Regrettable Truths - Deborah Mechele Bento

An obvious odor of hand sanitizer masked the unpleasant scents in the brightly lit waiting area; every doorway from the sliding glass entry through the maze of waiting patients was equipped with a gray plastic dispenser.  Out of nowhere, I was assaulted by the pungent, acidic smell of bile from a toddler who vomited on the floor in front of me, and I was momentarily thankful for the cheap Avon perfume and even the hints of body odor from the person seated behind me. Struggling to contain my own nausea, as the toddler’s mother held the onesie clad little boy with vomit and drool dripping from his chin, I clenched my lips together and grabbed vanilla sugar lotion from my purse to distract my olfactory senses with something pleasant.   

My moment of weakness was cut short by the grimaces of pain that contorted Lane’s bloated, sallow face.  I watched the pain swell from his shoulders as he adjusted his position, his shallow breathing synchronized with low guttural moans that were brief but telling.  Without a word, his blank stare returned to the corner where the dingy beige walls met the pocked white of the ceiling tiles.  From the moment I wheeled him into the building, he remained quiet; not pensive and withdrawn purposefully, but vacant and unfocused.  

His athletic socks wouldn’t stretch anymore over his fluid-filled ankles and his normally oversized t-shirt was straining to contain his stomach. The toxins trapped in his body for weeks were seeping through his skin, leaving it chafed, raw, and bloody.  His signature crooked grin was marred by split and scab dotted lips.  Weakened from the poisons pulsing through his veins, he leaned his shoulder on a pillar which offered added support for his weakened body; it was the only reason he hadn’t tumbled out of the wheelchair.       

As the early winter sun beamed through the wall of windows, it glinted across his olive green eyes, which were unfairly trimmed with long bitter-chocolate colored lashes. They were one of my favorite things about him – those eyes.  Today his eyes were dim and vacant, there was no sparkle, not even the slightest emotional connection.  For years, his eyes were my first indication that he was happy to see me, but today, I was met with an indistinct gaze that lacked his normal affection.  For two decades, our truth was always in his stare.  The only truth today was evident by the pale mustard hue that colored the whites of his eyes.  Lane was suffering from much more than a kidney infection. 

My hand trembled when I rested it gently on his knee; I clenched my jaw in an effort to steady my emotion and willed my tears to stay hidden.  Without thinking, I squeezed his knee which broke his trance.  He looked down at my hand quizzically, but when he looked up, there was a hint of sparkle and the right side of his thin chapped lips turned up in a pained grin.   I reached for his hand, “How ya doin’ there handsome?”

Without a sound, he slowly pulled his hand away; then in a small whisper he stabbed me in the heart, “Don’t touch me.”  

I removed my hand and lifted my chin as the tears I was fighting won. The heat of embarrassment shaded my cheeks, but the rest of my body felt chilled from the disappointment and exhaustion.  I wrapped my soft cashmere cape tightly around me in a weak attempt to shield myself from more barbs, but the damage was done.  Tears rushed from my eyes just as I reached the solitude of the emergency room bathroom.  My chest ached from hours of stifled sobs, and my eyes burned from the wet sticky flecks of mascara.  A bent and dimpled piece of metal hung on the tiled wall to serve as a mirror and my silvered reflection was distorted, much like my reality. 

 In a vain effort to regain my composure after he’d skillfully sliced open an ancient wound, I slid down the wall to rest on the paper towel-littered floor and catch my breath.  The cool water from a damp paper towel across my aching eyes and the smooth frigid surface were not enough to freeze my newly opened wound. The ache in my heart took control and violent sobs won over my attempt at peace.  

He’s going to die hating me. How did this happen? As my head rested against the stainless steel trash can, I pulled my mascara-stained cape over my head, and mumbled aloud, “This cannot be happening.”  An aggressive pounding on the door alerted me that it was time to pull it together.

When I reentered purgatory, it was even more crowded; the only seat left was mine.  

“I just want to lie down,” Lane was more coherent than he’d been for hours. 

“I know,” against my better judgment, I ran my finger nails along his dirty gray sweats in an effort to comfort him.  He needed to lie down, the pain from his liver and kidneys failing was too much.

