Secret Keeper

Secret Keeper

"Oh there is no use in loving the dying,

I have tried..."

-Anne Sexton

It's funny.

Actually, it's not. Unless you have a particularly twisted sense of humor.

When it first happened, you were thrilled. Never mind that he told you, in no uncertain terms, that this wasn't about love. Never mind that it would be nothing but a farce. This is what you've wanted since you were eleven years old. It didn't matter that he didn't love you. He'd be yours. You were making a declaration to the entire world that he was yours and you were his.

The wedding was beautiful, just as you always imagined it to be. Flawless day, sunshine, flowers. A huge, ancient church. Friends, family. It was a colossal affair--everyone turned up. It was, after all, the wedding of the world's Golden Boy. When you stepped out of the church, arm in arm, everyone started cheering. And he smiled then, as if he truly did care, as if being with you truly made him happy. It was the first genuine smile you'd seen on his face since the war. There had been little enough to smile about those days, and people welcomed your happy union. Your mother cried, your brothers made jovial death threats to your new husband, and your friends got roaring drunk.

You moved into a house together, a mammoth old Victorian-style building in the country, far away from the reporters, the fans, the hustle and bustle. There was no honeymoon.

For a while, it was easy to delude yourself. You slept in the same bed, you woke up together every morning. He'd make you coffee, you'd give him a kiss on the cheek as he went off to work. You were happy.

Then came the first night when he left. You had been telling yourself that you could handle it, but the empty bed brought you to tears. It was so cold without him.

He came back the next afternoon, wearing rumpled clothes and a foolish smile. It was then that it truly hit you.

You were his mask, his shelter. You showed the world that he was their normal, beloved savior. You stayed at home in an empty bed while your husband--your husband--was out with him.

No one could know, of course. You represented everything he was supposed to be.

After the first night, it happened more and more. He'd disappear, sometimes for days at a time. He was always so happy when he came back. You'd smile and you'd not mention it. Over time, he came to love you--in a way--for it. He'd tell you that you were his most loyal friend. He'd hug you, he'd kiss you, he'd always come home with a little trinket for you. Maybe he was just ensuring your continued silence. He didn't need to, of course. Because you love him. You could never betray his secret.

And so, every night, you curl up in your favorite armchair, wearing the pyjamas he gave you for Christmas (baby blue with tiny yellow moons) and you read a book. As the sun goes down, you listen to him shuffle around the house restlessly, asking you pointless questions to alleviate his guilt.

"Anything you need done?" he'll ask.

"No," you say.

"You'll be okay?"

"I always am."

He stands behind the chair, dying to leave. You can smell his desperation, but he won't go until he's sure you won't be mad when he comes back. He knows he treads a fine line with you. You are the one person who could ruin his life.

He gives your shoulders and affectionate squeeze, then leans down and kisses the top of your head.

"I'll be back later," he promises.

"Mmm," you say, turning a page in the book you're not really seeing.

He lingers.

"Go," you murmur. "Have fun." The words tear you up inside, as if you're sentencing yourself to death. You feel his muscles relax, you can all but see that relieved smile. That thankful grin that he saves only for you, when you assure him that, yes, you'll keep his secret for another night. You want to turn to see that smile, that bit off affection, but instead you keep your head down and flip another page negligently.

There are nights when he can't leave you, for varied reasons. Be it that the press is watching you too closely, or things fell through with his lover. Maybe they fought. Those two were always bickering, right through school. And so, he'd stay with you. Those were the worst nights.

You'd sit in your chair, and he'd sit at the kitchen table. You'd read, while he drank. And drank. And he'd cry. He'd cry for the lover he couldn't love in sunlight, he'd cry for his vexed state. He'd cry for all his friends that died in the war. And he'd cry for you. He'd apologize for not loving you the way you should be loved.

You'd quiet him, even though you felt like screaming at him. You'd take his hand gently, even though you felt like slapping him, and you'd lead him gently to bed. You'd wrap your arms around him, pull the blankets around him, and hold him while he sobbed.

When he finally fell asleep, you'd lie beside him and listen to his heavy breathing. Sometimes, late at night, he'd whisper a name. Not your name, of course, but you close your eyes and hold him tight and in that moment, in the dark, you can pretend that your life isn't the pathetic shambles it really is.

Because this is what you've always wanted. You've dreamed about this since you were eleven years old. It doesn't matter that he doesn't love you. Because you love him. And one day, maybe he'll love you back.