Sometime, Somewhere

by Kalyn Fogarty

  I’m not listening for the sleigh tonight, although the house is so silent I would be able to hear the big man shuffling across the roof for sure. My childhood room has been turned into a guest room, but the walls are the same blue and the bed is the same creaky full-sized frame. The only thing missing is my big sister. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were here in the room with me. I can always feel her on the holidays. It’s like her absence is tangible. We might as well set a place at the table for her.

  Tonight, I think about Karen. I replay our conversation over and over in my mind. I can’t believe how stupid I sounded. She must think I’m a complete idiot. Maybe she’s lying in bed thinking how fortunate it was we broke up in high school, since I turned out to be such a failure. Maybe she’s only going to dinner with me out of pity. Or maybe she sees this as a chance to rekindle our old love—wouldn’t my mother pounce on that idea. What if Karen expects dinner to become phone calls, and phone calls to become a relationship? What if . . . what if . . .

  ***

  “Oh, Jimmy, it’s beautiful!” Mom exclaims, holding up the cashmere sweater. “John, isn’t it lovely?” She passes it to my dad, who pets the soft fabric and smiles at her.

  “Very nice, darling,” he says. He doesn’t say it to me. He is looking lovingly at my mom. Although I hate that he doesn’t acknowledge me for the present, I can’t help but envy the way his gaze still lingers on my mom. I can see her blush under the stare.

  “It will go perfectly with the earrings you got me,” she says. The earrings are a pair of dropped pearls with a diamond stud base. She put them on immediately, and they sparkle in the light.

  I hand over another gift bag for her. The real present. “One more,” I say.

  “This is too much!” She is laughing, but she clearly enjoys being lavished with gifts from the two men in her life. We both feel the need to shower her with presents for all she does to keep the family glued together. There aren’t enough gifts to make up for this.

  “Jimmy!” She unwraps the butter-colored leather Coach bag. She props it on her lap and strokes the soft exterior. Every woman loves bags.

  “You like it?” I ask. She is going through the compartments, exclaiming over the exquisite interior.

  “Love it!” She stands and hugs me tight, still holding the purse in one hand.

  I am so pleased to have made her so happy. My dad smiles at Mom but shakes his head at me. I don’t know what he’s glaring at me for, but I choose to ignore it.

  “You’re next, Dad,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

  He lifts his eyebrows, as if he’s surprised I’ve gotten him gift. As if I haven’t gotten him a gift every holiday.

  “You need to get up to unwrap this one. I can’t lift it,” I say. I think he will like this present. It took me a long time to decide what to get the man who seems to disregard my every gesture.

  He looks put out that he needs to get up, but my mom urges him toward the tree.

  “What’s this?” he says, staring at the fifty-six-inch-screen television.

  “A new TV, John,” Mom says. “For the den. Won’t it be perfect in there?”

  Dad just stares at the television. He looks to me. “Is my television not good enough?”

  I have no idea how to respond to this. He is probably the only man who has ever refused to get a flat-screen TV. His giant tubed behemoth of a television is growing into the table in the den. It’s the same TV we had when I was ten.

  “Of course not. I just thought it was time for a new one,” I say. I can’t keep the defensive tone out of my voice.

  “I like my old TV. Don’t you think I would have bought one of these if I wanted one?” he says, his voice rising. “You think I don’t make enough money to buy one? You think I need to be some fancy schmancy lawyer to afford one of these?”

  I don’t have to listen to this. It’s always the same with him. No matter what I do, it’s about my job. It’s me thinking I’m better than him or me showing off how much money I make.

  “No, Dad, I really just thought I was doing something nice.” I laugh bitterly. “You can return it and keep the cash if you want.”

  “Jimmy!” my mom says, looking back and forth between her outraged husband and her insulted son. I wonder who will win this one. She steps to Dad’s side and places her hand on his shoulder. “Enough already,” she says, looking pointedly at me.

  “You’re right. I have had enough already,” I say, standing beside the Christmas tree.

