Hold on and Smile

CW: Contains themes of coercive behavior and references to physical and mental health struggles

My hips sway to the rhythm. My feet tap against the floor in a soft pattern, as if they are trying to stay silent. The savory aroma of lamb braise still lingers in the air, seeping into my nostrils and making them tingle. Each step is a new count, a new breath, a new reason for me to be here.

My hands are firm on her waist. I can feel her ribs expanding with each inhale, her body in tune with my own. I can feel her wrists bound around my neck and her hands caressing the short hair at my nape.

She’s looking up at me with the most gorgeous smile; the corners of her plump lips are slightly quirked up, her eyebrows are at ease, dimples poke into her rosy cheeks, and her eyes are vulnerable, shining in the warm light from the corner lamp.

“You’re too good to me,” she murmurs, his voice nearly smothered by the record turning across the room.

I huff out a laugh. “You said that yesterday.”

She shrugs. “Because it was true.”

“And the day before that.”

“It was true then, too.”

I lean in just enough to press my forehead against hers. She hums, letting her eyelids flutter closed.

I don’t know how long we stand there. It could be seconds, minutes, hours. I finally lift a hand to tuck her long, golden hair behind her ear, then cup her cheek. I use my other hand to pull her closer, and her lips crash into mine.

It’s a slow kiss, slower than usual, but it’s perfect for this moment.

We separate when the record halts with a soft click.

“Take me to bed?” she whispers seductively.

I can’t say yes faster.

She loves home-cooked meals, and I love cooking. I love setting the table for her, dishing up her plate, watching her eat it with pure joy. She never criticizes my handiwork, always insisting that it’s perfect.

“This is amazing,” she groans, shoving another forkful of meatloaf into her mouth. “I don’t know how you do it, honey. It’s better than the restaurant.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “I’m sure there’s something missing.”

She shakes her head, reaching across the table to wrap her hand around my wrist.

“Don’t change a thing. I could eat this a thousand more times without an issue.”

I think she’s dramatic, but I love that about her.

The next night, I make a dish that we often have, but with a little twist. Of course, she notices immediately, gasping around a mouthful.

“It’s different! What’s different?”

“I added something.”

She squints her eyes at me, then swallows and takes another bite.

“A secret ingredient?” I nod. “Tell me!”

I smirk. “What? I can’t do that.”

She pouts at me, but I don’t budge.

“Oh, come on, please?" I shake my head, and she concedes. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out.”

I’m not so sure, but I play along. I just love that she enjoys it.

I notice the change before she can tell me.

“Did you sleep well last night?” I ask while we sip coffee at the table.

She nods, but she’s a little pale, and her eyebags are darker than they should be.

“I don’t know why I’m so tired. I’ll just make more coffee.”

I would tell her not to, but she has a long day of work ahead of her. More coffee won’t hurt.

A few days later, I set up the record player after dinner while she changes her clothes. I pick out a record that we haven’t heard in a while; it’s probably the most melancholy of them all.

I hear her slippers shuffling down the hallway, and I turn just in time to see her appear. She’s wearing loose, soft pajama pants covered in teddy bears and a plain red, oversized sweatshirt.

“Comfy tonight, are we?”

“Why not? Who do I need to impress?”

I take her hand and lead her to the middle of the room. “Me, of course.”

“You don’t care what I wear.”

“Maybe not. As long as you’re happy.”

I quickly set the needle, then return to her as the opening chords begin to play. She doesn’t smile at me this time; she wraps her arms around me and rests her head on my shoulder, letting me rock both of us along with the slow beat. I kiss her head and smile.

I love having her in my arms.

She has been getting more and more exhausted every week. She has never been one to complain, but it’s easy to notice how her bubbly personality takes a dreary turn. Our weekly dances turn into weekly hugs; our daily dinners are quieter, and I get less praise; she goes out with her friends less often, preferring to stay in with me.

“Are you feeling alright?” I ask one afternoon while we watch a movie. It’s boring yet familiar.

“Yeah,” she says lightly, rubbing her thumb over my palm. “I’m always happy when I’m with you.”

I look at her. Her smile isn’t the same gorgeous smile I’m used to, but it’s still pretty.

“I feel off,” she says one night as we get in bed.

“What do you mean?”

