“And Grace’s nightmares? Are you sorry you didn’t tell me about those?”
I searched the ceiling, my bedside lamp, table, and the pillows on the bed. I didn’t know how to answer him, so my thoughts tumbled from my lips. “Grace has nightmares. Sometimes Jack has nightmares. Am I supposed to tell you every time one of the kids has a nightmare? Or scrapes their elbow? Or gets a paper cut?”
“What about Jack’s sudden aptitude for music? Or were you going to surprise me when he turns eighteen and is playing at Carnegie Hall?”
I pointed a wagging index finger in his general direction. “That’s not fair. I just found out about Jack playing the piano two days ago. He didn’t say a word to me. And when would you and I have had a chance to discuss it?”
Greg’s cloud of unhappiness darkened at my words. “You found out two days ago that our son is likely a musical prodigy. That’s a big deal, Fiona. That’s not a paper cut. He can play complicated pieces without actually knowing how to read music, after hearing it a few times. And I found out ten minutes ago. Do you not see anything wrong with that disparity?”
“What do you want me to do? Send you psychic messages?”
“Yes, via the magical internets. Send me an email, how about that?”
Swelling anger and bitterness twisted in my stomach and burned my throat. I longed to remind him I was doing everything on my own, that I was doing the best I could. Then he comes home and can’t even be bothered to put his laundry in the hamper. He didn’t have a right to real-time updates on, or arbitrary opinions about children he wasn’t actively raising.
But I didn’t remind him.
Greg was leaving in less than five minutes. He likely wouldn’t be back in Chicago for three or four months, during which I would take the kids camping with Alex and Drew. Alone. I would drive Jack to soccer practice and cheer him on during his games. Alone. I would go to Grace’s dance recital and applaud when she took a bow. Alone. I would help them with their homework, give them baths, shuttle them to doctors’ appointments, play-dates, and birthday parties.
All of this alone.
Arguing was pointless. It would change nothing. At the end of the day, I was still the one raising Grace and Jack, and he would still be gone.
So I swallowed the anger and bitterness, kept my tone even and carefully civil, and indulged him. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have emailed you. From now on, if something important happens, I’ll send you an email as soon as possible.”
He stared at me, examining me as though my words were a puzzle. The longer he stared, the colder and more remote his posture grew. At length he cast his gaze to the floor and scowled at our carpet. I watched as he swallowed, seemingly with effort, his eyes unfocused as though he were attempting to tame unkind impulses.
“You know . . .” he started, his voice rough. But then he shook his head and clamped his mouth shut, biting back words. He turned away from me and moved to leave. When he grasped the handle, he paused and said to the door, “I love you, Fe.”
He left the room.
A moment later I heard the front door open and close.
He was gone.
And I was alone. Again.
CHAPTER 6
Dear R.
I honestly believe that you were completely and totally clueless to the fact that I was and had been head over heels in love with you from the day we met. It wasn't a secret to anyone else. When you catch me "creepy" staring at you now, all I'm really doing is silently appreciating all that you are and all that you mean to me. Forgive a man if you will for wanting to cherish something a little more openly after having to hide it for twenty years.
-D
Letter
USA
Friends for 20 years, currently engaged
17 years ago
Greg
“I’m not good enough for you, Fe. But . . .” I shrugged, unable to do anything but smile at this woman who’d become my entire world, “no else one is either. So I might as well take you for my own. Marry me.”
She stared down at me, captivatingly astonished. Though I couldn’t tell if she was merely shocked, or both shocked and horrified. She’d covered her mouth with her hands and was standing still, motionless, too stunned to even move.
I’d effectively pressed her proverbial pause button.
Obviously, I was completely and utterly mad.
Too early.
Too soon.
She wasn’t ready, not for a proposal of marriage.
At eighteen, Fiona was wise beyond her years. And yet her wisdom was as tragic as it was beautiful.
So I waited. And waited.
And waited.
Just like I’d waited all those months after seeing her for the first time, keeping my distance despite seeing her everywhere—at the gym, the café, the library, in the dorm lobby—endeavoring to convince myself I was merely infatuated with her fa?ade. In lust was an easier concept to manage than some fanciful rubbish like love at first sight, or soul mates, or cosmically meant for each other.
So I waited. And waited.
And waited.