“Please babe… I gotta lie down, please…” I was the only one who grinned when he slipped back into the familiarity and love of our friendship.  Even if just for a moment, I would take it. The poison involuntarily pumping through his body was affecting his thought process – one minute I was the enemy who broke him and the next I was his savior. 

“The nurse said she is trying, lemme ask again,” I rubbed the side of his pale cheek as I walked past him. With the arrival of two ambulances and flu season, my repeated attempts to get him a bed remained fruitless.  

“May I help…” the bitter looking nurse with too much botox in her forehead and filler in her cheeks looked up, “Sorry miss, still no bed.”

I leaned over the counter and changed my approach, I was slow and deliberate. “I’m asking for a gurney, a bed, a couch, hell I will take a stack of blankets and lay him on the floor, but he can’t continue to sit.”  Her overly plumped lips parted in interruption but I politely raised my hand and continued my plea.  “We both know he is going to die here, but after loving him for almost twenty years, he cannot die in a waiting room in front of a bunch of strangers – just – just find somewhere for him – anywhere,” I was calm but my eyes filled with the agony of his inevitable fate. 

We were in love once, but it morphed into a lifelong friendship that I treasured, and he was forced to accept or lose me altogether. There was no way to hide the grief dripping from my chin onto the clipboards of new patient paperwork.  Nearly two years ago, he was diagnosed with cirrhosis and although I was married to someone else, I committed to going to AA meetings with him, but after the first one, he decided he could give up drinking on his own. “Nurse, you know it’s not a kidney infection like he said – he needs a room.  He’s in deep denial, he has stage 4 cirrhosis that hasn’t been treated in thirteen months…I believe he’s septic. He’s been immobile for days, for Christ’s sake lady, he was staying alive by sucking on hard candies in arm’s reach…” she cut me off as my tone reached a panicked frenzy.

“Ma’am,” she handed me a tissue and looked back at her computer, but I wasn’t finished, I grabbed her hand and squeezed.  Instantly, a heavy set security guard jumped from his lounged position at the entrance and bolted towards us. She dismissed him as I retracted my shaking hand. 

“19 years we’ve been friends. I broke his heart, he watched me marry someone else…” I shuddered from my own sobs and she handed me another tissue, “I - I - I’m the reason he was drinking himself…” 

With her own tears finally appearing she said, “I’m trying – promise.”

Frustrated and hopeless, I walked away.  I ruined his life. He drank himself to death because I broke his heart. Saying no to having a baby, calling the wedding off – I. Ruined. His. Life. 

I had to find a way to make him more comfortable. I took a few deep breaths and solicited coats, sweaters, and blankets from anyone who would listen, piled them on his lap and wheeled him outside into the glow of the winter afternoon.  I lined the benches outside the entrance with my collection of warm padding and helped him move to the makeshift bed from his wheelchair.  I covered him with my own cape and cardigan and slumped into his wheelchair heavy with exhaustion. I held his hand and stared at him as I choked back bile filled with the taste of regret.  

“This a little better, handsome?” 

A slight nod.

“Do you want anything?”

“A real pillow,” a puny attempt at a joke since his pillow was made of borrowed baby blankets that hardly insulated the cold wrought iron of the bench. “And I want you to marry me – wanted.” 

“Marry you huh,” we both knew that wasn’t possible, I’d been married for 6 years to someone else. “You realize in two days it will be nineteen years since we met?” I brushed his dark hair off his forehead freckled with scabs.

“Yep, and then you called off our wedding” he closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I need you to forgive me” I pleaded in the softest tone possible.  “You can’t hate me.'' I leaned in, kissed his forehead, and carefully wiped away the tears I left on his small pale nose. 

“You ruined my life.” And there it was. The words that ended too many of our talks over the last 20 years. You ruined my life.  

I was only there because he was scared and had no one else. I leaned over and dropped my head on his chest, sobbing knowing that he was right. I ruined his life and that forgiveness would likely never come. In a barely audible voice, I begged, “you have to forgive me, please. I – I – I mean it wasn’t about you, it was about not wanting kids…”

“I would have done anything and been anyone for you, don’t you get it?” Gasps punctuated his breathy words. 

“But you wanted kids.” I pushed back into the seat of the wheelchair. 

