Before I Go

by Colleen Oakley

  He scampers off on stubby legs to a shelf lining the side of the room, and I force myself to look away from his tininess, which threatens to clench my heart as tightly as the whiny girl’s palms did. We each awkwardly lower our bodies into the molded seats and I turn my focus back to Pamela. “Each child gets to choose what he or she will work on when they come in for the day,” she begins.

  I lean forward on my knees—uncomfortably close to my chin—hanging on to every word. Her voice is firm, but melodic. It’s apparent she’s the kind of teacher who won’t take any crap from her students, which makes them love her all the more.

  I shake my head. But there must be something wrong with her. I try to think back. What did Kayleigh hate about her? The pearls. She was thoroughly offended by Pamela’s pearls, launching into a diatribe that started with “Who wears pearls?” and ended with something about sorority girls and Jackie Kennedy.

  My gaze travels to her neck—she’s not wearing them tonight. Regardless, it’s hardly a crime to own outdated jewelry. Maybe they’re a family heirloom—passed down from her dead grandmother or something. I’m sure Kayleigh never thought to ask.

  The other complaints I recall had to do with Pamela’s overeagerness in the classroom—constantly coming up with new bulletin boards, adding extra tasks into lessons at the last minute, sucking up to Principal Woods. I can see how that would be irritating to Kayleigh, but all it says about Pamela is that she’s dedicated to her work, passionate about what she does.

  Like Jack.

  “Excuse me,” I hear Kayleigh’s voice break in, interrupting Pamela’s explanation.

  “I’m just going to grab Dais—er . . . Mrs. Richmond. I promised I would show her the, um . . . sandpaper letters.”

  “Of course,” Pamela says, nodding at me as if to dismiss me. Kayleigh beckons me with her hand, and I have no choice but to get up from the chair and follow her. Pamela launches back into her speech behind me.

  When we’re a safe distance away and clutching large white cards with raised gritty characters on them, Kayleigh hisses one word: “Pamela?”

  “Keep your voice down,” I whisper back, peering around to make sure we’re alone. And then: “I just don’t understand what’s so bad about her.”

  “Where do you want me to begin? She wore a reindeer sweater at Christmas. And she was not being ironic.” Kayleigh stares at me as if she’s just told me that Pamela strangles kittens for fun.

  I stare back. “So?”

  “So?” Kayleigh repeats. “She’s that girl. Everything is sunshine and daisies and—oh! She puts contact paper on everything. Pencil holders, the inside of drawers, bulletin boards. If she lived in your house, she would contact paper the walls. Think about that.”

  I do. Not the contact paper bit—I already have it on the inside of every cabinet in my kitchen and bathroom—but Pamela living in my house. Looking around the classroom at all the neat cubbyholes, organized shelves, and immaculate desks, I have no doubt she would keep my home in perfect order—and she’d always know where Jack’s scrubs were.

  “What are you guys whispering about?” I jump at Jack’s voice behind me.

  “Nothing,” I say, rearranging the sandpaper letters in my hand.

  “Do you need us here much longer?” Jack asks Kayleigh. “I gotta get back to the clinic.”

  “Oh. No, I think we’re good. I made sure Principal Woods saw me talking with you guys in the lobby,” she says.

  Jack nods and turns to me. “Are you about ready to go?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, darting my eyes over to where Pamela is still sitting in the half circle of chairs, watching Hudson use a toothbrush to scrub a conch shell in a shallow Tupperware filled with water. How long does it take to clean a freakin’ shell? “Let me just tell Kayleigh’s co-teacher thank you.”

  “OK, well, I’ll go ahead and start the car.”

  “No! I mean, just, it’ll take two seconds. Come with me.”

  As I walk toward Pamela, my thoughts stumble over themselves—I can introduce Jack easily enough, but how can I keep the conversation going? And even if I can get the two of them chatting, then what? I can’t just ask for her phone number. Or say, hey, interested in marrying my husband? I curse myself again for being so foolish. For thinking I could pick a wife out for Jack as easily as I might buy him a pair of shoes. What did I think, that I would just bring a girl home and put her in the closet for safekeeping?

