The next week passed slowly.
I found myself thinking about Wendell at inconvenient times.
While folding towels.
While shopping for groceries.
While sitting in the car outside the pharmacy, waiting for a prescription.
I wondered what he did when he wasn't with me.
I wondered whether his house really was in such poor shape.
And I wondered why the thought of finding out made me nervous.
It wasn't only the possibility that Zach might be right.
I was afraid of what would happen if he was wrong.
If Wendell had a simple, innocent reason for keeping me away, then I would have to face how little trust I had placed in him.
If he had a reason he couldn't explain, I would have to decide whether I could accept that.
Either way, I couldn't remain in the middle forever.
I had spent years in emergency rooms where people wanted answers immediately.
Sometimes the answer came from a blood test or an X-ray.
Sometimes it came from watching a patient closely and noticing a change before anyone else did.
And sometimes you had to admit that you didn't know yet.
I had never liked that last part.
At my age, I liked it even less.
Wendell called on Wednesday evening.
He asked whether I had been having trouble with my knees.
I told him they were the same as usual.
He asked whether I had been resting.
I said I had been doing what I could.
He didn't question me.
He told me he hoped the pain would ease soon.
Then he asked whether I wanted him to come over on Sunday.
I told him I did.
After we hung up, I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the photograph on my nightstand.
Dwight and I had taken it years earlier at a family gathering.
His arm was around my shoulders.
I was laughing at something outside the frame.
I couldn't remember what had been said, but I remembered the feeling.
I had not needed to wonder whether I belonged in his life.
That certainty had been part of our marriage.
Wendell was different.
We had not known each other long enough to build that kind of trust.
Perhaps I was expecting too much.
Perhaps I was expecting too little.
I didn't know.
On Thursday, I cleaned the kitchen.
I wiped the counters, swept beneath the table, and straightened the stack of mail near the telephone.
I came across an old photograph of my mother standing in her yellow kitchen.
The picture was faded at the edges.
She was wearing an apron and looking toward somebody outside the frame, one hand resting on the table.
I turned it over.
There was no date written on the back.
I stood there holding it, remembering the room.
My mother had never been a woman who talked much about her feelings.
She showed love by feeding people, mending clothes, and making sure nobody left her house hungry.
That was how I had learned to care for others, too.
When I became a nurse, I thought I understood what caring meant.
I understood pain.
I understood fear.
I understood that a person could say one thing while their hands revealed another.
But I had never been especially good at asking for care myself.
After Dwight died, I became very skilled at telling people I was fine.
I had said it so often that the words sometimes came out before I knew whether they were true.
Wendell had never demanded that I pretend.
He listened when I spoke about my mother.
He remembered details I had forgotten mentioning.
He never laughed when I worried about my knees or my age.
That mattered to me.
Maybe more than I wanted to admit.
I put the photograph back in the drawer.
Then I decided that Sunday would be the last time I asked him to explain the house without a clear answer.
I didn't intend to threaten him.
I didn't intend to accuse him.
I simply wanted to know whether there was room in his life for me to see it as it really was.
Sunday came.
Wendell arrived at his usual time.
He had brought no rolls that evening, only himself.
I had made chicken, potatoes, and green beans.
We ate at the table while the evening light faded beyond the window.
He told me about a man he used to work with at the electric co-op.
I told him about a patient I had once treated who insisted on arguing with the staff while waiting for stitches.
Wendell laughed at that.
It was a warm, brief laugh.
For a while, things felt easy again.
After supper, he sat in the living room.
His eyes drifted toward Dwight's recliner.
I saw him looking at it, and I wondered whether he was remembering the time he had fallen asleep there.
I asked whether he wanted coffee.
He said he would.
I brought two cups from the kitchen.
He took his and thanked me.
We sat quietly.
I could hear the clock ticking on the wall.
Then I asked him about his house again.
This time, I did not try to make the question sound casual.
I told him I wanted to visit.
I said I had been patient because I understood that people had their own circumstances.
But I also said that I was beginning to feel shut out of a part of his life.
He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he set his cup on the table.
He looked down at his hands.
There was still a trace of something pale near one fingernail.
I couldn't tell whether it was paint or simply the way the light fell.
He said he understood why I was asking.
I waited for him to explain.
Instead, he told me the work was taking longer than he had planned.
He said he wanted the place to be comfortable before I saw it.
I asked whether the house was unsafe.
He shook his head.
I asked whether he was embarrassed by it.
Again, he shook his head.
Then he said there were things he wanted to finish first.
I could hear how carefully he was choosing his words.
That bothered me more than an ordinary excuse would have.
I asked him whether he was asking me to trust him without giving me a reason.
He looked at me.
For a moment, I thought he might finally tell me everything.
Instead, he said he was asking for a little more time.
I felt the old irritation rise in me.
I had spent my life listening to people tell me to be patient when what they really meant was that they didn't want to answer a question.
But Wendell did not look smug or evasive.
He looked tired.
That made the conversation harder, not easier.
I told him I wasn't going to force him to invite me over.
I said that if he wanted to share his life with me, I needed him to understand that I couldn't build a relationship around a closed door.
He nodded slowly.
He told me he understood.
We did not argue.
He finished his coffee, stood, and thanked me for supper.
At the door, he paused as if he might say something more.
Then he wished me a good night and left.
I watched his truck pull away.
I felt disappointed.
I also felt relieved that I had finally said what I needed to say.
Those feelings did not cancel each other out.
The following morning, I called Megan.
I told her I had spoken to Wendell.
She asked whether he had admitted to having a wife.
I said he had denied it.
She asked whether I believed him.
I told her I thought he had been honest about that particular question.
She sighed.
Then she reminded me that I still hadn't seen his home.
I knew.
I didn't need anyone to remind me.
I told her I would handle it myself.
She said she hoped I knew what I was doing.
I told her I hoped so, too.
After the call, I went to the kitchen and made coffee.
I stood beside the counter while it brewed, listening to the machine sputter and drip.
My thoughts returned to Wendell's hands.
The sawdust.
The yellow paint.
The way he had studied my face when I told him about my mother's kitchen.
I could have continued waiting.
I could have decided that love and companionship required me to accept the things I didn't understand.
But I had spent too many years ignoring my own discomfort for the sake of keeping other people happy.
I didn't want to do that anymore.
I wanted the truth, whatever it turned out to be.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: I Found His Address in an Old Drawer, Put on My Best Blouse, and Finally Decided to See What He Had Been Hiding
My Son Thought the Widower at My Sunday Table Wanted My Money, but I Had Noticed Something He Couldn’t Explain
Part 3 of 8
