Stages of Grace

Stages of Grace - By Carey Heywood





Denial



a psychological defense mechanism in which confrontation with a personal

problem or with reality is avoided by denying the existence of the problem or reality

-Merriam Webster





Sometimes I wonder if the past I'm trying to preserve was even real. That it actually happened and I haven’t created this fantasy in my head of what we were. We were good. We were happy. I believe it so fully I can almost taste it, like that one perfect bowl of ice cream topped with whipped cream and pears that I shared with my father at an out-of-place French-style bakery that closed its doors only months after opening. Jon and I were happy once, and the certainty of that fact, the memory of what we were, was the only thing keeping me from…From what? Leaving? I had nowhere to go.

It was a Thursday, the day the doctor’s office I worked in stayed open until seven. That with my forty-five minute commute gave me the hope that maybe, just maybe, Jon might be out when I got home. Five minutes from home, I turn the radio off. I'm not sure when I started doing this, but the silence calms me, helps me prepare. After maneuvering into our assigned spot, I glance up at our second story apartment. My shoulders sag when I see the light on in the front room. He's home.

After killing the engine, I sit for a moment, listening to the random pop and hiss from the engine as it stills. Maybe tonight will be different, maybe he'll be back. It's cold out, and the inside of my car is already noticeably cooler. Collecting my things from the passenger seat, I hurry up the walkway to the stairs that lead to our second story apartment. I take the stairs slowly, looking out for any slick spots.

Before putting my key in the lock, I force a false smile, opening the door with a cheery, "Hello, honey."

"You're late," Jon is sitting with a book in the leather armchair by the sofa. The TV is on, but the volume is barely a hum.

My smile falters. "It's Thursday, Jon."

"I know what f*cking day it is, Grace." Why does my name sound like a curse? Jon stands quickly, forgetting the book in his lap.

I watch it as it falls to the floor, his place lost. "I only meant—"

"Oh, I know what you meant. You think you're so much smarter than me." Jon reaches down to retrieve his book and storms back to our bedroom.

I stand there, the pounding of my heart a roar that slowly fades as my breathing stills. I hang my purse on a hook by the door before walking into the kitchen to rinse my Tupperware lunch container. I keep one eye on the bedroom door and the stream of water low as I do this in case Jon comes back out. As I set it on the drying rack, I catch myself looking around the apartment, thinking back to a time when I was so happy here. Jon had been let go from his job the year before. Before that, I had been so certain we were happy. Now I wasn’t sure if I knew Jon at all.

He was originally from New York, that's where his family still lived. After he lost his job I know he wanted to move back, but he stayed in Cleveland for me. We met at a bowling alley. I was on a disaster blind date and was trying to figure out a good excuse to end the date early. That's when I saw him. I can still remember how handsome I thought he was from that first moment. He was tall, with wide shoulders and short dark brown hair. He had a strong jaw and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. He was captivating. He had been bowling with a group of friends a lane over from us. When my date got up to go to the bathroom he caught my eye and said hello to me.

The maroon and gold plastic chairs of his lane backed up to mine. He was sitting in the corner chair, the one that looked straight out at the pins. I was sitting facing the other chairs. His arm was slung over the chair behind mine. When he said hello I jumped, and his fingers touched my arm as he apologized for startling me. The heat from his touch felt like a brand, like he had marked me. When he asked if my date was my boyfriend I groaned and rolled my eyes telling him it was a blind date. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and said I was not the kind of girl who should be going on blind dates.

I had asked him what he meant by that, and he moved over to the chair right behind me and told me blind dates were for girls who didn’t get asked out face to face. Jon was charming and talked me into leaving my date that night for him. When my date came back Jon told him that we were old friends from high school and asked if it would be okay if I hung out with him to catch up instead. My date seemed relieved, and when he left there was no talk of another date. Jon left his friends, and we sat at a small table by the bar. I could still picture us. My hair had been longer then.

I cut it not long ago, excited to try something different. He flipped. I had never seen anything like it. Full-blown anger, over hair. When I started crying, Jon apologized, pulling me into his arms. Moments before, I had felt so beautiful with my stylish new haircut just shy of shoulder-length, I had been so excited for Jon to see it. I was growing it back out now. It was taking a long time, but it was now past my shoulders.

My eyes flick back to the bedroom door, and I exhale when I see the light is turned off. He's gone to sleep. If I am lucky I can slip into bed without waking him and be gone to work before he woke the next morning.

Tomorrow is Friday. Most people who work during the week will be thrilled and greeting each other with “Happy Friday.” It is my least favorite day at work because it means I will be home Saturday and Sunday. I used to live for the weekends, for curling up with a good book or taking a day trip somewhere fun. Nowadays, weekends seem like staring contests until Jon finds some reason to scream at me. It doesn’t even matter if I am playing his game or not.

It wasn’t like this the first month Jon was out of work. He had still been actively applying for jobs and doing extra chores around our apartment since he was home during the day. Jon would cook elaborate dinners and go buy flowers for me. He would meet me at the door with a kiss and ask me how my day had been.

Now, he had barely talked to me in months. After that first month, his severance package ran out. Still undeterred, he continued applying to places with the hope of some response. He managed to get called back three times that month for interviews. Each time, he heard nothing afterward. With my job I was barely able to cover our apartment and my car payment. Jon filed for unemployment when it became clear that without it his car was going to be repossessed. He was on unemployment for six months until his claim ran out. Ever since then, Jon had become more hostile and withdrawn.

I learned the hard way that certain questions would set him off. Had he applied anywhere? Had he heard back from anyplace? How was his day? These were some examples of potential minefields. I slowly stopped initiating conversations to avoid setting him off. It seemed as though even hello wasn’t safe anymore. When his car was repossessed last month, it had been especially hard. Jon was so angry, and the only one he had around was me. Three months into his unemployment, he had stopped talking to any of his friends. I was the last thing he had any sort of control over.

I ate a sandwich and set my plate in the sink to wash the next morning before going into the bathroom to wash my face. There was less makeup to wash off these days. Jon had accused me of “painting my face to try and find a new man.” Since then, I had just about stopped wearing any. I was thankful I wore scrubs to work as Jon could not find any fault with those. Every day, scrubs, insulated Crocs, blonde hair up in a tight bun, and almost no makeup. One time, washing my hands in the bathroom at work, I had looked up myself. It seemed as though I had aged ten years overnight.

I grabbed the pajamas I kept in the bathroom and quietly changed in there before turning off the light and going to bed.

Jon was on his side of the bed, his back to me. I slowly eased into bed, careful not to disturb the sheets or comforter. I slept on one side, my back to his, holding the edge of the bed. It seemed almost impossible for there to be any more free space between us. It was hard not to think back to the days when our love was new and exciting. From that first night at the bowling alley when Jon had come up with a plan to convince my date that we were old friends and that I was going to stay with him so we could catch up. I could not even remember the name of the guy I had been on a date with. I could only remember Jon.

Jon's plan had worked; my date had left, and Jon had ditched his friends to buy me a beer at the little food counter. I had no intention of letting him take me home, I was going to have a girlfriend swing by and pick me up. Jon was fine with that. He just wanted my telephone number so he could call and take me out sometime. I can still remember how attracted I was to him, how my stomach flipped when he had asked me to stay with him. I still hoped we would return to those days.