  I walk from the room. Ten minutes later I’m out the door with my suitcase stuffed into the trunk of my SUV. I don’t even bother to take the presents from under the tree, never mind unwrap them. I ignore my mom, who is pleading with me to come back inside. I drive away.

  12/28/04 @ 10:32 am

  Dinner tonight? Fig u would be back to NYC for NYE, wanna catch u b4 u leave! —Karen

  The text message comes in on my Blackberry. I don’t know whether or not I should call her and explain what happened with my family. She would probably understand. She might actually be the only person I know who would understand. But I can’t imagine whining to her about my family problems. She has enough on her plate; hearing me complain about my asshole dad who didn’t want his flat-screen TV would be too much. I’ll call her later, say my phone died and I didn’t get the message, or I had a work emergency and had to get back to the city. I doubt she wanted to go to dinner with me anyway. She was just trying to be nice.

  33

  Wren

  Age 33

  April 2005

  I never, ever say the word louder than a whisper, for fear I will jinx it. Remission. It sounds so good on my lips, but I refrain from singing it from the top of my roof. I know better. Remission is a wonderful thing, but it’s fleeting, like a rainbow on a rainy day. It’s not a cure, but it’s a reprieve. I hope, I pray, it will be final. I hope I’m still whispering this word ten years from now, but until then, I count my blessings. Remission.

  Jimmy is basically dancing on air. He’s so happy I’m better he positively floats around the house. He also floats around me, afraid he will break me and break the spell. He treats me like a fragile china doll. He refuses to let me work at the office, insisting I sit home and “stay well.” I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do to succeed at this. I take my vitamins, I drink my orange juice, I practice yoga. I feel well, but is it enough? I did all this before the cancer, and it didn’t make a difference? If the tumor is going to grow back, I doubt any amount of vitamin C is going to stop it

  I study myself naked in the full-length mirror. My body looks so different than three years ago, then eight years ago. Not too long ago I was eighty pounds and sallow. It took all my effort just to lift myself out of bed and into the shower. Flash back to my competitive days, when I was ninety-five pounds of solid muscle, four percent body fat. Fast-forward to now, where I can once more see the muscles in my thighs and the slightest bulge in my biceps. I’m still thin, but I look strong again.

  My hair has finally grown in, and I brush it with care. It took forever to come back. It’s amazing how long it took to get to a point where it could be called a pixie cut, never mind down below my chin. It sits just above my shoulder bone now. It’s shorter than I like, but at least when I touch my hair it doesn’t get lopsided on my skull or, worse, fall out in my hand.

  Humming to myself, I squirt some lotion into the palm of my hand and begin massaging it down my leg. I want to be soft and smell delicious; I want Jimmy to forget about dinner when he gets home and devour me instead. I step into my sexiest white lace lingerie and admire myself in the mirror once more. Not too bad.

  ***

  “I’m sorry, babe, I don’t know what’s wrong,” he says, letting out a big sigh and rolling onto his back. “I’m just so tired.”

  I nod, afraid if I speak, I won’t be able to hold back the tears. What’s wrong with me that my own husband doesn’t desire me anymore? I pull the sheet up over my small breasts. The room
feels cold.

  “Baby, it’s not you, really,” he says, propping himself up on his elbow. His face is still flushed, but his eyes don’t have any fire in them.

  “Okay,” I mutter, biting my lip. He seems genuinely upset, but I can’t help but blame myself. This never used to happen before.

  The night started out promising. Jimmy came home from work looking a little tired but happy. There’s this moment each night before he catches sight of me that I cherish. It’s when he walks in and puts his briefcase on the table, still in work mode. He loosens his tie and some part of him senses me, because he looks up and stares at me. The look of pure joy on his face makes me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

  He was starving, so we ate dinner first, but I played footsie with him under the table while he ate the chicken and broccoli. As he finished his last bite, I took his hand and led him upstairs, not wasting any time.

