking a deep breath as I lean back on my haunches.

“We went to see Victor,” she reveals.

“Oh,” I say, turning away from her.

“He told me, Grace,” she whispers.

I drag my eyes back to hers, seeing they’re full of unshed tears. I had thirty years of training under my belt and before I volunteered any information, I knew to ask first.

“He told you what?”

“I’m not a fed or some lawyer looking for you to give up Victor’s secrets, I’m your sister-in-law, and I’m telling you I know the truth, but if you want me to say it, fine.”

It was force of habit, not admitting the truth about anything, never being the one to start a conversation for fear of giving up too much information. But it wasn’t the habit that stopped me from speaking my truth, it was fear. Since my last visit with Vic I haven’t uttered the one word that would truly end us.

I used to think it was prison.

Then he said the word.

“Cancer,” the same word Gina just uttered.

One word was all it took to destroy a lifetime. One word that opened the flood gates to my tears.

It was one thing to accept that he was in jail, that for the rest of our lives he would be behind bars and I would be behind the brick walls of our home. I accepted we’d never share a bed again, or wake up to the dawn of a new day together. I accepted that every milestone we should have experienced together in our golden years, I’d experience by myself. I’d walk our daughter down the aisle and when the priest asked who gave this woman’s hand in marriage, I will dutifully reply—her father and I do. I would sign all our cards love Victor and Grace, and tell our grandchildren, ‘grandpa sends his love’ or ‘grandpa picked out your present’ ensuring Vic remained part of our lives.

However, now God was testing me again and my husband was dying.

I can’t accept that.

I can’t accept that he refuses treatment.

I can’t accept I won’t be by his side as he draws his final breath.

I can’t accept that I’ll get a phone call from the warden telling me my husband died surrounded by bars instead of the family we created.

I can’t.

“Grace,” Gina coaxes. “He’s worried about you, and quite frankly so am I.”

“He’s worried about me?” shaking my head, I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands. “Always worried about me when he should be worried about himself. I’m fine. I’m not the one who is rotting away in a jail cell.”

“You might not be in jail, sweetie, but you’re wasting away just like your husband.”

“I’m fine! I’m not the one who is sick. I’m not the one who is dying,” I cry.

“Don’t kid yourself, Grace. Vic is dying but so are you. You’re dying inside and you can smile and try to pretend like it's okay but he sees it. Every time you visit him he looks into your eyes and sees that the light has gone out. Even if the man didn’t have cancer, he’d wish for it because watching your spirit die is too much for him to take.”

“What am I supposed to do, Gina? How am I supposed to act? Tell me! Tell me how I’m supposed to feel?”

“Stop hiding how you feel. Stop fucking smiling when you want to cry. Stop pretending,” she orders. “Let it out, Grace, because keeping it bottled up is killing you too.”

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