“No kids would have been ok, but you wanted out.” 

He was weak but the venomous strikes of his truth were crippling. 

“I am sorry you were the collateral damage to many of my life’s lessons.” 

He was silent and for once, I was grateful he was quiet. I couldn’t take anymore truths. 

After he adjusted his position, a peaceful stillness set in but his facial muscles involuntarily winced and twitched in pain. We sat holding hands while I watched his bloated stomach rise and fall, his breathing became shallower and more labored. As the dull warmth of the November sun fought through the clouds, he looked more tranquil than I’d seen him in years.  

While he rested, I fought with my own regrets and the what-ifs of the life I walked away from. We were in love, but I was addicted to a bad boy who could snap his fingers and I would go running back, leaving Lane shattered more than once. After four years of living abroad, we reconnected and it was blissful, we got engaged and Lane started talking about what he wanted to name our children. I had no desire to be a mother and, unfortunately, children are not something that a couple can easily compromise on. After weeks of talking about children and our impending nuptials, I woke him up at one in the morning and said, “you’re my best friend, I want you to get everything you want in life.” 

He responded, “I have everything – you, us…”

“No, that's not enough for you. The kid thing isn’t something I can budge on.”

“So we won’t have them,” he pulled me close. “It will be ok if we don’t have kids.” 

“I don’t want you to wake up one day and regret not having kids, I couldn’t live like that,” I got out of bed and gathered the few pieces of clothes I had at his apartment.

“Baby – Baby what are you doing?”

“I am letting you go find someone who wants children,” tears of sacrifice ran hot down my face.

“No! You can’t do this – it’s freaking two a.m. you’re not thinking straight,” he was pulling clothes away from me. 

“Lane, honey, for once, I am thinking straight. You deserve children.”

“Fine then - fucking leave!”

“We love each other too much to do this this way.”

“Then stay! Stay with me.”

“What if I stay? Then what?”

“We get married and travel the world – no kids.”

“And one day, when we are in our sixties and all of our friends have grandchildren and sleepovers, you’ll regret the choice you’re making in this very moment.”

“No I won’t – what is your problem anyway? How can you still not want kids? I thought you’d change your mind…”

“See Lane, there is your answer. Nothing is wrong with me, we just want different things.”

“I don’t have to have them, I swear,” the rare appearance of tears spoke more than any words he could say. 

“Listen,” I pulled him next to me on the bed, “You’re my best friend. I am not going to ask you to sacrifice a future you want because I don’t want it. As much as I love you, I have to let you go so you can find someone who will be a great mom and give you babies with your gorgeous eyes and crooked grin – but I know that great mom isn’t me.”

“Just say it, you just don’t love me enough,” He was abnormally monotone. 

“I do and that is why I am making this decision,” I stood to leave, and he grabbed my waist and sobbed.

“This is stupid – we belong together.” I pulled away. 

“If we belong together, we will find our way back again,” I closed the door and it was over.  

As the late afternoon air began to chill, I watched him rest and realized I gave us up for nothing. For the past ten years, he was a recluse. He shut himself away from the world; he worked, but never dated or had children. He would call me every six months to a year to see if I changed my mind, and spent his nights reading and drinking whiskey. As years passed, we rebuilt a strained friendship with strict boundaries, but when he was angry his favorite line was “you ruined my life.” Yet, here I was, trying to save his life or at a minimum make the hours he had left filled with the love that he wanted.  

I scooted the wheelchair as close to the bench as I could and held his hand in both of mine. He was hardly breathing and I knew the “I forgive you” I needed was never going to come. I decided not to worry about forgiveness, or which decisions of the last two decades I would change because I was certain of two things. I may have ruined his life but I didn’t pour his whiskey and at this moment, I was exactly where I should be. 

I kissed his cheek and whispered, “I love you Lane.”

Deborah is pursuing her lifelong dream of earning her Creative Writing degree. Balancing her career as a realtor, she crafts poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction exploring themes of love, grief, friendship and self-acceptance. She has an affinity for travel, old book stores, independent coffee shops and finds inspiration by capturing moments in pictures that remind her of things she’s read. Committed to authenticity, Deborah aims to create work that resonates deeply with readers.