  When we arrive at the blue chair I left empty, I’m defeated. I decide to just thank Pamela, because that’s what I told Jack I was there to do, and leave, my tail between the cancerous bones in my legs.

  As I take a deep breath to speak, Pamela looks up.

  Her eyes widen.

  And before I can say a word, she beats me to it.

  “Jack?”

  Confused, I glance around, wondering if one of the boys weaving through the class is named Jack. But then I look back at Pamela and see that her gaze is fully locked on my husband. So I turn my head to stare at him, too. And imagined or not, it feels as though the whole room—the whole world, perhaps—has gone still and is waiting for him to speak.

  His response is a statement: “Pamela.”

  The thoughts in my mind that had been so jumbled just moments before dissipate, and I am left with one coherent sentence: they know each other.

  But it’s hard to focus on that information. Because there’s something about the way he says her name that—for the briefest of seconds—makes me hate her as much as Kayleigh does.

  Maybe even more.

  april

  seventeen

  I DON’T EAT CHILI.

  I’ve never liked it. I think the cans of it that I buy for Jack to slather onto his hot dogs look like dog food.

  Yet I’m inexplicably standing in front of a table lined with Crock-Pots in a church basement, holding a Styrofoam bowl full of slow-cooked ground beef and spices. Orange puddles of oil have begun to congregate on top of the meat, and as I stare at the offending concoction, all I can think is: how did I get here?

  Not literally. I know that I rode with Jack and we walked in together and now here we are, standing on top of linoleum and beneath cheap ceiling tiles.

  And I know that it’s because I said yes. That I agreed that we should come.

  At the open house, after the revelation that Jack and Pamela were not meeting for the first time, Jack offered me the missing puzzle piece: “Pamela volunteers at the Small Dog Rescue, too.”

  He turned back to her. “But I didn’t know you worked here,” he said at the exact moment that Pamela said: “I didn’t know you had kids.”

  Kids. Shit. Jack and I were supposed to be parents. Panicked, I glanced up at Kayleigh, her wide eyes meeting mine.

  Following an awkward beat of silence, Jack spoke, easily explaining away our lack of children and therefore unnecessary presence at an elementary school open house: “We don’t. My wife is best friends with Kayleigh. She’s always wanted us to see where she worked.”

  Wife.

  I basked in the noun. Smug at the possession it implied.

  And then, as they continued chatting about the dog rescue and last weekend’s adoption day at PetSmart, I silently scolded myself for my ridiculous overreaction to this entire situation. So they already knew each other. This was a good thing, no? Just minutes before, I had been trying to scheme their meeting. That part—though unexpected—took care of itself. I should have been relieved, elated. Not acting like a possessive schoolgirl who doesn’t want to share her Oreos at lunchtime.

  But if I was honest, I didn’t really like the way she was looking at my cookies. Like she might eat them all, including the crumbs. And leave me without even one.

  I forced myself to tune back into their conversation.

  I heard the word “chili.”

  And then Jack and Pamela were looking at me expectantly.

  “Huh?” I said.

  “Do you want to go?” Jack said.


  “Where?”

  “The fund-raiser for the shelter. Pamela was just talking about it.”

  “Oh, sorry. Yes. That sounds great.”

  And now it’s Saturday and I’m at a chili cook-off. Holding a bowl of chili that I don’t intend to eat.

  “You coming?” Jack says, grabbing two plastic spoons and a couple of napkins from a table covered in a red checkerboard cloth.

  I follow him as he weaves through the crowd, past the dessert table, laden with homemade frosted cakes, chocolate chip cookies, lemon bars, and cherry pie. Though sugar has strictly been on my Do Not Eat list for years, I slow down and eye each goodie, surprised how easy it is to conjure the memory of its taste in my mouth.

