The Widower (18+) | [Complete]

Twenty-Nine

My brow furrowed. "Don't say that."

"You don't understand." He started to cry again and hid his face in his hand. "She didn't let on. Most people wouldn't have known. Until the twins put her in such a worse state. At the end . . . it was either she was medicated or she was in horrible pain. She couldn't function without medication, but could barely spend time with the children without drifting off under the sedation it caused. She couldn't bear either one. It tore her apart every time she couldn't be with them," he explained. "The doctors said she could survive another six months. Maybe a year. I would have done anything to help her, to take away her pain. But she believed there was only one way to do that."

"No . . ." I said under my breath.

"She begged me, but I pleaded with her to give us just a little more time," his voice quivered. "She told me there would be no right time to go. She'd rather it be on her terms, when she felt it would be the least painful for them."

I wiped my cheeks with my sleeves, unable to speak past the clenching pain in my chest, but not able to look away from him either.

"So, I did it. I got her the pills," he cried, hiding his face behind his hands. "She took them and . . . it was so slow, and yet so fast. The way she relaxed in my arms," his hands trembled like his gasp for air. "I couldn't believe . . . she was gone." He doubled over and began sobbing again.

I stared at him and could do nothing but feel myself shatter. The tears streamed down my face.

The way someone goes while medicated. The slow slip, like drifting off to sleep. It doesn't register at first—at least it didn't for me. They're still there. Still warm, still looking the same. They had been there in that vulnerable, feeble position for so long it had become their new normal. Now, everyone around you is saying they're gone. But that doesn't make sense.

They're right there. But yet, they're not.

I pushed his knees aside and crawled onto him, wrapping myself around him in an attempt to give him any comfort I could. His cries were the most heartbreaking sound of my life. I squeezed him as hard as I could, trying to ground him and keep him from slipping back into his panic. On his shoulder fell my own tears. Beneath the sound of his sobs were my own.

"I'm so sorry," I cried. "I'm so, so sorry."

He wrapped his arms around me and gripped me hard. His sobs continued, his body wracking against mine. "How . . . do I tell them?" he asked through his hiccupping. "How . . . do I tell them . . . what I did?"

I ran my hands over his hair, pulling him closer by the back of his neck. A silent way of telling him it would be okay.

His breathing started to become erratic again. His fingers dug into my skin. I knew he needed help, but I couldn't give it to him like this. 

I leaned back and brushed his hair back and out of his face. He pulled me close again. "I'm here. I'm not leaving you," I assured him. His eyes opened and his breathing slowed. I covered my hands with my sleeves and wiped them over his cheeks. "But I need to get you out of here, okay?"

"Okay."

I stood and helped him to his feet. I wrapped my arm around his middle to brace him. When he looked back at the bed, I pulled him away faster.

. . .

Only when I had him back in his room and a hefty dose of anti-anxiety medication in him did he calm. I left him only for a few minutes to make sure the twins were still settled and in bed and to refill his glass of water in the kitchen. When I came back, he was exactly where I had left him.

He laid on his back, splayed out, staring blankly at the ceiling with glassy eyes. I sat his glass on the nightstand. "Come here," I said to him gently. "You can't sleep with all your clothes on."

He looked over slowly, his gaze vacant. I held my hands out to him and he took them.

I sat him up and started helping him with the buttons on his shirt. I peeled it from him, followed by his belt. His hand smoothed over my hair and pulled my head to his. He pressed his lips to my temple and lingered. A silent thank you.

His eyes found mine. "Lay down," I told him softly. He did so, and I rid him of his pants and coaxed him into a better sleeping position.

"How was it?" he asked, his voice quiet and raspy. "The children's therapy."

I blinked and looked down at him. "We don't have to talk about that right now." I went back to settling the covers.

"Does Sebastian remember her?"

I hesitated, not wanting to answer. "No, I don't think so. I'm sorry."

His brow furrowed ever so slightly. "And Tabitha?"

"She does, mostly. But . . ." I didn't want to say it. His eyes moved slowly to look at me. "She said she jumped into the river on purpose. To see if you loved her enough to save her."

He said nothing when he looked away but I could see the tears starting to build in his eyes. I laid down next to him and stroked my hand over his hair while he stared off into space.

"They're young. They're trying to work out what happened and what it means," I tried to explain. "You just need to talk to them. If you don't want to tell them the painful parts, don't. But keeping them at arm's length as a way to protect them will only hurt them more."

"How am I supposed to do that when I can't even . . ." he trailed off, his sentence as muted as his emotion.

"You don't have to be strong all the time, Augustine," I told him. "You're allowed to feel this. You're allowed to be broken even while trying to keep someone else together."

He stared at me for a moment then laid his head on my chest. He said nothing else the rest of the night.

. . .

That night, we didn't have sex, but we had something just as intimate.

We slept with his arms wrapped around me and his legs tangled with mine as if to keep me from running away. He slept heavy and deep, never waking when I shifted my weight or when I ran my fingers through his hair. I found him beautiful when I brought him to this point of placidity, but hated to see him brought here by grief. I wanted nothing more than to bring back the version of him I knew before. 

If that was even possible.

I reached over slowly and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. Quietly, I typed and sent only one message.

I need your help again.

____

A/N: Augustine's wife, Lara, suffered from a terminal disease. She made the difficult decision to reach the end of her story on her own terms, with the help of her husband and her physician.

Augustine feels guilty for two reasons: choosing to have children with the woman he loved, knowing she would pass away at a young age, and for assisting in her choice of end-of-life care.

Thank you for reading. See you in the next chapter.