The buzzing of the alarm on my phone wakes me the next morning. I hurry to turn it off before it wakes Jon. When he moves I freeze, holding my breath until I hear him rustle again, exhaling when it is clear he is still asleep. I rise slowly from our bed and tip toe to the bathroom. I take my shower, then get dressed. After pulling my wet hair up into a tight bun, I brush my teeth and walk out to the kitchen. I pack my usual frozen lunch and a yogurt into my lunch bag and grab a granola bar to eat in the car for breakfast. After slipping on my Crocs and heavy winter coat, I take my purse and keys off of the hook by the door and quietly leave the apartment.

In the past I would race down the stairs to my car and start it before running back up the stairs and into the apartment to wait while it warmed up. Ohio winters sucked, and I dreamed of the day I could afford a remote starter. These days, I waited in my car while it warmed up because of the one morning coming back into the apartment I had woken Jon up.

I had been standing in the foyer giggling because I had just completed some Olympic-level maneuvers on our slippery stairs and had somehow managed to not fall on my ass. Jon came roaring out of our bedroom, screaming at me for waking him up with the door and then my giggling. I had stood there sobbing, trying to explain, trying to apologize. It didn’t matter to Jon. From that day on, I waited in my car.

As the car warms up I wiggle my toes to keep them from feeling so stiff. I have the defroster on full blast, and once the windshield and back window are clear enough to see out of, I reverse out of my spot and drive to work. We live in the suburbs of Cleveland. My office is closer to downtown. My favorite part of the commute is crossing the Cuyahoga River. The river reminds me of my parents.

As I approach the river I make sure I'm in the slow lane. Each morning, the river looks different. The trees lining the banks shed their last leaves weeks ago, the water reflecting the bare branches above. Some mornings, I can barely see the water as a swirling layer of mist obscures it. Something about the river centers me and has a calming effect. The fact that it is also the part of my commute where my toes seem to thaw out may also have something to do with it.

When I get to work I start my computer before grabbing my water bottle from my desk and taking it and my lunch bag to the break room. After putting my lunch bag in the refrigerator, I’m filling up my water bottle from the cooler when my co-worker Nikita comes in. Nikita is twenty-two and somewhat of a partier. With her come the obligatory big plans for the weekend question. I have no idea why she still even asks. Maybe it is out of politeness, but either way, my answer is always the same.

"Nothing, do you have any plans?"

"I was thinking about checking out this new wine bar. One of my girlfriends went there last week and said it was fun. Or there's that new movie coming out, you know the one with that funny girl who won the Oscar."

"That sounds nice." I add, and it did.

It's been so long since I've done anything fun like that. Single pretty girl that she is, Nikita always seems to be doing something interesting. I can’t believe how much older I feel considering I'm only twenty-five, twenty-two seems like a lifetime ago. Nikita chats happily as she follows me back to our desks. The office will be opening shortly and so will the phone line. Between the both of us we cover the patients getting checked in, making photocopies of insurance cards, updating addresses to manning the phones and setting new appointments. I'm thankful our office is busy. It keeps the time to chat down to a minimum, and I feel better when I'm doing something. The only downfall is it seems as though the days fly by, and I'm back in my car again, headed home.

Jon will definitely be up tonight when I get home. He will also be expecting dinner. The days of him cooking are long gone. I put my hand on my neck as I slowly roll my head from one shoulder to the other. I get my now empty lunch bag and purse from under my desk and walk out with Nikita. She is still happily chatting without a care in the world while I, on the other hand, move slower with each step, almost willing my car further away. Resigned to the fact that I have to go home and that Jon will be there. I slow as I cross the Cuyahoga, wishing for the peace I feel when I look at it. That feeling of peace leaves me once I'm past the river, replaced with a dread that builds each mile closer to home I drive.

Parking the car, I look up at our apartment. It had once been a place of so much joy. When Jon brought the idea of officially moving in together I had been thrilled. We had been dating exclusively for almost a year since the night we met at the bowling alley. I had been thrilled. We had basically been living in my cramped studio apartment for the last six months. It was decided, Jon would move out of the house he shared with his buddies, and we would find a place to rent together. The complex we settled on was halfway from both of our jobs. It meant a little bit longer of a commute for both of us but not by much.

Our apartment felt like a castle in comparison to the tight squeeze of my old place. We had so much fun decorating it and making it feel like home. I had felt bliss there at one time. Now all I feel is as though I am walking a tightrope suspended over a deep canyon with no hope of making it across. No, I shake my head. We are fine. We are going to get through this. I love Jon, and he loves me. Everything will be okay. I unbuckle my belt and gather my things before carefully making my way up the walkway, then the stairs. False smile ready, my key is in the lock.

Looking up at me from the leather armchair, Jon smirks. My face already feels exhausted in maintaining my false grin, as though someone had said, "Say cheese!" before being ready to actually take the picture, and I am forced to stay there, just waiting for the shutter to click. Jon's face shows no visible sign of being happy to see me. His eyes survey me, stopping when they meet my eyes and then drop back to his book. I hang my purse, keys and lunch bag on the hook by the door. The hook is one of three attached to a plaque that says Home Sweet Home. Shrugging off my coat, I hang it in the coat closet, then go to the kitchen to start dinner.

"No need to make anything for me," Jon says rising, his book now face down on the arm of his chair.

Now that he is standing I can see that he is neatly dressed, wearing slacks and a button-up dress shirt. I want to ask where he is going but know better and feel intense relief at the thought of him not being there. Nodding quickly, I look down. It is impossible to know what reaction I will ever get from him. Currently, he seems indifferent. Jon must have been waiting for me to get home to leave. He puts on his coat and goes to leave. His fingers hesitate over his own keys for a moment before remembering he no longer has a car, and they move to take my keys instead. Part of me rebels within. Why should he get to take my car without asking?

Jon is out the door without saying goodbye or when he will be back. It seems unfair that he expects me to account for my time when only going to and coming from work each day. He needs to blow off steam, my mind argues. Maybe when he comes back he will be in a better mood, I hope. Still in the kitchen and now only responsible for feeding myself, I make a sandwich and sit down to watch TV. In an effort to save money since we are down to one income, I had purchased a digital converter box for my old TV since we could no longer afford cable. Sometimes I had to adjust the antenna, but it got all the basic local channels.

With my plate on my lap, I watch Jeopardy. When Jon and I first moved in together, we used to watch it every night while we flip flopped making dinner. We never kept score but would shout out answers, though never in the form of a question. We stopped watching months ago. I had answered a tricky question and looked at Jon with a big smile. His response had been, “You think you're so f*cking smart, don’t you?” Taking in my wounded expression, Jon continued, “Great. Now you're going to f*cking cry” before turning off the TV and storming to our bedroom, door slamming behind him. We never watch Jeopardy together anymore.

Suddenly I feel paranoid for watching it at all, so I turn the TV off and go to clean my plate. Our apartment does not have a dishwasher. I can almost hear Jon's sing-songy voice as he would say, “you cook, I'll clean” when we talked about the lack of dishwasher. These days, I do all the cleaning. There are a pile of dirty dishes in the sink that had not been there that morning. I cannot help but notice that there seem to be more plates than one person might use during the day. I wash them, placing them one, by one onto the plastic drying rack beside the sink.

