Promise Me

Why do we delay the changes that will bring us happiness? It’s like finally fixing up the house the week before you sell it.

Beth Cardall’s Diary

Marc called around seven that night to talk to Charlotte. For the first time since I sent him away, I was glad to hear his voice. In all honesty, it was more than just exhaustion from going through all of this alone. I missed our family. And even as deeply as I’d been hurt, I missed him. But I wasn’t about to tell him that.

“Hi, Beth,” he said. “How are you?”

“Here’s Charlotte,” I said, handing her the phone. As usual, Charlotte was happy to hear his voice, and within just a few minutes she was laughing. As I watched her, I knew just how much she needed her father. After they had talked a while, I told Charlotte to say goodbye and give me back the phone. I put it up to my ear. “Marc, I need to talk to you.”

“Okay,” he said tentatively, “I’m listening.”

“I need to go into the other room. Call back in a couple minutes.”

“All right.”

I hung up the phone, kissed Charlotte good night, then went to my bedroom. The phone rang as I was walking in. I picked it up and sat on the bed. “Hello.”

“It’s Marc.”

“Listen, I don’t want you to take this wrong. I’m just as angry and hurt as I was a couple days ago. Maybe even more. But this isn’t a time to just be thinking about us. Right now our little girl is sick and she needs you. And I need your help. I can’t do this alone. I’ve missed so much work lately that I may lose my job.”

“You want me to come back home?” he asked.

“I don’t want you to. But I think, with things the way they are, it would be best for Charlotte.”

He was quiet for a moment. “When can I come back?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. Then I could work the late shift.”

“I’ll be back around lunchtime.”

“I want to be very clear about this, Marc. You can’t touch me and you’re not sleeping in my bed. You can sleep in the front room on the couch. Are you clear on this?”

“It’s for Charlotte,” he said. “No touching.”

“It’s only for Charlotte,” I repeated.

“Understood.” We were both silent for a moment, then he said, “It will be good to see you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye,” he said.

As I hung up, my eyes welled up with tears. Beneath my veneer of anger I was soft. Part of me, a part of me that I despised at that moment, wanted to curl up in his arms and cry. I hated being so needy. I hated wanting healing from the man who had inflicted the injury.

The next day, Marc arrived at noon carrying a McDonald’s bag. As he walked in the house, I thought he looked a little peaked, which was understandable for the emotional ride we’d been on. “I brought Charlotte something for lunch.”

“I already made her a sandwich, but thanks. When do you leave town next?”

“Three weeks.”

“Not for three weeks?”

“I told Dean to go ahead and change my territory like he wanted. It will cost us some commissions, but I won’t need to be gone as much.”

I couldn’t believe the changes Marc was making. “That will be good,” I said.

“Hold on. I got you something.” He brought a long, narrow box out of his pocket and set it on the kitchen table next to me. “It’s a . . .” He suddenly looked embarrassed. “Just open it.”

I lifted the lid off the box. Inside was a beautiful strand of pearls. I had always wanted pearls.

“What is this for?” I asked.

“It’s a late Valentine’s Day present.” Then more softly, “It’s a token of my love.”

I put the lid back on the box. Under different circumstances I would have squealed with delight. I would have thrown my arms around him, grateful for such a fabulous gift. But circumstances had changed. I knew that the pearls weren’t a token of his love, they were a token of what he’d done. I knew I could never wear the necklace—it would only remind me of her. “Thanks,” I said sadly. I left the box on the table and went to work.