Twenty Four Weeks - Episode 3 - "Fourteen" (PG) by James David Denisson
going to be saying I’m sorry and asking your forgiveness forever. I just hope that you’ll keep giving it to me.”
“I said I would.”
“I know, and I need to keep trusting you. But that’s my problem, not yours. I know you won’t let me down again, but sometimes I forget and lose faith in you. And I’m sorry for that too.”
“This isn’t going to be easy,” I tell her, and nothing has been truer to me than that.
Our coffee arrives just in time because I need some right now.
“You know,” she says after a moment, “I liked what you did the other day.”
“Really?”
She nods. “You came and found me and you rescued me.”
“I did?”
“I was confused and sad and alone, and there you were. I’d have wallowed in that all day, and maybe I would’ve just given up, I don’t know. But you saved me, and I love you for doing that.”
“I rescued you. I didn’t think of it like that.”
“And you rescued me before. Jen told me she called you. You knew that I was struggling and you came home. You came home even though you must have hated me.”
“I’ve never hated you, not really. I might have said I did, but I was just angry. I couldn’t hate you.”
And now I’m thinking this impossibility: I love you.
“One thing I know,” she says, “when you hold me you make everything seem lighter. I missed it when you stopped doing that.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I stopped.”
“I kept pushing you away, even though I needed you. I needed you to understand and you didn’t and so I kept you away.”
“You don’t need to worry about that again. I will understand, and I will hold you when you need it.”
She smiles. “I need it now,” she says, and so I do. I slide in next to her and hold her for the longest time, long enough for our coffee to start to go cold.
“Judd, I think I’m ready,” she says finally. I pull away and she takes a deep breath. “I’m ready to talk to someone.”
I smile. I nod. “What made you change your mind?”
“You,” she says. “What happened the other day. I’ve got all these feelings, all these emotions, and I don’t understand them, and I can’t control them. I don’t know what I want – do I want you, do I want to let you go? Do I want a life with you? Can I forgive myself? You see?”
“I do. They’re all important questions.”
“But you’re answering them for yourself, aren’t you?”
I laugh. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I told myself that I was just going to be friends with you and there I go kissing you on the street.”
She looks down shyly. “I loved that kiss.”
God, I love this woman, I think.
“But the thing is,” I tell her, “nothing means more to me than our friendship, and I didn’t want to ruin what we have. I still don’t. And then I take a risk like that.”
“But it was wonderful. And some risks are worth it.”
And I start to laugh. Not because what she has said is amusing, more that something Grant said to me the week before: The causes most worth fighting for are the lost ones.
“What?” she asks me quietly.
I smile and shake my head. “I was just thinking of something Grant said.”
“Oh?”
“I doesn’t matter.” I sigh. “Speaking of Grant, do you want me to call him for you, get you in to see his wife? Or do you want to organize something yourself?”
She nods, takes my hand. “Can you do it? I trust you.”
And that’s a big thing for her. In the last years of our marriage I guess that she didn’t trust me and so in the end she didn’t need me. Trusting me now, placing herself in my hands was a step for her into the unknown. I’d made it and she was inspired to take it herself, with me holding her hand as she does. I was honoured.
“Sure,” I tell her. “If we’re lucky, maybe they can see us at the same time. I’d like to take you up with me.”
“I’d like that too.”
No one noticed us, sitting in the corner, holding each other, holding hands, speaking together in secretive, huddled whispers. We must have looked like any other couple there: normal and happy. But the truth is we aren’t. We’re broken and hurting and we’re trying to hold on to something, anything. In the end we we’re holding onto each other, afraid that if we let go then that would be it, we’d be over. Clearly we weren’t ready for that.
Our friendship was growing by the day and although I feared to admit it, something else was happening to us. But it was fear that stopped us from moving beyond to something bigger, something better. We were afraid of the pain we had felt, that we had caused, and what harm we could still cause each other.