I go to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth before changing into pajamas and going to bed. It feels strange, having the bed to myself. I plop down into it without a care and take my time getting comfortable. Sometime in the night, I start when I hear the front door close. I lie there, eyes shut, doing my best to appear asleep. Jon switches on the bedroom light when he walks in. Still, I pretend to sleep. I hear him walk over to my side of the bed and can sense him over me. He stands there for a few moments. I do not move an inch. With my entire being I wish him away. I almost open my eyes when I feel the feather light touch of his finger brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

Was that affection? I am too startled to respond. As quickly as his fingertip brushes my cheek, it is gone. Jon turns off the light before undressing and climbing into bed. I lie there stunned, hopeful. Jon still cares. He has to. I drift back to sleep with a feeling I have not had in months: hope.

The next morning I wake early. I would have loved to sleep in, but I had gone to bed fairly early and have an internal alarm clock. Jon is still asleep so I ease out of bed to not disturb him. His touch the night before was still affecting me. I feel almost light and cheerful. Wanting to surprise Jon, I quietly set to baking cinnamon rolls in the kitchen. It’s my mother's recipe, and Jon loves them. I remembered my mother as I made them. My parents died in a car accident six months after Jon and I had moved in our apartment.

My grief had been so palpable at that time that Jon had been my one saving, well, grace. I was an only child and handling my parents’ estate had been overwhelming. Jon had helped me sort everything out. My parents’ house had been a nightmare to deal with. There was still a mortgage on it, and due to the housing crisis in Cleveland, had been underwater in its value. I had a few nerve wracking moments with the bank holding the mortgage, but with Jon's help, was able to get everything squared away.

Cleaning out my parents’ house had been especially hard. I saved photos and other memorable items. I felt such an overwhelming sadness that since I had no children or brothers and sisters or aunts and uncles that their memories were only known to me now, that their passing was only felt by me. Once the estate was settled, I was able to pay for their cremations and the rest went to paying off my student loans and some credit card debt. Jon had been with me, holding my hand as I released my parent's ashes into the Cuyahoga. My parents had loved that river. Maybe that was why I did too.

I am just taking the rolls out of the oven when Jon comes out of the bedroom. Setting them on the stovetop to cool, I smile up at him. Jon moves past me to the fridge, ignoring the rolls, and gets a soda. I move my gaze to the rolls so Jon will not see my smile fade. I make a plate for myself and take it to our small table to eat. Jon goes to sit in his armchair and turns on the TV. After eating, I wash my plate and go to take a shower. Jon walks in as I am about to step in the water, and I grab a towel to cover myself, startled.

"Don’t worry Grace. You have nothing I want to see," Jon says, pulling a bottle of painkillers from the medicine cabinet before slamming the door closed behind him.

I stand there allowing his words to sink into my core. I have nothing he wanted to see. What does that mean? How could I go so quickly from the most beautiful girl he had ever seen to this? As much as I want to turn the water off and curl up in a ball on the bathroom mat to cry, I don’t. I step into the stream of water. It is hotter than I expect, and I rush to turn the knob to add cool water. As I shampoo my hair and clean my body, I cry quietly, curious if the man I love will ever come back to me.

Those words become a chorus in my head: “nothing I want to see, nothing I want to see.” I remembered the days when Jon could not keep his hands off of me. From our very first stolen date at the bowling alley. I had two beers with Jon. Afterward, as he waited with me in the parking lot for my friend to pick me up, he kissed me for the first time. It was a September evening, and even though we were having a bit of an Indian summer, it had cooled off outside once the sun had set. We were sitting on the back of his car, looking up at the stars. Jon was making me laugh by making up names for constellations.

Jon pointed across me to a grouping of stars low on the horizon. When I looked back at him, smiling at his ridiculous name for them, I was not expecting his face to be right there. Locked in the gaze of the bluest eyes I had ever seen, Jon leaned in to kiss me. I had felt lit from within, as though every nerve ending on my body was emitting heat. I was so surprised I had kept my eyes open the whole time. His lips were soft, and the kiss was sweet. After our kiss we looked at each other almost stunned. I wondered if he felt the same way I had. Our second kiss followed not long after. This one was less sweet and more of a promise of things to come.

I had been almost sad to see my friend pull up. Jon had my number and promised he would call the next day. I traced my lips, feeling his phantom lips still on them. Claire, my friend and neighbor, teased me on the ride to our building. She had never seen me like this and was still stunned I had ditched my date for him. It had been completely out of character for me. Claire had seen Jon, so it was easy to see why I had been so taken. Claire was just hopeful he had some cute single friends for herself.

I dry off after my shower. Our bathroom does not have a fan for the steam, only a small window that I should have opened but didn’t. The window is meant to vent the steam, but it is too cold outside this time of year. I use my hand to wipe condensation off the mirror and look at myself. Nothing to see now, and once I had been so desirable. We would get past this. I dress and brush my hair, leaving it down. Maybe Jon will be happy to see how long it is getting.

Jon is in his armchair when I come back into the front room. The roll I had eaten is the only one missing from the tray. He hadn’t had one. Why not? I look at the tray and back to Jon. He's sitting with his head down, still reading. He had not even acknowledged I had come in to the room.

"I made rolls."

"Not hungry," he says. turning a page of his book.

"But I—"

Jon huffs and looks up at me. "Yes?"

"Nothing."

I hurry back to our bedroom and sit on our bed. Why am I so upset? My emotions are overwhelming me. I bring my hand up to cover my mouth as I quietly break down. I don’t want Jon to hear me. I don’t want Jon to see me like this right now. He must have heard me, though, because I look up, and he is standing in the doorway, coldly looking down at me.

"You're crying over some f*cking rolls."

"I…I…I"

"You what?"

I just sit there shaking my head.

"Spit it out!"

Jon is yelling now and standing over me. I shrink further down, pulling my shoulders in, a sitting fetal position. He words a roar in my ears, I cannot understand him. Why am I getting yelled at for crying? It is surreal, almost as though I am watching from the other side of the room. His anger is now wholly directed at me. All I try to do is love him and support him. Why is he so angry at me?

Jon tries to lift my chin up, to make me look at him. I struggle to keep my face down, his fingernails biting into my skin, I want him to go away. I don't want him to see me like this. He throws his hands up in frustration and storms out, banging the door shut behind him. From the bedroom I hear a crash in the kitchen and then the jingle of keys being taken off the hook by the door followed by the boom of the front door closing behind him. I want to go see what the noise in the kitchen had been but feel incapable of standing. Falling over onto my side, I pull my legs up into my arms and hug myself.

When I am all cried out, I go into the kitchen to see what Jon has done. The pan of rolls no longer sits on the stovetop. The pan is on the floor, and a sticky mess of rolls is everywhere. Instead of crying again, I start cleaning. I throw away all of the rolls, even the ones that had landed on the countertop and not the floor, telling myself I will never make rolls again. Once the rolls are in the trash, I take a soapy sponge and begin cleaning the icing from the walls, countertops, cabinet doors, and floor. I notice right away he took my keys, meaning he probably took my car too. Where did he go? When would he be back?