She sighs. “I’ve been tired, and I’ve been having headaches for a few days. I get a bit nauseous when I’m eating, too.”

I frown. “Maybe you’re stressed. Has work been a lot lately?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not as busy this time of year.”

“You can take a sick day if you need to. You have plenty left this year.”

She kisses the back of my hand. “Maybe I will. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Honey, where is my purse?” she calls out. I walk into the kitchen and see her looking around. She’s even opening cupboards to look for it.

“Right here,” I say, spotting it on the table. She turns but doesn’t see it for a few seconds.

“Ah! Thank you, dear.” She presses a kiss to my cheek.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, that’s alright. It’ll be quick.”

She should have left for the store ten minutes ago. I don’t mention it.

When she returns, I help her unpack the bags.

“Where’s the tartar sauce?” I asked her before she left to buy some for tonight’s dinner.

She digs through the last bag, but it only seems to have chips and bread. “It’s in here somewhere…”

I know that it’s not. I wait for her to finish looking, then she looks up at me guiltily.

“I’m sorry, I think I forgot it. Want me to go back?”

I smile and shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. I can substitute aioli.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I kiss her, and the guilty look disappears.

That night, she notices the difference in the baked salmon.

“You should substitute this for cream of tartar every time,” she says with a smile. “I really like it.”

I open my mouth to correct her, but instead I say, “You’re suggesting that I officially alter a recipe?”

She chuckles. “I guess so. You’re so talented, you could change every ingredient and it would still be perfect. Change is good, right?”

I nod, unable to suppress a smile. “It is.”

The good days are few and far between, but they are never like they used to be. She starts complaining more often of headaches, nausea, and dizziness, and I continue suggesting that it might be stress or anxiety.

“It’s not!” she shouts over dinner one day. She’s barely had a few bites, yet I’m already halfway done. “It’s not stress. I know stress. This isn’t stress.”

“Okay,” I say calmly.

“I’ve been eating and drinking fine. It must be something else.”

“Okay.”

She pauses and looks at me.

“Should I go to the doctor?” she asks quietly, true worry lacing her tone.

I consider the symptoms, including the ones I haven’t told her about: forgetfulness, spacing out, lack of focus. They could definitely lead to a more serious condition, although she is pretty young to have a neurological disorder.

A sigh leaves my lips. “Probably. Just to make sure.”

She nods. “I will. Yeah, I’ll make an appointment. Thanks, honey.”

She doesn’t eat for the rest of the night, and she still hasn’t figured out the secret ingredient. I wonder if she ever will.

I decide to tell her about her other symptoms before the appointment. At first, she denies them—says that I’m just imagining things, that I’m the crazy one. Then she registers the rest of her body and its fatigues, and she accepts them.

She texts me after the appointment to tell me that they found nothing wrong. I nearly groan in relief.

But after that day, things only seem to worsen.

She eats less due to nausea and lack of appetite, so I make sure she drinks more water and tea. I make soup for dinner more often as well; I don’t care what I eat as long as she gets the nutrition she needs.

She tries to get a glass from the cupboard one evening, but it slips right out of her grasp and shatters on the floor. I quickly run over to help, making sure she doesn’t step on anything, and she just backs up, shaking.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she mumbles, her voice unstable.

“Nothing’s wrong with you, darling,” I tell her from the floor. I look up at her, trying to convince her that she’s okay.

She nods. “Okay. I’m okay.”

We won’t use glass from now on.

It becomes difficult for her to get out of bed. She uses a few sick days in the span of a week. So, when she complains, I suggest that it’s depression. She says that she isn’t depressed.

“It isn’t just mental. It's physical,” she insists. “I’m not sad, but… I can’t remember things. It’s all foggy. Something’s wrong.”

The next morning, I give in and take her to the hospital for real tests. She’s very grateful, especially because she knows that I hate hospitals. Nonetheless, I don’t leave her side unless I’m forced to. I play the role of the supportive husband, validating her concerns and listening to the doctor’s every word.

He rules out a few conditions quickly. Her bloodwork is clean, vitals are steady, and tests are normal, but she’s clearly very anxious. The moment the word “anxiety” leaves the doctor’s mouth, she sits up and glares at him.

