You’re sick, Meryl. I can’t do this.
I had replayed that sentence for a year.
Sometimes during treatment it became the last thing I heard before sleep. Sometimes I heard it while brushing my teeth. Sometimes while watching strangers hold hands in the oncology waiting room.
Now the sentence split open.
Something terrible was living behind it.
I continued.
So I said the cruelest version I could manage.
I needed you angry.
I stopped again.
“No.”
Wade leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“No.” I crumpled the edge of the paper. “You do not terrorize someone and call it medicine.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Be quiet.”
Wade became still.
I needed you to believe there was nothing to come after. No explanation worth chasing. No husband waiting for you to rescue him. I needed you to hate me enough to stay where your doctors put you.
My vision blurred.