Given the weather and being without my car, I feel trapped and stir crazy. I gather up our laundry and a roll of quarters, huffing it downstairs to the laundry room for our building. I lock the door behind me using Jon's keys. The machines are smaller than the machines at the Laundromat down the street and cost more, but I have little choice on foot. Taking up four of the twelve available machines, I separate our clothes into two loads of colored and two loads of lights. I take out my book, Arrows of the Queen. I brought it down with me so I could sit on a stool in the corner of the room and read. It is a book I've read before but enjoy so much I reread when I have nothing else.

Thirty minutes and four dollars in quarters later, I move all of the laundry into dryers. I am lost in my book until I hear stomping and doors slamming upstairs. It’s as the though the air is pulled from my body, a feeling of dread settles in its place. Jon is home, and given all the door slamming, is angry that I am not there. I stand in the doorway, unsure of what to do. Leave the clothes and tell him where I am or stay with the clothes and let him stew? I hear the door slam again and heavy footsteps on the stairs. He is coming down.

I open the door and feel a blast of cold air. "Jon?"

He is halfway down the stairs when he hears me. Jon comes down the rest of the stairs and approaches me so quickly I automatically back up in the room until the wall is at my back.

"Don’t you ever leave without writing a note again," he hisses in my face.

I look down and nod, wondering why he can leave without telling me where he is going. The dryers’ buzz indicate they are done. Instead of offering to help me carry the loads back upstairs, Jon turns and leaves. I slowly begin unloading the laundry into our baskets and then carefully carry them up the stairs to our apartment. I am surprised to find the door locked and fumble to get Jon's keys out of my pocket. I unlock the door. Jon is sitting in the leather armchair. I almost ask him why he locked the door when he knew I was coming up with my hands full. I raise my eyes to his, and he lifts an eyebrow at me, almost willing me to ask that question.

I don’t. Instead I look back down and pull the laundry behind me to our bedroom to fold and put away. It is barely mid-afternoon on Saturday. How am I going to get through another night and day of this? As I fold laundry, I think about the first time we did laundry together. We were still living separately, and Jon had brought his laundry to my place for us to make a date of it. We went to a Laundromat near my old apartment. Jon kept me laughing by telling me jokes the whole time and stealing sweet kisses when no one else was looking. When our laundry was done we used the long tables there to fold our clothes.

I could still remember how embarrassed I was when Jon picked up a pair of my underwear with one hand and fanned himself with the other. It was still early on in our relationship, and we had not gone all the way yet. Jon wanted to. I did too, but I was nervous.

I snap back to reality, stiffening when I hear Jon clear his throat behind me. I am not sure what he wants and slowly turn to face him, eyes down.

"Grace, are you keeping something from me?" Jon slowly makes his way over to me.

"What? No," I say, confused.

"You haven’t baked in ages and now you're doing laundry. I say someone has a guiltyconscience."

"I just—"

"You just what?" he screams.

"Wa-wanted to make you happy."

"That’s just it. You haven’t thought about anything else but yourself and now suddenly you're thinking about me. You are up to something. You cheating on me?"

"No, no. I swear. I would never."

"You were with another guy when I met you. How can I trust anything you say?"

My mouth drops open, and with wide eyes I look up at him.

Jon pulls me up to him and grinds his hips against mine. "You used to always be so hot for it. Now you're just a frigid bitch to me. Is that why? Are you getting it somewhere else? One of those fancy doctors you working with bending you over in the back room?" he spits in my ear.

I'm crying now, putting my hands on his shoulders in an attempt to push myself away from him. "No, no."

Shaking his head at me, he mumbles, "You better not be." before turning and leaving me there, reeling.

I start shaking so badly my legs collapse, and I fall to the floor beside the bed. Where did that come from, I wonder, trying to understand. It had been months since Jon had touched me, and he had never touched me like that. Did he just accuse me of cheating on him? With one of the doctors I worked with? He had taken my gesture of making something for him as an admission of guilt. I have no idea how he could even think that of me. Jon knows where I am at practically every moment of the day. It was him, not me, that would take off with no word as to where he was going or when he would be back. Sometimes, I wish he wouldn’t come back.

I disregard that thought as soon as it passes through my mind. I would always want Jon with me, the old Jon, the Jon I fell in love with. I just have to figure out what to do to get him back. I know he is hurting and angry because he is out of work. Maybe if I helped him find a job. I am just scared the help would offend him, but things were so much better when he had a job. When Jon was still working we had our own little morning routine. When our alarm went off, I would jump in the shower while Jon went to the kitchen to start a half pot of coffee and then climbed back into bed and sleep until I was done in the shower. After my shower I would walk, still in a towel, over to his side of the bed and kiss his cheek, my wet hair falling all around his face.

Jon would always pull me down into his arms and kiss or tickle me until I was gasping for air before getting up with a grin to take his shower. I would get dressed and pour each of us a cup of coffee. I took mine with milk and sugar, and Jon took his with just milk. Jon would shave after his shower, and I would bring him his cup of coffee and chat with him while he shaved. After our coffee, we would brush our teeth, I would throw on some make up, and we would walk out to our cars together, kissing once more before going in our opposite directions. I used to keep a box of breakfast bars in my car and would eat one on the way to work each morning. The office building Jon worked in had a cafeteria that he would get a muffin or bagel from each morning.

When Jon was first laid off, still actively seeking a new job and going on interviews, he kept the same morning schedule, even when he started collecting unemployment. It wasn’t until much later that he started sleeping in. Jon had not said anything to me about it and one morning, when I asked him if he had made coffee, he snapped, telling me to make my own. I made a pot the next day. After my shower, I came over to kiss him on the cheek, and he cussed at me. Told me to “f*cking leave him alone.” I wasn’t opposed to cussing. I did it myself. Guy cuts me off in traffic: a*shole. I drop something on my foot: shit. There was a difference between being okay with cussing and being okay with being cussed at.

When it happened, I said nothing, letting myself stew on it all day. When I came home that evening, I told Jon how much it bothered me and to not do it again. His reaction at the time surprised me. Suddenly, I was the one actually at fault in the scenario because, if I had thought about it, by waking him up when he had no job. What I was truly doing was rubbing it in his face that he had nowhere to go that day while I did. I could see his point and said as much but went on to try and explain that he still should not have cursed at me. It was disrespectful. Jon would not budge his argument that what I had done was worse and that it somehow justified him. The argument was going nowhere so I dropped the subject.

I never went to wake him up again. Over the days that had passed since that argument, I also stopped drinking coffee in the morning because the smell woke him up. I stopped getting dressed in our bedroom because the noise woke him up. Doing anything I could to not accidentally wake him up, like waiting in my car while it warmed up. If the weekends were a judge, Jon didn’t wake up in the morning until after ten. I was fine with this if he was still trying to get another job. In the beginning when I got home from work, Jon would excitedly tell me about all of the places he had applied. When that stopped, I made the mistake of asking him one day.