  The carrot cake reminds me of my first Christmas with Jack’s family in Indiana. It was so normal it made me uncomfortable. Like I was in the middle of a Publix commercial, but someone forgot to hand me a script. I smiled a lot. At his mom when she offered more turkey and stuffing. At his three little sisters when they all wanted to braid my hair and paint my face with lipstick and glitter. At his uncle who said I hadn’t lived until I ate a piece of Jack’s mom’s carrot cake. “Aren’t you going to have any?” I asked Jack as his mom passed out slices on good china. “I don’t really like sweets,” he said, pouring coffee into a delicate cup.

  “Who doesn’t like sweets?” I raised my voice, forgetting my demure composure, shocked that I had known him for eight months without learning this significant piece of information. The family erupted in laughter. “He’s the milkman’s son!” His dad banged his fist at the head of the table. “It’s unnatural,” his mom tutted.

  Jack doesn’t eat dessert. As I slide into a folding chair, I make a mental note to add it to the list I started for Pamela. Things she should know about him, like how he’ll never voluntarily get a haircut or how he keeps a box of Trivial Pursuit cards next to the toilet and reads them for fun, or how, if an animal dies on his surgery table, he needs to be left alone for a few hours that night—no hugs, no consoling “It wasn’t your fault,” no suggestions for distraction.

  “I like your sweater.”

  I look up across the table that Jack has led us to into Pamela’s round eyes and then down at my navy and white striped top. Jack calls it my boat captain shirt. He usually salutes me when I wear it, but when I came out into the living room this morning, he just looked at me and said, “Ready to go?”

  “Thanks,” I say, sitting down, while scanning her torso so I can return the compliment. “I like your . . . hair.”

  It’s pulled straight back into a full ponytail. No muss, no fuss. And I know it’s not the style I’m complimenting her on, but more her whole low-maintenance attitude. And how she can still look impossibly, irritatingly beautiful with her hair up and no mascara.

  She smiles and then looks at Jack, already inhaling his chili beside me. “You like it?”

  “Killer,” he says, using his napkin to catch a grease dribble running down his chin.

  “It’s my grandma’s secret recipe.”

  Jack pauses long enough to say, “You made this one?”

  She nods. “Make sure you vote for it. I mean, you know, if you think it’s the best.” She glances at my untouched bowl. Then she adds, in a serious voice: “There’s a plastic trophy on the line here.”

  Out of reflex, I pick up my spoon and start picking at the meat. “Sorry,” I say. “I had a really big breakfast.”

  “Daisy hates chili,” Jack says.

  “I don’t hate it. I just don’t really like it.” I offer Pamela a smile. “But yours looked the best out of all of them.”

  “Thanks.” She laughs, and there’s something pleasing about the sound. Or maybe I’m pleased with myself for eliciting it. Like I’m in high school and thrilled that the popular girl thinks I’m funny.

  She straightens her back and clears her throat. “So, um . . . I have a confession to make.”

  She nervously glances at Jack and my spine goes rigid. The word “confession” is so personal, suggestive, intimate. I lean closer, wondering what the next sentence could possibly be. Is this when the popular girl tries to steal my boyfriend? Right in front of me? Or have I been watching too many Gossip Girl reruns on TBS?

  “Jack, I’ve been wanting to ask you something all day.”

  “What?” he says, putting his spoon down, giving her his full attention. I stare at his face staring at her and wish I knew what was going through his mind. Does he think she’s pretty? Of course he does. She’s indisputably beautiful. But—does he think she’s prettier than me?

  “It’s about Copper.”

  I wait for Jack to ask what I’m thinking: Who’s Copper?—but he only nods.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Not good. They had to remove the sling this week because he was developing laminitis in his right hoof.”

  “From bearing too much weight,” Jack says.

  “Exactly. But his broken leg isn’t completely healed and the vet says there’s nothing else he can do. He recommends putting him down.” She takes a deep breath. “But I just . . . I can’t.”

  Jack nods again. “You want me to come take a look?”

  She brightens and the water rimming her eyes glints in the light, and I know immediately that she’s one of those rare girls who’s pretty even when she cries. “Could you? I know you’re so busy, but you were talking about all that prosthetics research—”

  “It’s really come a long way in the past few years, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” he says. “Leg injuries are tricky with horses.”

  “I know,” Pamela says.