Even though we could see the truth, fear still held us in its steely grasp, still blinded us to what could be between us, how we could have something new, something wonderful, something real.
I ring Grant’s home when I get back to my flat. Once again I get his wife, Mary.
“Hi,” I say hesitantly. “It’s Judd Altman. I’m seeing Grant tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she says sweetly. “Judd. I’ll get my husband for you.”
“Actually,” I say, stopping her, “I was hoping to speak to you.”
“Oh?”
“It’s about my wife,” I say. I stop when I say it. My wife. It’s like I’m accepting the reality of it. She’s my wife. I’m ringing someone to help her. I’m caring for her like she’s the one reason for my life, like she’s done nothing to me.
“Judd?”
I haven’t spoken for ten seconds. “Sorry,” I say. “My wife, Quinn... she needs help. Grant says you might be able to talk to her.”
“I’d love to, Judd.”
“Good,” I say relieved. “I was actually hoping that you might be able to see her tomorrow. I know its late notice. I’m coming up there, you see. I thought you could see her when I see Grant.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You’ll look after her, won’t you? I mean, she’s been through a lot, and she’s hurting and pregnant and confused. I’m worried about her.”
“I’m glad to hear that you are. It means a lot that she has someone who cares as deeply as you do. I promise you, I will look after her. Grant and I have a policy if sorts: we treat people that come to us like they’re our own sons and daughters.”
I feel the truth in her words. I’ve talked to Grant only once and I feel like he’s a father to me.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you. I mean it. We’ll see you both tomorrow.”
I ring Quinn at our apartment.
“Are you still up for this,” I ask her.
She takes a deep breath. “I am, Judd.”
“Then I’ll take you tomorrow. Pick you up at eight.”
“I’ll be ready.” There is silence for a moment. “Judd?” she says.
“Yes.”
“What’s going to happen? What can I expect?”
I can’t contain my joy. She’s doing this. I’m so proud of her. “Anything,” I tell her.
From here, anything could happen.
Saturday
The following morning I park under her building again. I message up to her and ride the lift to our apartment. She’s ready to go. Quinn was always good with appointments. I always made her late. It was something that she didn’t like but had learnt to expect. I wasn’t late today, and she noticed. She wore an easy smile when the doors opened.
That was not all. Quinn always dressed beautifully. That was one thing that I was always proud of. She always looked stunning. I would like to think that she did this for me, but I have learnt that I had no bearing on this at all. I whistle before I can stop myself when I see her and she blushes a little. She is in a short floral dress that hugs her figure wonderfully, even with her baby out front. I haven’t s
een this dress before. I guess she’s bought it the last few months. I don’t ask her if he’d bought it for her, or that she’s bought it for his benefit, but I don’t think that is the case.
“Is this right to wear to counselling?” she asks me.
“I know all my problems have just disappeared,” I quip.
“Stop it,” she says a little playfully, and I do, but I want to keep going. I want to do other things too.
She’s got her hair out again. It falls down over her shoulders and down her back in thick, brown, wavy lines.
“I like your hair,” I tell her.
“Really. I’m wearing it out these days. You really like it?”
“I do.”
“I suppose it’s like your beard.”
“Not quite. I grew the beard because I was depressed and lazy. Big difference.”
“But you haven’t shaved it off yet.”
“No. I think it makes me look more mature. Wiser, maybe.”
“It will take more than a little facial hair for that.”
“Thanks,” I say with a grin.
The reality is that people don’t change that much. It’s a comfort and a concern to me. The good news is that I know Quinn well. I know how she is when she’s sad, when she’s afraid, when she’s happy – at least when she’s not lying to me. The bad news is that because she’s done something terrible, odds are that she might do it again. If I believe that she will then it would be sensible to keep my distance, cut off all ties to her bar our baby. But I’m not made that way. I just can’t do it. Not now, not after I’ve forgiven her.