Jon railed at me, asking me if I thought he just laid around on his ass all day and did nothing. Did I comprehend how tight and difficult the job market currently was? I must have thought so very little of him to assume all of these horrible things of him. I had tried to explain I thought none of those things, and of course I knew the job market was tight and was only asking a question. It seemed anything I said after that was being twisted around as though I was making a cruel attack on him. I began to doubt myself, wondering if I was so awful and if he would leave me.

That thought horrified me. I loved Jon so much, and we had been through so much together. What I wanted more than anything else was to just go back to how we were when we were happy. I knew that if Jon had a job again things would be better. I just didn’t know how to convince him to look for one without seeming pushy or judgmental.

Suddenly, I have a wonderful idea. What if I begin applying to places for him? That way he'd be happy when he got an interview and never even know to be upset if he didn’t get called back. At my office we get the daily paper. I could check the wanted ads on my lunch breaks.

Having a plan makes me feel better, I just don’t know what to do about the rest of this weekend. I know I should put away the clothes but what after that? Should I stay in the bedroom, away from him? I end up not having to find out. As I am hanging up the last of his shirts I hear the front door shut. Peering through the cracked bedroom door down the hall to the front room, I can see my keys are gone. Jon has gone somewhere. It’s starting to annoy me that he keeps taking my car without even asking, and I am curious about where he is going or what he is doing. His comments about me cheating on him seemed so outlandish at the time. Could Jon have just been feeling guilt over something he was doing himself?

I spend the rest of the day nervously waiting for Jon to come home. I go back and forth between being concerned over him to wondering where he is. I also tidy up the best I can. If Jon came home, he would be able to see that I had been cleaning and not just lying about. I hope that shows him how hard I am willing to work to make our home a nice place, comfortable for the two of us. I believe more than anything else that this is only temporary. I have such a perfect picture of what was once in my head that I would do anything to make it reality again. Before I go to bed I pray. I have never been overly religious. I was raised Catholic but don’t attend mass anymore. I do believe that there is something out there, some being that possibly had the power to make things better.

I never pray in front of Jon. He would want to know what I’m praying about and would most likely be angry if I told him. My prayers this evening revolve around finding Jon a new job and the hope that he will not be angry when he finds out about it. He is so touchy these days, I am nervous he would consider it a slight. At this point, anything is better than how we are currently living.

I go to sleep. At some point during the night, Jon comes home. It does not wake me this time. I am almost surprised when I see him asleep in our bed the next morning. Saturday had been a stressful day. That could account for why I had slept so soundly.

I ease out of bed and quietly walk into the front room and make myself a piece of toast and eat a yogurt. I am cleaning my plate when Jon walks out of our room. He comes behind me, pushing himself up against me, his hands on my hips. I go still, hands still in the sink. He leans down to kiss my neck. I am too nervous to react. I don’t want him to stop. Jon turns me to face him. I stand with my arms out in front of me, dripping water onto the floor. Jon's hands are on my neck as he kisses me. I kiss him back, happy to be in his arms once again.

He makes love to me that morning, playfully pulling me back to our bedroom. It has been at least a month since he had shown any interest. That last time I had initiated it, Jon seemed almost distracted the whole time, avoiding my kisses and leaving the bed once he was finished. This time is like old times. Jon kissing me and murmuring silly, sexy things to me. I feel as though my prayers are being answered, as though it is a sign that whatever was broken with us can be fixed. I spend most of Sunday in his arms, blissfully happy. He isn’t cold or distant. He is charming and loving.

I blush just looking at him.

His eyes flick to mine. "Yes?"

"It's silly" I feel my cheeks redden even more.

His face breaks into an easy smile, my favorite smile, the one that seems to make me weak in the knees. "Grace, your face is bright red. What's got you blushing?"

I cover my face with a sofa cushion and he plops down next to me, pulling me into his lap. His lips are on my neck, my arms linked around his shoulders.

"I just love you so much." I whisper.

He kisses my cheek. "I do too."

Jon makes dinner that night, flirting with me as he cuts up carrots to steam.

He puts on some music and when the food does not need tending pulls me off the sofa and dances me around the room. After dinner, he makes love to me again. I fall asleep in his arms as he absentmindedly plays with my hair, my body tucked into the crook of his arm. It is the best day.

When my alarm goes off Monday morning, I roll over to him and kiss him. Jon is still mainly asleep and doesn’t react. I smile at him, so certain that we will be able to fix this. I get up to take my shower and come back into the bedroom to get dressed. Normally, I would have put my scrubs in the bathroom the night before, but I was distracted and having so much fun with Jon I had forgotten.

"Do you have to make so much f*cking noise?"

I am pulling my shirt over my head when Jon says that. Of course, how stupid of me. "I'm so sorry. You won't hear another sound," I whisper as I grab my bottoms and tip toe back to the bathroom.

I begin berating myself for doing something that I knew would annoy Jon. I had stupidly thought that maybe since things seemed like before that I could, well act like I had as well. It was silly of me to assume that. Now all I do is worry that maybe my actions will cause Jon to revert. That is the last thing I want. I take extra care to be as quiet as possible. I gently close the door behind me as I leave to go sit in my car while it warms up.

Walking up to it, I cannot miss the new, decent-sized dent by the front driver's side tire. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My fingers lightly trace the edge of the indention, bumpy and misshapen in relation to the smooth exterior surrounding it. Was this what yesterday had been all about? Did I get sympathy sex because Jon dented my car? The dent is on the side of the tire well away from the door. I get in and start the heat and defrosters. As the car warms up I wonder if he had been in an accident with another car or just randomly hit something. If it was with another car could I be sued for damages? Did he hit something or was he hit by something? Part of me wants to march right up those stairs and demand answers from him, while another part of me is scared of his reaction.

Once my car warms up I begin my drive into work, paying special attention in case it seems to handle funny. I’m in luck because it’s driving okay. As I cross the river, I think about my parents. My mother would have known what to do with Jon, or my father would have beat him up, not badly, just enough to scare him. I feel overwhelmed and weepy, wishing they were still alive. I had been close with my mom. We talked more than any of my friends and their moms. I could pick up the phone and tell her anything. My mom was good at not judging and seemed to always have the best advice.

I wish I could have called her right then. I don’t want to talk to any of my coworkers about Jon. It was embarrassing. Between moving to the new apartment and being so busy with Jon, I had lost contact with my girlfriends from my single days. Would they even care or understand? Would they just want me to give up on Jon and call it quits? No one would be able to understand how good we had been together and how desperately I wanted that Jon back. Right now, though, what I wanted most of all was someone that I could talk to.

When I get to work, I take care to park the car in a way that the damage could not be seen by my coworkers. I switch my computer on and go to put my lunch in the fridge. Nikita is starting her computer and chatting animatedly about what she had done over the weekend, asking if I had done anything fun. I am checking the appointment log, thinking to myself that it is going to be a busy day, and didn’t hear Nikita the first time.

"Did you do anything fun over the weekend?" Nikita repeated herself.

"Oh, no, not really. Laundry."

