Before I Go (32 page)

“Daisy?” A voice jolts me back into the present. I look up and into the eyes of Charlotte. No, wait. Caroline? I’m fairly certain the name of the limber blonde standing before me starts with a C. I know she’s limber, not only because she looks so flexible in her black stretchy pants and tank top, but because I’ve actually seen her in action in Bendy Mindy’s hot yoga class.

“Hi!” I say, shielding my eyes from the sun to better see her, and that’s when I notice how intently she’s staring at me. I wonder if I literally have egg on my face. I reach up to discreetly wipe the corners of my mouth with the napkin that came with the quiche.

“I haven’t seen you in a few months,” she says. “Have you, um, been going to a different studio?”

I stand up, because it feels rude not to, and she reaches out to grab my arm, as if she’s afraid I’m going to topple over any second.

I stare at her and realize the intent look dripping from her eyes is concern. I know I’ve lost some weight, but do I look
that
bad? As if I need to be supported, like a little old woman crossing the street?

I look down at her hand where it’s grasping my wrist and she quickly removes it. But my eyes remain glued to my arm as if I’m seeing it for the first time—and I’m shocked at just how brittle it looks.

“No, ahh . . . I’ve just been really busy, you know? End of semester stress and all that.” I force a chuckle. “I’ve been meaning to come back.”

She nods, but can’t seem to close the gap between her lower jaw and upper lip. I start fidgeting under her scrutiny, self-consciousness overwhelming me.

“Well, it was really good to see you,” I say. “But I’ve got to run to class.” I glance at my watch for effect.

“Yeah, OK,” she says, finally making her lips meet. “Maybe I’ll see you soon?”

“Mm-hmm,” I mumble, grabbing my shoulder bag from where I left it on the step and giving her a little wave. I turn on my heel and concentrate on walking slowly, when my legs are urging me to run.

Jack. I need to see Jack.

Or maybe, I need him to see me.

THE LOBBY OF the animal hospital is scattered with a few dogs on leashes, a couple of cat carriers and their owners, and the cacophony of barks and hisses greets me as I walk through the sliding glass doors. It’s a much more welcome reception than the screaming girl who last welcomed me to the clinic and I say as much to Maya. She smiles,
then glances at the standard-issue school clock on the wall. “Jack may be at lunch, but you can go on back and check.”

I thank her and trace the familiar path toward the offices, leaving the chorus of animal noises behind me. But as I approach Jack’s door, the silence in the hall is broken by a loud, feminine laugh that stops me in my tracks and makes my blood run cold.

Pamela.

Pamela is in my husband’s office.

But what is she doing here? I know that Jack’s helping her with Copper, but isn’t she supposed to be at school? What could be so important that she couldn’t wait until later this afternoon to see him?

I move toward the wall and inch closer to the door. My heart races and my stomach heaves at the thought of getting caught eavesdropping on my own husband, but I ignore it.

I can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but a burst of giggles overflows into the hall again, and this time I hear Jack’s bellow joining in. I’m struck dumb by the sound—not just because he’s laughing with another woman—but because he’s laughing, period. Hearing it reminds me that I haven’t heard Jack so much as chuckle in weeks. Months? I’m not sure. I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes, reveling in his momentary joy. And then wishing I could be the one sharing it with him.

I add it to the list of things I know about Pamela: she makes Jack laugh.

And I hate her for it. I hate her with a black, liquid hate that starts in my belly and burns to the ends of my fingers and toes. I want to burst into his office and tell her to stop talking to my husband and stop making him laugh and stop being so damn alive, while all I’m doing is dying.

But then, Patrick’s gentle voice comes floating into my mind, and even though I hate him, too, I know he’s right about one thing: I have to let go.

I stay, standing in the hallway, until my fists unclench and my breathing returns to normal. And then I tiptoe back down the hall, the full sound of Jack’s laugh following me like a shadow.

WHEN JACK GETS home that evening, I’m lying on the couch with a cool wet washcloth on my forehead and my eyes closed. He walks into the living room and I hear him shush Benny and tiptoe across the scuffed wood floors. He thinks I’m asleep.

I open my eyes and spy him at the bar, attempting to quietly pour a few fingers of scotch into a glass. “Hey,” I say.

He turns. “Hey. I thought you were asleep.”

“Nope. Headache.”

He frowns, transforming his face into someone who has the weight of the world on his shoulders. And it seems impossible that this is the face that elicited the careless joy that I heard just hours before. This is what I do to Jack now. This is what I bring out of him. Pamela makes him laugh. I make him frown.

I shrug him off. “It’s no big deal. I took some Excedrin. How was your day?”

“Good,” he says. “Ling finished the prototype for Copper’s prosthetic. We’ll do the amputation next week.”

I wait for him to tell me that Pamela came by the office. He doesn’t. Last week, he couldn’t stop talking about her and now he doesn’t mention her? I can’t decide which feels worse. Or what it means.

Our eyes lock in silence, and it’s like we’re positioned on either end of a tightrope twenty stories high. We have no idea how to reach each other.