  She continues speaking, but I’m stuck in what she’s already said. Or not what she’s said, but in what her words infer. Pamela and Jack really know each other. They have had actual conversations about her horse and about his job and I wonder what else they talk about. And I wonder how long they’ve been volunteering together. And I wonder why he’s never mentioned her. Has he? I search my memory bank. Did Jack ever come home from PetSmart and say, “Remember that girl Pamela I was telling you about? She did the funniest thing today.” But I don’t think he ever did say that. And I wonder what it means that he didn’t.

  I try to stay involved in their conversation, but it’s a tennis match and I’m very much just a spectator. So I observe. Their bodies are hunched toward each other, Jack’s eyes bright and eager as he expounds the details of his prosthetics research. Pamela’s a fervent listener, devouring every word that falls from his lips. And I wonder if I’m imagining it or if I can actually hear the buzz of the electric current that invisibly flows between them.

  Jack loops me back into the conversation. “Is that OK with you? If I go up there tomorrow?”

  I pretend to think. I pretend that our once-full calendar isn’t completely blank except for my every-two-week Friday doctor appointments. I pretend that I’m still in control, that everything is going according to my plan, that Jack isn’t slipping through my hands, but that I’m pushing him. Letting him go.

  I nod my head. “It’s OK.”

  Pamela stands up. “Great,” she says. “Do you guys want anything? I’m gonna get a cookie.”

  My eyes are drawn to her stomach. It’s so flat it looks like it’s never seen a cookie, and I try to swallow my envy. “Get two,” I want to say. But then a sentence from Pamela’s dating profile jumps out at me.

  “You don’t want the pie?” I ask.

  She tilts her head.

  Why did I say that out loud?

  “I just . . . it looked really good.”

  “Oh, do you want a piece? I’ll bring you one.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  She nods. “Jack?”

  We both look at my husband, whose mouth is full of cornbread.

  I speak for him: “He doesn’t eat dessert.”

  But then, I wonder if maybe she already knows that and is just being polite.

  ON THE DRIVE home it’s still light outside. M
ore cars than usual line our street, which can only mean—

  “Must be a baseball game today,” Jack says.

  “Mmm,” I say, still lost in thoughts about Pamela. But part of me inexplicably waits for him to say more. To ask if I want to go to the game with him. Right now. Grab a blanket and go sit on the hill, a grassy slope behind right field where students without tickets gather to drink cheap beer and heckle the opposing team’s outfielders. Jack and I went once when we first moved in to our house. It was fun, until an obnoxious frat boy sitting next to us started pitching his empty Miller Lite cans onto the field and then unbuttoned his pants and let a long stream of piss fall onto the patch of dirt three feet from where we were sitting. The splatter came within inches of our blanket.

  And even though it was disgusting and I swore I’d never go again, now I want to. And I want Jack to want to, too.

  But he doesn’t say anything else.

  So I take a deep breath and ask, “How long have you known Pamela?”

  Jack blinks while he expertly steers the car until it’s hugging the curb in front of our house. “I don’t know,” he says, shifting the gear into park. “Six months?” Then he looks at me. “Why?”

  “You’ve never mentioned her before, and it just . . .” I try to choose my next words with precision, keep my tone steady and light. I don’t want to sound like a nagging wife. Or insecure. Or jealous. Or portray any of the real emotions I’m actually feeling. “I guess it seems like you guys know each other pretty well. I was surprised is all.” I open the car door. “No big deal.”

  I hop out of my seat, crafting my body language to match my carefree demeanor. Jack steps out into the road and walks a pace behind me toward the front door. When my foot grazes the third step of the stone porch, I feel his hand fall on my waist. He tugs the belt loop on my jeans.

  “Hey,” he says. I pivot to face him. With his feet planted firmly on the ground and mine teetering on the middle step, we are the same height. We are literally seeing eye to eye. I wait for him to speak, but instead, Jack leans in, closing the gap, and firmly plants his lips on mine. I pucker my mouth automatically, returning his kiss out of instinct, years of habit shaping my mouth to meet his.