“What happened?” she asked softly, knowing what the answer would be.
“Wilkerson didn’t want to gamble on a guy who used to do drugs.” Jack gave her a smile so sad it broke her heart. “Some things don’t ever go away, I guess.”
She could see how badly he was hurting, but when she reached for him, he pulled away. He walked into the living room and stared into the fire.
“Remember when you blew out your knee?” she said, following him. “We closed all the curtains in your hospital room, and I climbed into bed with you, and—”
“That was a long time ago, Birdie.”
She stared at him, feeling lost. He was less than an arm’s length away, but it might as well have been miles. Twenty-four years of marriage and here they stood. Both of them unsure; neither able to offer the other a steadying hand. In crisis, they’d become strangers. She didn’t know what else to say, or even if she should speak at all. In the end, she took the safe route, and yet, as she spoke, it felt as if her bones were cracking. “Here. Have a glass of wine.”
He took the glass she offered and sat down, then opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers. Without looking up, he said, “Can you turn on the lights? I can’t see a damned thing here.”
“Sure.” She turned away from him quickly, before he could see how much he’d hurt her. Then she tightened the wrap of her ridiculous robe and headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
“I love you, Birdie,” he said to her back.
“Yeah,” she answered softly, walking away from him. “I love you, too.”
THREE
The next morning, Elizabeth sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, with her hands curled tightly around a mug of chamomile tea.
“Coffee?” Jack asked, pouring himself a cup.
“No, thanks. I’m trying to cut down on caffeine.”
“Again?”
“Yeah, again.” She set her cup down on the granite countertop. Her fingertip traced the rough, striated ceramic surface of the mug, the slightly bent handle. This cup was one of her many relics, a memento from her pottery period. She often thought that when she died, an anthropologist would be able to visualize who she was from the trail of her hobbies. Pottery. Stained glass. Hooked fabric rugs. Jewelry made from antique silver spoons. Macramé. Photography. Photo and memory albums. And then there were the endless classes she’d taken at local community colleges. Shakespearean literature, art history, political science. Once she’d lost her ability to paint, she’d gone in search of a substitute, something that would light a fire of creativity inside her. Nothing had ever taken hold.
Jack rinsed out the coffeepot and placed it gently back in place. He looked tired, and no wonder. He’d tossed and turned all night long.
“Why don’t you stay home today?” she said. “We could go out to lunch. Maybe take a walk on the beach. Or go Christmas shopping in town. The stores are all decorated.”
“It’s too cold.”
She didn’t know what else to say. Once, it wouldn’t have mattered if it were raining or snowing. Being together was the point. Now, even the weather came between them.
He moved in beside her, touched her shoulder and said softly, “I’m sorry.”
The shame in his eyes almost undid her. It took her back in time. For a second, all she could see in the man standing beside her was the boy she’d fallen in love with all those years ago. “You’ll get another chance, Jack.”
“I love you, Birdie.”
This time, she knew he meant it. “I love you, too.”
“So, why isn’t it enough?”
Elizabeth wanted to look away. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Birdie, this is the discussion you always want to have, isn’t it? The perpetual, burning question: What’s wrong with us? Well, now I’m asking it. Why isn’t what we still have enough?”
“I want it to be.”
“It shouldn’t be this hard,” he said in a voice so soft she had to strain to hear it.
What she said next mattered; she knew that. They so rarely dared to approach the truth of their unhappiness. But she couldn’t imagine being honest, saying I’m afraid we don’t love each other anymore. “I know,” was all she could manage.
Jack’s shoulders sagged; his mouth settled into a frown. “You exhaust me, Elizabeth.” He drew back from her. “You moan and whine about how unhappy you are, but when I finally try to discuss it, you clam up.”
“I didn’t say I was unhappy.” She wished instantly that she hadn’t said that, that she’d been truthful. But it was so … big … what they were circling now, and it frightened her.
“Of course not. You never actually say anything.”
“Why should I? You never listen anyway.”
They stared at each other, neither one certain of where to go from there. Woven into the silence was the fear that one of them would finally admit the truth.