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The tension I lived under during those weeks was terrible. My longing for Don grew so intense it was as if every nerve in my body cried out with it. The only solace I could find was in thinking of our future, planning for it, dreaming of it. Some day this would all be over. We would declare our love. We would be together. And then we would begin to live. All this inner agony of waiting was preparation for that day.
Woodie grew steadily better. I saw the improvement every time I visited him. And I rejoiced — not only for myself but for him. To be free forever of the dreadful blight that had hung over him so long, to be able to take his place with confidence in the world and live as other men — that was what I wanted for him.
I knew Don felt the same way, that he was not selfish in wanting Woodie to be well again. That was one of the wonderful things in our love; without speaking, we knew what the other felt. So, on Mondays, when Don would stroll casually into the office and ask "How was he yesterday?", I would say "Better," and his eyes would light and I knew he was glad in the way I was glad.
"It can't be much longer, then" Don would say, "before he comes home."
IT couldn't be much longer, and all
my time — my minutes and hours — were measured by that thought. Yet when the day came, it was unexpected. Woodie just opened the door one evening and walked in.
I dropped the plate I was drying, and stared at him. I felt faint.
"I wanted to surprise you," Woodie said and grabbed me in his arms. "Oh, gosh, it's good to be here! Gosh — " He sort of choked up then, and I knew his feeling went too deep for words.
Now is the time to tell him, I thought wildly. Now. Not gradually, but with one clean and final thrust before his happiness becomes too much a part of him. And from somewhere a line of poetry came to my mind. The kindest use a knife. . . .
Gently, I pulled out of his arms. "Woodie," I said. "Woodie, I have something — "
"Oh, my darling, my little Nancy — you'll never know how I've waited for this. To come back and find you here as you have always been, to know that, no matter what happened, you were always here — it's all that pulled me through. The treatment wouldn't have worked if I hadn't had you to come back to, to want to live for. I told Dr. Blythe that."
"And he—" I faltered. "What did he say?"
Woodie laughed. "He said he was glad I appreciated my wife, that she was a wonderful person, and that I should remember that all my life, no matter what happened. As if I needed to be told!" He took me in his arms again and I could feel his body trembling.
I stood, unresisting, passive. The life seemed drained out of me and I felt cold as ice. I could see Don's dear face as clearly as if he stood there in the kitchen with us. This was the time to speak . . . this was the time . . . And yet I couldn't. Some force stronger than I, stronger than my love for Don, stilled the words I would have spoken.
Exhausted by the excitement of the day, Woodie went to bed early and fell immediately asleep. I moved quietly around the bedroom, getting ready for the night, and it was as if I were