Quinn is talking a lot on the way to the Uptons. She’s not a big talker unless she’s drunk or nervous. I suspect the latter today. She’s talking about work, her friends, whatever comes to mind. I’m listening, nodding as I do, saying all the right
“I said I would.”
“I know, and I need to keep trusting you. But that’s my problem, not yours. I know you won’t let me down again, but sometimes I forget and lose faith in you. And I’m sorry for that too.”
“This isn’t going to be easy,” I tell her, and nothing has been truer to me than that.
Our coffee arrives just in time because I need some right now.
“You know,” she says after a moment, “I liked what you did the other day.”
“Really?”
She nods. “You came and found me and you rescued me.”
“I did?”
“I was confused and sad and alone, and there you were. I’d have wallowed in that all day, and maybe I would’ve just given up, I don’t know. But you saved me, and I love you for doing that.”
“I rescued you. I didn’t think of it like that.”
“And you rescued me before. Jen told me she called you. You knew that I was struggling and you came home. You came home even though you must have hated me.”
“I’ve never hated you, not really. I might have said I did, but I was just angry. I couldn’t hate you.”
And now I’m thinking this impossibility: I love you.
“One thing I know,” she says, “when you hold me you make everything seem lighter. I missed it when you stopped doing that.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I stopped.”
“I kept pushing you away, even though I needed you. I needed you to understand and you didn’t and so I kept you away.”
“You don’t need to worry about that again. I will understand, and I will hold you when you need it.”
She smiles. “I need it now,” she says, and so I do. I slide in next to her and hold her for the longest time, long enough for our coffee to start to go cold.
“Judd, I think I’m ready,” she says finally. I pull away and she takes a deep breath. “I’m ready to talk to someone.”
I smile. I nod. “What made you change your mind?”
“You,” she says. “What happened the other day. I’ve got all these feelings, all these emotions, and I don’t understand them, and I can’t control them. I don’t know what I want – do I want you, do I want to let you go? Do I want a life with you? Can I forgive myself? You see?”
“I do. They’re all important questions.”
“But you’re answering them for yourself, aren’t you?”
I laugh. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I told myself that I was just going to be friends with you and there I go kissing you on the street.”
She looks down shyly. “I loved that kiss.”
God, I love this woman, I think.
“But the thing is,” I tell her, “nothing means more to me than our friendship, and I didn’t want to ruin what we have. I still don’t. And then I take a risk like that.”
“But it was wonderful. And some risks are worth it.”
And I start to laugh. Not because what she has said is amusing, more that something Grant said to me the week before: The causes most worth fighting for are the lost ones.
“What?” she asks me quietly.
I smile and shake my head. “I was just thinking of something Grant said.”
“Oh?”
“I doesn’t matter.” I sigh. “Speaking of Grant, do you want me to call him for you, get you in to see his wife? Or do you want to organize something yourself?”
She nods, takes my hand. “Can you do it? I trust you.”
And that’s a big thing for her. In the last years of our marriage I guess that she didn’t trust me and so in the end she didn’t need me. Trusting me now, placing herself in my hands was a step for her into the unknown. I’d made it and she was inspired to take it herself, with me holding her hand as she does. I was honoured.
“Sure,” I tell her. “If we’re lucky, maybe they can see us at the same time. I’d like to take you up with me.”
“I’d like that too.”
No one noticed us, sitting in the corner, holding each other, holding hands, speaking together in secretive, huddled whispers. We must have looked like any other couple there: normal and happy. But the truth is we aren’t. We’re broken and hurting and we’re trying to hold on to something, anything. In the end we we’re holding onto each other, afraid that if we let go then that would be it, we’d be over. Clearly we weren’t ready for that.
Our friendship was growing by the day and although I feared to admit it, something else was happening to us. But it was fear that stopped us from moving beyond to something bigger, something better. We were afraid of the pain we had felt, that we had caused, and what harm we could still cause each other.