“No. No, something’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing is wrong with you, ma’am. It’s common for heightened levels of anxiety and stress to cause nausea, brain fog, and lack of energy. If you’d like, I can prescribe you an anti-anxiety medication to help manage it.”

She shakes her head dejectedly. I reach over and take her hand with both of my own.

“You’re okay,” I whisper with a smile. My chest feels so much lighter. “What did I say, hm?”

She tries to smile back, but it falls flat.

When we get home, I start getting ready for work while she lies on the couch; she’s taking the whole day off. I told her it was a good idea.

As I’m heading for the door, I hear her quiet voice call out, “Honey?” I turn and go back to her. She looks halfway asleep. “Can you… bring me some water? The hospital wore me out.”

“Of course.” I rush to the kitchen and fill a cup with cold water, then set it on the coffee table in front of her. She’s smiling again, just barely. “Do you want tea?”

“Not right now. Thank you.”

I frown and lean down and kiss her forehead. I tell her to rest, and she hums back. I go to work with a weird feeling in my stomach.

Her hand shakes as she lifts a spoonful of soup up to her lips. I watch a little splash out before she gets the rest into her mouth.

“Why am I like this?” she whispers, as if she were talking to herself. I know that she isn’t.

“You haven’t been eating much lately,” I answer. “It’s probably hurting your body. You should try to eat a bit more, okay?”

“But I have no appetite these days.” Her eyes are full of sadness, and her tone is full of hopelessness. My heart clenches.

“It’s the anxiety, remember?”

She just sighs. Whenever I bring that up, she doesn’t really say anything in response. She still doesn’t think it’s anxiety, but she has given up on arguing about it.

I try to make larger, more plentiful meals after that, and I continue encouraging her to eat, but it doesn’t work very well. She drinks tea when I make it, and she drinks coffee most mornings, but it doesn’t seem to help.

What seems to help her the most is just me being there for her. So I stay close, remind her I love her, listen to her, and hold her. It’s all she asks for.

This weekend, she doesn’t get out of bed for anything except the bathroom. She looks like she slept for one hour while she actually slept for nine. She tries to refuse food, but I bring it in on a tray and don’t give in.

“It’ll make you feel better,” I tell her for the nth time, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“It won’t,” she grumbles into the blanket.

“It will. You haven’t eaten in twenty hours, you need something.”

“I don’t.”

I slam my foot into the ground and stand. She jumps and finally looks up at me.

“You will eat this, and it will help you.”

I don’t realize how angry I sound until I see the shock in her expression. I take a half-step back, having shocked myself.

“I… I just worry about you,” I say quietly. “Please.”

After a few seconds, she nods. I try to smile.

Later, she asks about seeing the doctor again.

“Remember what happened?” I say softly, playing with her hair. “They did so many tests, and found nothing. They’d just say it’s anxiety or depression again. The symptoms haven't changed. I don’t want you overexerting yourself unnecessarily.”

“But… It’s worse.”

“Because you have been feeding into it, darling. You’re letting it consume you. But that’s okay.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “It’s okay?”

I nod, leaning in closer. “It is. It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

She tries to smile—I know that she does—but her lips barely twitch before she closes her eyes.

I don’t leave her side. I just plan our next meal together: dinner. It should be a big one. I’ll make sure she eats it.

A few hours later, it’s all set up; we each have a tray of food with soup, of course, and mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese on the side. I helped her sit up against the headboard, but now she’s just staring down at the food, her arms lying limp at her sides. I wave a hand in front of her face, and she slowly lifts her head.

“Take a bite,” I murmur, placing a hand on her thigh. She sighs silently and reaches for a spoon. I copy her motions.

Her bites are small, tiny, miniscule—but they’re bites. She eats slower than a snail, and it’s difficult for me to match her pace, but I do my best.

She eats about half of everything, and I count it as a win. After, I lie her back down, set the trays aside, and curl up next to her, holding her hand.

I must fall asleep, although I don’t mean to. I open my eyes and find that she is right where I left her, resting peacefully. I place my hand on her chest, feeling for a rise and fall, but there’s nothing. Just her lingering warmth.

I sigh and scoot a little closer, dinner still resting nicely in my stomach.

“You were right,” I smile. “The secret ingredient made all the difference.”