Nikita's expression makes it clear she thinks that is a waste of a weekend. I listen quietly, nodding at all of the right moments as Nikita continues to gush about her weekend. I feel a little jealous, partly wishing I could go out bar hopping with a group of girls. Almost as though Nikita is reading my mind, she gives me an open invitation to go out with her sometime. It’s sweet, but as I look at Nikita, with all of her enthusiasm for life I just cannot relate to her. I thank her and go back to getting set up for the day.

It’s wintertime in Cleveland. To say we are busy with sick appointments is an understatement. I am on my feet most of the day and grateful for the distraction from Jon. At lunch, after bathing in hand sanitizer, I eat my sandwich and comb the want ads for anything Jon could be qualified for. There are some promising ads I circle. I brought a copy of Jon's most recent resume with me to work and fax it off before clocking back in. I spend the afternoon avoiding sneezes and coughs, silently admonishing some patients to cover their mouths. There seems to be a bug going around. I suck on a vitamin C drop and hope it skips me. Getting sick is the occupational hazard of working in a doctor's office.

In general, I am somewhat impervious to most of the bugs that go around and am very good about getting a flu shot every year, considering they’re an employment perk of where I work. Still, a bug knocks me on my ass every couple of years, and I am due for one. Just the thought of it make me squirt an extra dollop of sanitizer onto my hands. Once the last patient is checked out, I sit down to catch my breath. It doesn’t last long. I still have to tidy up the waiting room. My plan is to avoid getting sick, so I put on a pair of gloves before I stack and straighten all of the magazines in the waiting room. Considering the very visible waste basket in the waiting room, I am not pleased to find candy wrappers and used tissues on one of the tables.

Nikita and I walk out together. I am dreading going home, I know I have to bring up the dent but am not sure how to do it. If I ignore it I wonder if Jon will stay as sweet as he had been to me the day before. It’s not like being annoyed with him will change the fact that there is a dent. What if he had been at home all day sick with worry about how I would react?

On the drive home I decide not to bring up the dent and see if Jon will. I can picture walking in the door to Jon making something in the kitchen. He would walk over to help me take off my coat and kiss me, asking how my day was. We would have dinner together, and it would be the first step to being us again. If I could just ignore this maybe that would happen, and wouldn’t that be worth it in the long run? I was home. I park, take a deep breath, and after collecting my things, make my way up to our apartment. There had been a dreary drizzle of freezing rain most of the day. Expecting slick spots, I slowly make my way up the stairs.

The apartment is dark when I walk in. I flip on the light for the front room and look around. I stop myself from calling out to Jon in case he is sleeping. I hang up my keys and purse, then take off my coat before moving further into the apartment, turning on lights as I go. The door to our bedroom is cracked. I peer inside, expecting to see Jon lying in our bed. He isn’t. Where is he? I walk back out to the kitchen to see if maybe he left a note before getting my cell phone from my purse to check for a text. Nothing.

I think about texting him to ask where he is, but the last time I had done that he had become so annoyed. He had implied that my asking where he was, was an accusation. It didn’t matter that I tried to explain I only wanted to find out if I should be cooking for two or just myself. Jon wasn’t always this defensive. Only in the last year. In the past he had been so confident and so sure of our bond. He also had an uncanny way of knowing what I was thinking of asking before I did. He seems to have lost that.

I think back to the two resumes I had faxed off for him that day with a wish in my heart that something good would come of it. I make myself a sandwich and pull out a photo album from when we first started dating. It’s a black padded album with slots for two pictures and a comment on each page, with a spot for one photo on the cover. I trace Jon's handsome profile on the cover picture. It’s a shot of us looking at each other. I laugh, looking at our sappy expressions. My laugh becomes a choked sob at the thought of how different we are today. Taking a napkin to stem the flow of tears, I close my eyes, pushing the album away.

Today is not a good day to look at it, maybe tomorrow. Getting up to wash my plate, I feel flushed. Raising the back of my hand to my forehead, I grimace at how warm it feels. I wash my plate, take some aspirin, and then suck on a vitamin C drop. I am not going to get sick. There are few things I can control right now, but I am convinced getting sick is one of them. Changing into my pajamas, I am sure that a good night’s sleep will kick whatever funk may be lurking. Still hot, I shove most of the comforter towards Jon's side of the bed.

For the most part, I sleep well with the exception of freezing at some points and then feeling too warm. When I wake and see that Jon is still not home, I’m relieved because I am certain he would have been annoyed that I tossed and turned all night. That feeling is short-lived and replaced by a combination of concern at where he is to annoyance at how inconsiderate it is of him. Those feelings are pushed aside as I hurry to get ready for work. While I do not feel one hundred percent, I no longer feel feverish. Instead, I feel foggy, as though there is a hum in my ears and my limbs have fallen asleep. But I can function.

Since Jon is not home, there’s no point sitting in a cold car as it warms up. I carefully hurry down the stairs to start my car and then quickly back up the stairs, sliding for a nerve-wrecking moment near the top. Once inside, I brush my teeth, gather my things, and after peeking to see the front window is now clear, make my way back down the stairs. Crossing the river, I send out a little wish to my parents to watch out for Jon.

Whatever energy I had managed to find to drag myself to work doesn’t last long, My fog descends once again, and I struggle through my day. At lunch, instead of checking the want ads for Jon, I lay my head on the table in the break room and take a catnap, waking with an imprint of my watchband on my cheek. Nikita encourages me to go home early to get more rest, but I wave her off. In my eyes, there is no point, since it is now after lunch. There are only four more hours to go. I can do that in my sleep.

With only the occasional head bob, I finish my shift. When I get into my car, I immediately switch the stereo to a metal station, hopeful the screaming will keep me conscious for the ride home. Visions of a bowl of chicken noodle soup carry me home. After parking, I notice that the front light is on. I am too tired to contemplate whether I am happy or not to know that Jon is home. I take my time up the stairs and hardly notice or care that Jon seems tense when I walk in. I drop my things by the door and shuffle to the kitchen. Jon looks at me in confusion, and I admit that I do not feel good.

Taking a pan out to heat a can of soup, I struggle to keep my mouth from hanging open when Jon casually asks if I can make him some soup as well. Turning quickly so Jon will not see the pained look on my face, I say, "Sure."

"And some toast?"

I nod. Really, I am already making myself a bowl. It isn’t any bother to add another can to the pot and pop another slice of toast in the toaster. It’s no more work than what I have already intended to do, and even though I tell myself this, it does not hurt any less that he had not offered to make it himself since he knows I am not feeling well. I tuck that feeling way deep inside where I can ignore it because thinking about it just makes me feel worse.

I serve Jon and myself once the soup is hot. Jon finishes eating before I do and leaves his plate and bowl in the sink for me. I wash them along with my plate and bowl once I finish eating, tucking how that makes me feel inside as well. I could have said something, but really, considering I just want to go to sleep, how will it accomplish anything? At best, Jon would apologize after we talked it out and say he would be more considerate in the future, and at worst, somehow it would all turn into my fault, and I would end up feeling worse than I already did. In either scenario, a conversation will be needed, and honestly I do not want to talk to Jon, although I tell myself it’s because I’m tired and just want to go to sleep.

