“He Hasn’t Told You Anything, Has He?” — The Rest of the Story
Arnold searched my face.
Then, without warning, his eyes filled with tears.
“He hasn’t told you anything, has he?”
The smile disappeared from my face.
“Arnold… told me what?”
He looked toward the corridor behind him.
Then back at me.
“I think you should sit down.”
My heart began pounding.
“Is Ben hurt?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
Arnold swallowed hard.
“He’s been trying to protect you.”
I felt a coldness move through me.
“Protect me from what?”
Before Arnold could answer, a voice came from behind us.
“Arnold.”
I turned.
Ben was standing at the end of the hallway.
He was still wearing his surgical clothes, but something about him looked different.
Smaller.
Older.
His face was pale.
And when he saw the lunch bag in my hand, his eyes immediately filled with tears.
“You came here.”
I nodded slowly.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Ben closed his eyes.
For eleven years, I had known every expression on that man’s face.
I knew what he looked like after a sixteen-hour shift.
I knew what he looked like when he was proud of our daughter.
I knew what he looked like when he was trying not to laugh during a serious conversation.
But I’d never seen him look like this.
Terrified.
“I wanted to tell you,” he whispered.
“Then tell me.”
He glanced at Arnold.
Arnold quietly walked away.
Ben stepped closer.
“There was a patient.”
I frowned.
“A patient?”
“About eight months ago.”
He took a breath.
“She was thirty-two. Two little boys. She came in with an aneurysm. She needed emergency surgery.”
I nodded.
“I remember you telling me about her.”
“She survived.”
His voice cracked.
“She survived because we operated in time.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Ben looked at the floor.
“She came back six months later.”
I waited.
“She’d developed complications. We discovered she had a rare genetic condition.”
He stopped.
I reached for his hand.
It was trembling.
“Ben…”
“She wasn’t the only one.”
My stomach tightened.
“What do you mean?”
He looked directly into my eyes.
“That genetic condition runs in families.”
Silence.
“And while we were testing her relatives, something showed up in me.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“What showed up?”
Ben’s eyes filled again.
“A tumor.”
The word seemed to echo down the hallway.
I stared at him.
“No.”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
“No. You would’ve told me.”
“I wanted to.”
“When?”
“Every day.”
His voice broke.
“But every time I looked at you, I couldn’t do it.”
I felt tears burning my eyes.
“How long?”
He hesitated.
“Almost a year.”
A year.
Suddenly every missed dinner made sense.
Every night he came home exhausted.
Every time he told me not to wait up.
Every morning he left before our daughter woke.
But none of it made sense at the same time.
“You’ve been sick for a year?”
“I’ve been getting treatment.”
I stepped backward.
“You’ve been getting treatment and didn’t tell your wife?”
“I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“That you’d look at me differently.”
I stared at him.
“Ben, I’ve been married to you for eleven years.”
“I know.”
“I’ve watched you come home covered in blood after saving strangers.”
He lowered his head.
“I’ve watched you cry when patients didn’t make it.”
He wiped his cheek.
“I’ve watched you give everything you have to people you’ve never met.”
I stepped closer.
“And you thought I would love you less because you needed someone to take care of you?”
He couldn’t answer.
I opened the lunch bag.
The apple pie was still inside.
My hands were shaking as I pulled out the little note.
I held it between us.
You don’t have to take care of everyone. Let me have a turn.
TO CONTINUE READING THE STORY PLEASE SEE PAGE 2
