Page 35 of Wrapped in Hope

Chapter 13

“Jane, I’m home,”I yell when I walk in the door.

She doesn’t make a sound, not that I expect her to. I take a deep breath as I drop my wallet and keys on the kitchen counter and move toward her room.

I push the door open and for once, she’s not lying in bed. She’s back in that fucking chair, staring out the window in a daze.

“How was your day?” I ask her, leaning against the door frame.

Again, no answer. She doesn’t move an inch.

I push forward, walking through her room and sitting down next to her. “I ran into Hope in the city.”

With the mention of Hope’s name, her head turns in my direction.

For the first time in a long time, I see my wife instead of the gray cloud of depression that’s always hanging over her. Her green eyes are faded and bloodshot, small wrinkles surrounding them. Her dark hair is starting to turn gray, and she’s so underweight I’m surprised she can support herself.

“Hope?” she whispers, her face void of emotion.

I nod. I knew mentioning Hope’s name would make her think of Dean, but I just need to see some sort of emotion from her. “She’s going to college in the city. I ran into her at one of those group meetings I’ve been trying to get you to go to.”

She practically snarls before turning her head away from me to look out the window.

“I’m helping her, Jane. She’s depressed and just letting life pass her by, just like you. The only difference is that she wants to be found. She wants to be better. She wants my help.”

I expect her to say something, to breathe out a sigh, or walk away from me so she doesn’t have to listen to what I’m saying, but she does nothing. She shuts down. I see her eyes glaze over like she’s no longer with me, but in a different time and place all together.

“What’s going on behind those eyes of yours?” I whisper while watching her escape this world any way she can.

I sit and watch her, dreaming about a time in our lives when we were happy, when she laughed and had fun. This woman sitting in front of me is nothing more than an empty shell of the woman who once used to embody it.

I rest my elbows on my knees while my hands ball up under my chin to support my head as I lean over, watching her. “I wish you would come back, Jane.”

When it’s clear that she isn’t coming back to me, I stand and leave her alone.

As I walk out of her room, anger and guilt eats at me. I’ve tried everything to get her back. I’ve been patient and waited. I’ve tried talking to her. I’ve tried leaving her alone. Nothing works. I can’t sit and watch her do this to herself, and that makes me feel even more guilty. I vowed to be with her through thick and thin, yet here it is, five years into the thick and I’m ready to give up. What kind of man does that?

I need companionship. I need someone to love, someone who loves me back. I need laughter. I need a promise that someone will always be here for me. Is that too much to ask for?

Annoyed with myself and Jane, I strip off my clothes and turn the shower on. As the water warms, I lean over the sink and study my face in the mirror. Earlier, when I was with her, I looked healthy and strong, but now, after that talk with Jane, I look like I’ve aged ten years. My eyes are bloodshot with anger and sadness. My forehead has stress lines that stretch across it, and my scowl doesn’t do anything to make me look younger. I look like a bitter old man. A desperate man who would do anything to change the past, who would do anything to finally be happy again.

Looking at myself only fuels my anger. I push away from the sink and step into the hot flow of water. I hold my head under the stream and let it rain down on me. The hot water flows over my head and down into my face. I close my eyes, and the second I do, she flashes in my mind.

I think over the past couple of days with her: watching her in the gym, lips parted, chest heaving, the flush of her face. I can practically hear her heavy breathing and soft gasps. I can smell her sweet scent of vanilla and lavender. I can feel her against my chest as I have her pressed against that tree, the way she fell apart in my hands, the erotic look on her face when she asked me for more. I can feel her lips on mine while she searches for someone that isn’t me.

That thought only annoys me. I knew when she kissed me that first time that she woke up thinking I was him. That’s all I am for her: a fucking reminder of my dead son. I’m not stupid. I know how much alike we look: same black hair, same color eyes, same body structure, or we would have if he had lived long enough to become a man instead of an awkward teenager. I’m as close to him as she can get.

Just thinking about why she wants me around kills the erection I was getting. But even that is better than thinking about her while pleasuring myself again.

I wash quickly and step out of the shower before my body can come up with any more mental images to trick my fragile mind.

I pull on a pair of boxers and sweatpants before raking my fingers through my hair. I don’t bother with shaving my dark five o’clock shadow. I’m exhausted from the mental and physical strain of the day.

I step out of my room, heading for the kitchen. I want a quick and easy dinner so I can go to bed early. Tomorrow is Monday and it will be a busy week. I know we have at least four different bikes that need extreme work done to them. That’s on top of the daily tune ups.

I round the corner to the kitchen and see Jane standing on the other side of the island with her back facing me. Just seeing her standing there scares me. She doesn’t ever come out of her room if I’m home.

“Fuck, Jane! You scared the shit out of me.” My hand flies to my chest, covering my heart that is pounding like crazy out of fear.