  Jimmy is always attentive to my needs. He must’ve known he wasn’t feeling in the mood because he insisted that I come first, but I couldn’t. Something in the way he moved wasn’t right. I kept worrying he wasn’t enjoying himself, he wasn’t into it, so I psyched myself out.

  He couldn’t stay hard and pulled away, apologizing profusely. It’s never happened before. We had sex while I was in the midst of treatment and he managed to finish.

  “Wren, look at me,” he says, tipping my chin toward him. I resist, stiffening my jaw, holding back the tears. “Don’t cry, please don’t cry.” He rests his head on my shoulder.

  And right on cue, I start bawling. It feels like all the tears I’ve held back while in remission come pouring out. I never cry, I feel like I have too much to be grateful for to cry, so I’ve been holding it all in.

  “What’s wrong with us?” I sob. I know I’m making this into a huge deal, but I don’t care. This is supposed to be a happy time. I’m healed.

  “Nothing. We’re just going through a slow patch,” he says, taking my hand and tracing my fingertips with his own.

  “But I’m better, Jimmy.” I wipe my nose. “You can’t keep treating me like I’m going to snap in half.” Jimmy nods, his eyes watering.

  “I want you to ravage me. I want you to treat me like nothing is wrong with me.” Tears are starting to come out of the corners of his eyes. “Otherwise, what good is it that I’m better? I want to feel like our normal self,” I finish, pulling his face toward mine and kissing his tears. “I want to be us again.”

  “I know, I’m sorry, I can’t help it,” he whispers. “I want to wrap you in Bubble Wrap,” he jokes.

  “You’re not going to hurt me. You could never hurt me,” I say seriously.

  “Okay.” He moves closer to me, hugging me against his chest.

  “Okay then.” I kiss his forehead, taking a deep breath.

  ***

  I’ve never been so excited to pee on a stick. I did it once before, in college, when I got myself all worked up over gaining a pound and missing my period, but it was a false alarm. This time, I think it’s real. My body is telling me something is going on, and I hope it’s what I think it is.

  I haven’t said anything to Jimmy for fear of getting his hopes up. I’m worried I’ve manifested my symptoms, spun them out of pure excitement. But I’m definitely not making up the morning sickness and spotting that’s been happening the past week. I swear my boobs look bigger. They don’t really hurt, but I haven’t handled them much. The missing period is the Holy Grail. I’ve been like clockwork since being in remission, so its sudden disappearance can only indicate good things.

  Two minutes and I’ll know for sure. In two minutes, this might be the happiest moment of my life. A positive test will mean I’m pregnant. I’ll have my miracle.

  “Wren?” Jimmy calls out. He’s home early. I can hear him walking across the kitchen, about to come upstairs. Thirty seconds more.

  “Where are you?” he yells out again, taking the stairs two at a time.

  “I’m in here. I’ll be out in a second,” I yell back. I want to bring him the positive result. Just a few more seconds.

  “You feeling okay?” he asks. I was pretty sick this morning, but it didn’t last long. I didn’t realize he heard me. I thought he was still sleeping when I slipped into the bathroom.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just an upset stomach this morning,” I lie.

  Time’s up. I take a deep breath, saying a little prayer.

  It’s negative.

  I stand there, staring at the test in my hand, willing it to change. Maybe I didn’t pee on it for long enough. Maybe I didn’t wait long enough. It’s defective. I shouldn’t have bought this brand. It’s a false negative. So many excuses run through my head.

  “Hey.” Jimmy knocks and pushes the door open. “You’ve been in here forever.” He looks at me, staring dumbly down at the pregnancy test. “Baby?”

  I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. Disappointed can’t even begin to describe how I feel. I feel defeated.

  “I wanted to surprise you,” I say, letting myself cry.

  Jimmy walks in and wraps his arms around me, enveloping me in his strength.

  “I thought it was real this time,” I stammer between tears. “I thought it finally happened.”

  “It’s okay. It’s going to happen, Wren,” he says, smoothing my hair and rubbing my back.