Finally, he speaks up. “Do you want to watch TV?”

I shake my head no.

And I know I’m not imagining the look of relief that washes over his face as he picks up his glass of scotch and carries it out of the living room, down the hallway, and to his office. And I know I should be relieved, too. About the distance between us and how it’s making room for Pamela. But I’m not relieved. I’m aching. I remain on the couch, marveling at how thoroughly I can miss my husband, even though he’s in the next room.

Later, I wake up in our bed when I feel Jack ease into his side. Still half asleep, I reach over and graze my fingers along his warm back. His body tenses at the touch, then slowly relaxes under my hand. Oh, God. What am I doing? I need to move my hand away. To roll over and go back to sleep. But the heat of his skin feels so good on my fingertips. And when I breathe in, all I can smell is Jack. He smells like my husband. And don’t I deserve to touch my husband? To be with him, like this, just one last time?

But my hand freezes. What if he doesn’t want to be with me?

He turns to me in the dark and I can just make out the light in his eyes, his white teeth. A warm hand cups my face and the touch is like someone finally taking a pebble out of my shoe that I’ve been walking on for months.

“You’re awake,” he breathes.

“I’m awake,” I agree.

And then under the cover of darkness, we find each other. And at some point in the middle of the strained breathing and desperate touching and pretzel tangle of our limbs, I realize I’m leaking tears, along with perspiration. And I know it’s because something in me is mending, at the exact same time that it’s breaking.

THE NEXT MORNING I wake with a smile playing on my lips. In my groggy state I can’t quite figure out why. Was I having a good dream?
And then all at once I remember. Jack. And the breathing. The good kind of breathing, this time.

I slowly roll over and turn to Jack, anxious, as if I’ve traveled back to the morning after our first time, and I don’t know what to expect from him. But he’s not there. His side of the bed is empty, rumpled. I glance at the clock. It’s only 6:15
A.M.
I lean back in the pillow. He must be in the kitchen, eating cereal. Silently, because I don’t hear the spoon hitting the bowl.

I take a deep breath at the small reprieve, and allow delight to elbow its way back in. I replay every touch, every murmur from our encounter like a sixteen-year-old girl who’s been kissed for the first time.

I sit up a little and pull the sheets around my breasts, allowing myself to wallow for a few more moments in the memory, not wanting to pack it away with the rest of them in the far corners of my mind just yet.

“Jack?” I call out, a little too eagerly. And I know I’m being greedy. In my desire to see him. To share this moment together, knowing it could be one of our last.

But there is no response.

“Jack,” I yell a little louder, not wanting to believe what I already know to be true.

I lean forward, listening to the silence in the house, straining to hear something, anything. Benny lifts his head beside me as if he’s listening, too. But the air is still. Quiet. Empty.

Jack is gone.

twenty

W
HEN I SEE the stack of ungraded papers and exams on Dr. Walden’s desk, I concede that maybe she wasn’t simply asking for my help out of pity.

“Some midterms may even be hidden away in there,” she says, waving her hand over the towering pile. “Answer keys to exams are in the bottom left file cabinet. Papers are mostly freshman-level stuff, opinions of how women are portrayed in advertising, media, etcetera. If they make halfway compelling arguments that seem somewhat thoughtful, give them an A. You’ll be shocked at the drivel you have to sift through.”

Leaving me with a red pen and a jumble of keys, one of which unlocks her file cabinet, Dr. Walden rushes off to begin her Monday classes. Alone in her office, I take a deep breath, inhaling the heady scent of school—computer paper, ink, books. I’m nearly giddy with feeling useful, important, needed. But lying just on the edge of that contentment is a raw pain, a reminder that while these freshman have their entire college lives ahead of them, career paths yet to be traveled, my own academic progress has ground to a complete halt, likely to never be restarted.

I dig into the papers with gusto, barely taking time to eat or breathe or get lost in my own downward spiral of thoughts.

Later that afternoon, my mom calls my cell. I put down the pen and stretch, then slide my thumb over the screen to answer it.

“What’s the date of Jack’s graduation?” she asks.

“Second Saturday in May,” I say. “Whatever that date is. I’m not in front of my calendar. Didn’t you get the announcement?”

“No,” she says. “When did you send it?”

I roll my eyes. She probably did and it’s sitting in a pile of unopened mail on her counter.

She says her bird-watching club is going to St. Simon’s Island for a weekend in May and she wants to make sure it wasn’t the same one. “I mean, I’m not sure that I’ll go,” she says. “I probably won’t.”

And then her breath catches in that familiar way and I know she’s crying again. And I know she didn’t call to ask about the graduation or tell me about St. Simon’s.

“You should go,” I say gently. “It would be good for you. Fun. You deserve to have some fun.”

She sniffles and I picture her dabbing her nose with a rumpled Kleenex.

“Yes,” she says. “It would be fun.”

She inhales a wheezy breath and then speaks again. “Do you want me to come up this weekend? We could do something fun. Go to a movie or something.”