Jon doesn’t seem to mind that I go to sleep early. I am so exhausted I don’t even feel the movement of him climbing into bed at some point overnight. When my alarm clock goes off the next day, and I feel no improvement from the night’s rest, I know taking a sick day is my only option. I send a text to the office manager and to Nikita to let them know I’ll be out. Nikita replies almost instantly, telling me that she hopes I feel better. I turn the ringer off and turn over to go back to sleep. I wake again when Jon begins rustling. Jon snuggles up next to me, pressing himself against me. I feel like crap and turn away from him in an attempt to avoid his amorous attention.

"What's your problem?" he asks angrily.

"I just don’t feel good." I mumble.

"I don’t know why I even bother," Jon huffs as he gets out of bed and storms out of the room.

I lie still as can be, almost frozen by his words. Part of me wants to call him back and do whatever he wants to make him happy. Another part wonders why it is so wrong to not feel good and how Jon can be annoyed at me for it. I feel a sense of shame inside, thinking that there must be something wrong with me that would make Jon act so cold. I feel an overwhelming sense of inadequacy until my exhaustion takes over, and I fall asleep.

I wake up again maybe three hours later to the sound of noise coming from the front room. Putting on my robe, I slowly make my way out of the bedroom to see what all of the noise is. The movement makes me feel weak. I have yet to eat or drink anything and am most likely dehydrated. The sound of gunfire from the television is a roar as I approach the front room. When I get there, I see Jon and a neighbor have set up a video game system in the living room and are playing what looks like a war game.

Our neighbor, a young guy who lives on the first floor sees me walk in. "Oh man, did we wake you?"

I look at Jon, my brows furrowed. I just do not understand what this guy is doing in our apartment. I know none of the video game stuff is ours. Jon had sold everything he had when he was trying to figure out a way to keep his car. Jon shrugs at me and looks back at the TV. Our neighbor sees my confusion and offers to leave. I wave him off and walk over to the kitchen to get some crackers and a glass of water before returning to bed. With the door closed and the small TV in our room on, I can’t hear the noise from the front room anymore. I nibble on my crackers and sip my water, trying my best to finish them before I fall back asleep.

It’s dark outside when I wake again, and the apartment is quiet. My appetite has improved so I make my way to the kitchen to make something. The front room is dark, and there is no sign of Jon. I glance over to the pile of my things on the floor by the door and see that my keys are also gone. He had taken my car again. We had never discussed the dent, and now he is gone again. I wonder how Jon would react if I told him I did not want him using my car unless he checked with me first. I do not think he would react well to that, but it bothers me so much that he keeps taking it without asking.

Exhausted from the activity, I retreat back to our room to sleep. When my alarm clock goes off the next morning, I still feel rough but well enough to go to work. I always hate calling in sick and am already feeling guilty for missing the previous day. When I go to shower I realize Jon is not in bed. I rush into the front room to see if maybe he’s sleeping on the sofa. He isn’t.

Opening the door to our apartment, I ignore the cold blast of air and rush to the landing to see if my car is in its spot. It’s not. Even if I had wanted to go to work, I can’t. I am too stunned that he had not come home to react immediately. I call my office manager and lie, saying I am still not feeling well enough to come back and send a text message to Nikita. I get two texts messages back, one from my manager letting me know I can take all the time I need and another from Nikita that is just a frown face.

This is bullshit, and there is no way I can ignore it. This can affect my job and being able to pay our bills. I cannot help but be concerned as well. What if he had been in an accident and is hurt somewhere? Slumping onto our bed, I go back and forth between whether I should call him or not. Caving, I call him, chewing on my fingernail as it rings and rings and goes to voicemail. In the message I leave him, I try to sound as calm as possible. I let him know I am worried about him and am curious where he is because I need the car to go to work. I hang up, and I pause to reflect on my choice of words. The car. Not that long ago, I had always called it mine.

I lie down with my phone propped up in front of me so I won’t miss his call, but it’s the front door I hear three hours later instead. I had taken a shower and made myself some breakfast while waiting. I am grateful for being up and dressed when I walk into the front room to see a group of people there. I only recognize the neighbor who had been there the day before. There are six people total, four guys and two girls.

"Shouldn’t you be lying down?" Jon says, looking everywhere but at me as a couple of his new friends snicker behind him.

"Can we talk?" I say quietly as I gesture toward our bedroom.

"Yeah, sure. Hey guys, hang out here."

Jon hurries past me and down the hall to our room. I’m still not feeling great so I follow him slowly. He’s sitting down on his side of the bed, up against his pillows, legs crossed at his ankles in front of him. He looks very relaxed.

"What did you want to talk about?"

My mouth drops open. Did he really just ask me that? I cock my head to the side and look at him as though I have never seen him before. It’s like he’s a stranger sitting on my bed. I am rendered momentarily speechless and close the door behind me.

"Jon, where were you?"

"Just hanging out."

"I missed work because you had the car." There it was again, the car.

"I thought you'd still be sick today."

I walk over to sit on my side of the bed. When I sit, Jon gets up and goes to stand by the door. Why did he get up?

"Are you leaving?"

"Yeah. We were going to head over to the thing."

The thing? "Are you taking the car?" The car.

"Yeah. You’re just going to be in bed."

"I'm going to work tomorrow so I need the car to be here." The car.

"Yeah, yeah…" and he was out the door.

No apology. No “how are you feeling?” I sit there wondering what those people in my front room had thought of me, wonder if he had even said anything about me. Not one of them had made a move to introduce themselves. I suddenly feel paranoid, like I’m the butt of a joke. Maybe Jon will be home early enough tonight that we will have a chance to talk about it. I decide I’ll rest during the day and make a nice dinner for the both of us. If I have the ingredients, I’ll even make Jon's favorite: enchiladas.

I spend most of the day stressing out over where Jon is and what he might be doing. He’s been taking off so much recently I don’t know how I should feel about it. I’m a mixture of emotions and can’t choose just one. I feel abandoned, jealous, insecure, hurt, and sad all at the same time. I cannot understand why I feel the need to constantly walk around on eggshells around him while he cannot even bother to be polite to me. How is that fair? At this point, I would be so blown over by any small gesture of affection. Can he see that?

I change my clothes into something slightly nicer than the sweats I’ve worn all day and make the enchiladas. As I slide them in the oven to cook, I wonder if it had been silly of me to even assume he will be coming home at dinnertime. I check my phone to see if he had maybe sent me a text. He hasn’t. While dinner cooks, I second-guess myself, not sure if this had been a good idea. At worst I’ll eat alone and pack up the leftovers to take to work as lunch the next day. I turn on the TV to act as a distraction from the thoughts crowding my mind. Watching the news, I learn there is snow in the forecast and dream of someday living someplace warmer.

Jon never shows up. I eat by myself and pack up the leftovers. I leave a note on the fridge that there are leftovers in case Jon is hungry when he gets home. Wanting to be fully rested for work the next day, I head to bed early. When my alarm clock goes off, I’m relieved to see Jon asleep next to me. He must have come home at some point after I went to sleep. Careful not to wake him, I get ready for work. When I go to the kitchen, I see that he hasn’t eaten the enchiladas and decide to take them with me for lunch, throwing away the note on the fridge.