  “No, it’s not.” I pull away from him. I wipe the tears with the back of my hand. “Because if I’m not pregnant, I’m sick again,” I say. “It’s back.”

  34

  Karen

  After

  May 2005

  I don’t understand her.

  Her life is full of love. Look at Jimmy, always there and ready to hold her should she feel like giving up. It’s painful to watch. It’s like looking into a bright white light, the way he looks at her. She’s completely adored, yet she’s willing to sacrifice all this happiness for what? A baby? A baby that may very well kill her, if she can even get pregnant in the first place? Doesn’t she understand that if she goes, Jimmy won’t survive either? It’s not only her life at stake but poor Jimmy’s too. Poor, poor Jimmy.

  When I was alive, I didn’t have much love in my life. I had my parents, but they don’t count. I think they tried to love me in the best way they knew how, but it fell short. They fought a lot and had their problems, but deep down they lived for each other. I was an afterthought. I wasn’t the culmination of all that love; I was something that got in the way of it.

  So I have serious issues with Wren’s need to have a baby. She’s so lucky to have someone care so much about her; why isn’t that enough for her right now? They don’t need a baby to prove to the world how in love they are. It’s already obvious. And she has options. Jimmy lists them to her at least once a week. So many options, but she stubbornly refuses. A baby is all that will do.

  I didn’t have love and I didn’t have anything else to live for, or so I thought. Looking back, I realize I did have a life worth living. I had my gym. My students may not have loved me, but they looked up to me with adoration, and I could’ve helped a few of them become stars. Maybe I didn’t have a real lover, but I might have fallen in love one day. At the time, all I saw in my future was cancer, and it consumed me. I took my own life, but at least I didn’t drag anyone down with me. I left my life neat and tidy, ends all tied up. I bet the world didn’t miss a beat when I passed.

  But her. She has everything to lose. She can’t die. She has a man that would die for her if he could. I’m sure of this. I’ve heard him pray a few times. I don’t mean to intrude on such private times, but what else can I do but listen when I’m hiding in the hallway closet? Jim has begged and pleaded with God to spare Wren, to make this cancer go away. I’ve never heard him once pray for a baby. Sure, he wants one. Or wanted one, back when they were carefree newlyweds without the big C looming over them.

  Part of me thinks Wren is going to die, no matter what decision she makes. I’m a pessimist—I was in life and I am now—but I
think this goes beyond my natural inclination to think the worst of things. I’m not religious, but I believe in signs. I look for the greater meaning in things, the spiritual connectedness of the world. Wren and I are different, but we are definitely connected. This doesn’t bode well for dear Wren.

  I’m not sure why I’m here. If I’m being punished for killing myself, watching myself die of cancer once again is certainly a fitting sentence. But I don’t truly think this is hell. This is just another life, another way it all could’ve gone. Even a pessimist can believe in fate. Putting all my theories together, I’ve deduced it is my fate to die young, in all my lives. In my own, I killed myself and died alone and miserable. In this life, it looks as though I’ll end up killing myself in a different way, while trying to make a family and find happiness. I don’t know which I find more depressing.

  35

  James

  After

  May 2005

  Wren’s sick again. She hardly eats, and all she does is nap. She brushes off Jimmy’s concern, but when he leaves for work, she tucks herself back into bed and doesn’t wake up until right before he comes home. He came home early a few days ago and came across her curled on the couch, remote in hand. Instead of waking her, he gently turned off the television and pulled the blanket up to her chin. Then he stood watch over her, crying. He kissed her on the forehead before heading to the kitchen to start a dinner she wouldn’t eat.

  I can tell he hates leaving her in the morning, but she’s a pretty good actress. She puts on a good show, making breakfast and chastising him to hurry up so he’s not late. Frying the eggs and making the coffee takes all of her strength, and she’s out cold only minutes after he pulls out of the drive. Once he’s gone, I keep vigil at her bedside for him. It’s the least I can do.