“Trust me, Birdie, it’ll be good for us.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” she said at last, not leaning back against him the way she once would have. She stepped aside. “I guess I’ll need to get started. There are a million things to do. We’ll have to call the kids. I’ll call the movers tomorrow.…” Stress made the beautiful southern lilt in her voice more pronounced.
“We’ll be happy,” he said again. “You’ll see.”
She sighed heavily. “Of course we will.”
For the whole weekend, Elizabeth felt like a death-row inmate with a Monday morning execution date.
Jack, on the other hand, was like a kid at Christmas, so excited that sometimes he broke into laughter for no reason at all. This job represented everything he’d ever wanted.
There was no way Elizabeth could raise her hand, clear her throat, and say, I don’t want to go.
There was no reason for them not to go. He was right about that. And it was an adventure.
It was simply someone else’s adventure; Elizabeth was just along for the ride. A companion fare. Buy one get one free.
On this Sunday night, their last together for several weeks, she found herself edging toward depression. Everywhere she looked, she saw something that mattered to her, something she hated to leave behind. This house meant so much to her, more than she could quite express or understand. The thought of leaving it made her sick to her stomach.
After waking up every morning for two years to a picture-postcard view of the Pacific Ocean, how could she waken, go to her window, and see the building across the street? How could she live without seeing the stars at night, or hearing the roar of the sea on a winter’s day? How could she live in a place that was never quiet, where millions of people lived stacked to the sky?
Unfortunately, she had no other option. She was Jack’s wife.
On their last night together, she set the table with care, using her best dishes and silverware. For dinner, she served Coquilles Saint-Jacques on the translucent Haviland china that had belonged to her great-grandmother.
As she and Jack sat across the table from each other, it seemed that miles separated them. They were like some sad scene in a foreign film, a tableau of marital regret, people who had come together in love long ago and become this … pale shadows of who they’d once been and paler illustrations of who they wanted to be.
He cocked his head to the left, his fork poised in midair. She knew he was listening to the television in the living room. Howie Long was pitching phones for Radio Shack.
“Maybe someday you’ll get to do an idiotic TV commercial, too.”
He grinned. “Wouldn’t that be great?”
She wanted to smack him. “Yeah, great.”
“So, what will you do in New York?”
Nice of you to finally ask. She forced the thought aside and said instead, “I don’t know. I would have said gardening, but there isn’t a lot of that in the city.”
“Maybe you can plant window boxes.”
She thought of the garden in her backyard. She’d spent the last eighteen months designing a plan for it. She’d researched exactly what plant went where. Last spring, she’d planted three hundred bulbs. Daffodils, crocuses, hyacinths, lilies. She’d placed each one carefully to maximize seasonal color. “That’s a great idea.”
After that, they fell silent. When dinner was over, they went into the kitchen and washed the dishes together. Elizabeth rinsed; Jack loaded the dishwasher. It was a routine they’d perfected over the years.
When the counters had been wiped clean, he said, “I’ll be right back.”
True to his word, he returned momentarily, carrying a big, flat box that was wrapped in iridescent pink paper. He took her hand and led her into the living room. “Come on,” he whispered, and she was reminded of the day, all those years ago, when he’d held out his hand and offered her his heart. There’s nothing to be afraid of, he’d said then; I’m the one you want.
He grabbed the remote off the coffee table and muted the television.
She tried not to think about this room, her favorite, as she sat down on the sofa. She’d poured her heart and soul into every square inch. Don’t think about it.
He knelt in front of her. “I know I threw you a long bomb on this one.”
She didn’t answer, afraid that if she said much of anything, her anger would show. “Yes,” was all she dared.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology deflated her, even embarrassed her. She truly wanted to be the kind of woman who welcomed change. At the very least, she wanted to be happy for her husband’s success. “I’m sorry, too. I guess I’ve forgotten how to be adventurous.”
“We’ll be happier now.” The ferocity in his voice surprised her, reminded her that he had been as unhappy lately as she was.