As I sit in my car while it warms up, I notice the tank is on E. It had been almost full the last time I had driven it. I’ll have to stop on the way in to work to get some gas. It annoys me, but Jon doesn’t have any money so it’s not like he can buy any gas either way. It would have been nice if he had gotten a couple of bucks from his new friends. I’m worried about filling it up all the way in case he takes the car again. I can’t afford to be filling it up all the time. I fill it up halfway and continue on my way to work. Nikita’s parking at the same time I’m parking and rushes over to greet me.

"How are you feeling? Oh my gosh, Grace. What happened to your car?"

I grimaced. "I feel better. Thanks. Jon hit something."

"I'm so happy you're feeling better. That sucks about your car. What’d he hit?"

"Not sure. We haven’t really talked about it."

"No way. You are so nice. I would have lost it."

We chat as we head into the office. It’s Friday, and there are many last-minute sick appointments. It seems like whatever I had is going around big time. At lunch, I look over the want ads, not seeing anything that might be a good fit for Jon. I wonder about the two places I had sent his resume to and if they had contacted him. If they had, Jon had not said anything. After lunch, I dip into my spare change dish to buy a soda. It’s been the first day in a while that I had been so active, and I really need some caffeine.

It has been a long day, and I am grateful once the day ended and I can go home. All I want to do is make myself another can of soup and go back to bed. Not feeling as though I am in any danger of falling asleep behind the wheel, I skip the metal station this time. Jon is in the front room when I get home, watching TV.

"What happened to the enchiladas?"

"What?"

He stood. "What happened to the enchiladas?" He enunciates each word.

Oh no, I think. "I took them to work for lunch today. I didn't know you wanted them. I thought that since you had not eaten them last night that you had not wanted them."

"No. I was actually saving them for lunch for myself today. Just think of how I must have felt when I went to the fridge and found out they were gone."

Couldn’t have been worse than the feeling I had when I saw my car was gone the day before, I thought to myself. I don’t say it, though. That would only make things worse.

"I can run to the store and get stuff to make some tonight. Would you like that? I'm so sorry. I did not know you wanted them."

"Don’t bother. It’s already done."

"Well, let me make you something else. What would you like?"

I end up making spaghetti and meatballs per Jon's request. Sure, it’s not the soup I wanted, but it’s still good and now Jon is less upset. After dinner, I wash the pots and pans and dirty dishes from our meal. Jon returns to his armchair and is watching TV. Once I’m done, I go to bed. The next morning, I am relieved to see Jon asleep again beside me. As I was falling asleep last night, I worried that he might go out again. I quietly get out of bed and make myself a cup of tea and some toast.

After washing my cup and plate, I sit down on the sofa to read. My plans for the day are simple: rest, and maybe later on take a couple loads of laundry down to the Laundromat. I am well into my book when Jon comes out of our bedroom. He nods in my direction before making himself a bowl of cereal. I hold my spot in my book with my hand as I watch him eat. I still think he is so handsome, although recently he looks more tired than he had in the past. If only he could find a job.

"Want something?"

I had zoned off and didn’t realize he had noticed me staring at him.

"Oh, I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"It's silly."

"I'm listening."

"I was just thinking how handsome you are." I am not sure why saying that embarrasses me. I used to tell him that all the time.

Jon shakes his head at me, not looking convinced, and goes back to his breakfast. I return to my book. When he finishes eating, Jon sets his bowl and spoon in the sink for me to clean. I rest my book on the arm of the sofa and go to wash them.

~*~

For the most part, over the weekend, we steer clear of each other. If Jon is in the front room, I am in the bedroom and vice versa. Lying in the same bed as Jon each night, I am aware of the fact that I have never felt so distant from him. He doesn’t talk to me anymore. It’s like living with a stranger. I lie in bed thinking of how I can find intimacy with Jon again. It’s hard for me to understand how we have gone from telling each other everything to this. I try not to dwell on thoughts like these. It’s too painful to take alone, and since I can no longer confide in Jon, I feel as though I have no one else.

When I interact with coworkers and patients at work on Monday, I feel like a fraud. I smile and laugh when socially appropriate, but there is a hollowness building within me. Sometimes I wonder how everyone around me cannot tell how unhappy I am. Everyone I work with is so busy with their own lives that they don’t seem to notice the change in me, or if they do, no one mentions it. That does not help me from feeling isolated. Even Nikita, who always cheers me up, is preoccupied with something that day.

I feel so overwhelmed by my loneliness that I cry most of my drive home. Crossing the river is particularly hard today. I miss my parents and want more than anything else to talk to my mother. Not that I want to say anything. I just want to feel her embrace and hear her voice again. I dry my eyes once I park, hopeful Jon won’t notice how red they are.

I’m barely in the door when Jon says, "Were you going to tell me?"

I look to where he is sitting, confused, not sure what he’s talking about.

"You didn’t think I would figure it out when they contacted me?"

Someone contacted him. Could it be about one of the resumes I sent? "Did you get an interview?"

"So it was you. No, I did not get an interview. What I got was the opportunity to make a complete ass out of myself when they called because I had no idea who they were and why the f*ck they were calling me."

"Oh no." This was not good. I close my eyes and set my things down as he continues.

"You didn’t think it might help to tell me someone might be calling me? Or did you just want me to sound like a complete idiot on the phone with them?"

"I was only trying to help."

"Sure you were. Can you do me a favor and let me f*cking handle it?"

"I just thought—"

"No, you didn’t f*cking think."

Tears cloud my eyes as I rush to our room and shut the door. Jon is close behind me, though, and pushes the door open. "Don’t you ever walk away from me when I am talking to you."

I cover my ears with my hands and look down as I try to block him out. Jon stands over me almost panting with anger. After a few moments, I peer up at where Jon had been standing to find I am now alone. As my heart slowly stops pounding, I pull my legs into my chest and hug them, jerking up at the sound of the front door slamming. Jon has left, and I am grateful for it. My only fear is about my car not being back in time for me to get to work the next day. It’s the first time Jon has left that I can admit I’m not sure if I even want him to come back. I wonder if maybe Jon had been pushing me away on purpose. Maybe he didn’t love me anymore but doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

I venture out into the kitchen to make a plate of cheese and crackers before retreating to our bedroom. Jon had scared me and somehow I feel safer in the bedroom. I think about locking the door but don’t want to upset Jon more than I already have. I feel stupid for even hoping that I could have found Jon a job. I had known deep down that it was something he needed to do on his own. I just could not understand why my trying to help him had made him so angry with me. Was it just that the call had caught him off guard or was it more?

I stiffen when I hear the front door open a couple of hours later. Quickly turning off the light, I pretend to be asleep. I hear Jon walk into our room, and then a few moments later, walk back out. I wonder if I should go to him and try and talk about what had happened that day but don’t know what type of mood he’s in so think it safer to talk another time. The next morning, after getting ready for work, I write Jon a note. I tell him that I’m sorry about not telling him I sent his resumé places. I had honestly thought if he got a call back he would have been happy. I end the note with I love you.

As I sit in the car while it warms up, I see that I need gas. Again. I stop at a station and have a mild shock when I pull out my wallet and find it empty. I had sixty dollars, and it’s gone. Jon took money from me. I sit immobilized as I process this. I lean my head back against the car seat and stare up at the ceiling.