The Words We Leave Unspoken by L.D. Cedergreen

Author:L.D. Cedergreen [Cedergreen, L.D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B01FRR78H8
Publisher: L.D. Cedergreen
Published: 2016-06-20T23:00:00+00:00

The day has come and gone and after convincing Charley to stay the night, she is now camped out downstairs in the guest bedroom, even though she’ll have to leave the house at the crack of dawn to drive back to the city for work. I could sense that she was reluctant to leave and, selfishly, I wanted her here as if she’s some kind of buffer between John and I. A wall of protection between John and me and the throbbing truth that I have spun into lies so thick, I fear the truth may never surface. The evening was spent playing a mindless game of Monopoly with Olivia and Max; John playing the banker, of course, a job that he takes almost – painstakingly – too seriously.

I lie in bed staring up at the white ceiling, listening to John snore softly beside me. The steady rhythm of his breath soothing in its predictable way. The house is quiet, the wind the only sound as it blows off the shore and rattles the tall trees that surround the house. Every now and then, the French doors that lead from the master bedroom to the balcony rattle as if they might implode with each strong gust. Unable to bear the silence any longer, I step out of bed and tread quietly down the hall, stopping to peer into Olivia’s room where I see her lying perfectly still on her side, her body barely moving with each shallow breath. She is so peaceful in sleep, as if she is still that tiny baby that I brought home from the hospital so long ago. My heart fills with familiar warmth as a smile tugs at my lips. These moments are my favorite, these quiet, stolen moments from which I could never tire. I softly close the door to Olivia’s room and step across the hall to steal a similar moment with Max. The soft glow of his nightlight illuminates his face and my heart aches to reach out and touch his soft cheek. In contrast to his sister, Max is lying on his back, arms and legs sprawled out in every direction, blankets thrown to the floor as if he had a fit in his sleep. His tiny blue blanket with colorful silken tags of fabric surrounding the border – an attachment he formed when he was only four months old – is fisted in his hand as he hangs on for dear life. Although his body screams chaos, his breath is just as quiet and still as his sister’s. I walk quietly to his bed and pick up the bedding from the floor. I cover him and tuck the edges of his blanket into the bottom corners of his mattress, knowing that it won’t be long before the bedding is thrown to floor again. I kiss his cheek gently, careful not to wake him although nothing could wake this boy from sleep. You could set fireworks off near his bed and he would not stir.

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