Even though we could see the truth, fear still held us in its steely grasp, still blinded us to what could be between us, how we could have something new, something wonderful, something real.
I ring Grant’s home when I get back to my flat. Once again I get his wife, Mary.
“Hi,” I say hesitantly. “It’s Judd Altman. I’m seeing Grant tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she says sweetly. “Judd. I’ll get my husband for you.”
“Actually,” I say, stopping her, “I was hoping to speak to you.”
“Oh?”
“It’s about my wife,” I say. I stop when I say it. My wife. It’s like I’m accepting the reality of it. She’s my wife. I’m ringing someone to help her. I’m caring for her like she’s the one reason for my life, like she’s done nothing to me.
“Judd?”
I haven’t spoken for ten seconds. “Sorry,” I say. “My wife, Quinn... she needs help. Grant says you might be able to talk to her.”
“I’d love to, Judd.”
“Good,” I say relieved. “I was actually hoping that you might be able to see her tomorrow. I know its late notice. I’m coming up there, you see. I thought you could see her when I see Grant.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You’ll look after her, won’t you? I mean, she’s been through a lot, and she’s hurting and pregnant and confused. I’m worried about her.”
“I’m glad to hear that you are. It means a lot that she has someone who cares as deeply as you do. I promise you, I will look after her. Grant and I have a policy if sorts: we treat people that come to us like they’re our own sons and daughters.”
I feel the truth in her words. I’ve talked to Grant only once and I feel like he’s a father to me.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you. I mean it. We’ll see you both tomorrow.”
I ring Quinn at our apartment.
“Are you still up for this,” I ask her.
She takes a deep breath. “I am, Judd.”
“Then I’ll take you tomorrow. Pick you up at eight.”
“I’ll be ready.” There is silence for a moment. “Judd?” she says.
“Yes.”
“What’s going to happen? What can I expect?”
I can’t contain my joy. She’s doing this. I’m so proud of her. “Anything,” I tell her.
From here, anything could happen.
Saturday
The following morning I park under her building again. I message up to her and ride the lift to our apartment. She’s ready to go. Quinn was always good with appointments. I always made her late. It was something that she didn’t like but had learnt to expect. I wasn’t late today, and she noticed. She wore an easy smile when the doors opened.
That was not all. Quinn always dressed beautifully. That was one thing that I was always proud of. She always looked stunning. I would like to think that she did this for me, but I have learnt that I had no bearing on this at all. I whistle before I can stop myself when I see her and she blushes a little. She is in a short floral dress that hugs her figure wonderfully, even with her baby out front. I haven’t s
“Is this right to wear to counselling?” she asks me.
“I know all my problems have just disappeared,” I quip.
“Stop it,” she says a little playfully, and I do, but I want to keep going. I want to do other things too.
She’s got her hair out again. It falls down over her shoulders and down her back in thick, brown, wavy lines.
“I like your hair,” I tell her.
“Really. I’m wearing it out these days. You really like it?”
“I do.”
“I suppose it’s like your beard.”
“Not quite. I grew the beard because I was depressed and lazy. Big difference.”
“But you haven’t shaved it off yet.”
“No. I think it makes me look more mature. Wiser, maybe.”
“It will take more than a little facial hair for that.”
“Thanks,” I say with a grin.
The reality is that people don’t change that much. It’s a comfort and a concern to me. The good news is that I know Quinn well. I know how she is when she’s sad, when she’s afraid, when she’s happy – at least when she’s not lying to me. The bad news is that because she’s done something terrible, odds are that she might do it again. If I believe that she will then it would be sensible to keep my distance, cut off all ties to her bar our baby. But I’m not made that way. I just can’t do it. Not now, not after I’ve forgiven her.
Quinn is talking a lot on the way to the Uptons. She’s not a big talker unless she’s drunk or nervous. I suspect the latter today. She’s talking about work, her friends, whatever comes to mind. I’m listening, nodding as I do, saying all the right