“I heard them fighting about—” She digs around the dirty napkin and empty coffee cup in the console. “Do you have any gum?”
“They fight in front of you?” Those assholes. A guy in a red SUV honks; I’ve drifted into his lane. “Maybe. Check my purse.”
“They don’t fight in front of me.” Summer rolls the window down a little, rifles through my bag. “They were in their room and I was in my room, but like, I could still hear them.”
“Why is he getting his sperm tested?” I ask, as Summer searches. But why does someone get their sperm tested except because they’re trying to have a baby and it’s not working? And is Jessica stupid? Cam has a child. If anyone is infertile, it’s her. Maybe it’s because she’s such a coldhearted—
“Jess wants a baby.” Summer tosses my purse onto the floor in front of her, pops open the glove compartment.
“I don’t keep gum in there,” I tell her. “How do you feel about it?”
“About gum?” She hums a line along with the radio.
“About your dad...if he has another kid.”
She shrugs. “I dunno.”
The music blares. I nudge the dial down a few decibels. “Are you worried he won’t love you as much if he has another baby? That maybe he won’t spend as much time with you or something? A baby could change a lot of things, you know.”
She rolls her eyes. “I dunno. Whatever.”
JOSIE
WHY WAS IT SO HARD TO LOVE SOMEONE? TO BE LOVED? Josie had even asked Natasha this question, once, in university, when Tash and Greg had had some sort of argument—about what, Josie can’t remember, because they were always fighting about something. Josie and Natasha had taken the long route around the university to where Josie had parked outside of the kinesiology building because Natasha knew Greg’s schedule and thought they might run into him if they took their regular route. As they walked, Natasha explained the story of the most recent fallout. Josie couldn’t even keep up with the relationship politics at the time, let alone in retrospect. She remembers, though, that she had interrupted—“Why does it have to be so hard?”
Natasha stopped walking, glared. “What do you mean?”
“Like…” Josie felt flushed. “Shouldn’t love be about feeling happy all the time, when you see that other person? Feeling like every day is better because…because you have that person in your life. It should feel like…” At that point, Josie was still waiting for the guy who would show up and surprise her when she was having a bad day and bring her jelly beans with all the black ones picked out. The guy who would read Robert Munsch’s Love You Forever to his kids every night. The guy who would draw a heart on the mirror in the fog left behind from her shower. The guy who would ask her father’s permission to marry her. The day before, she’d gone to her parents’ house for Sunday night dinner, and her dad had cooked because her mother hadn’t been feeling well, and when her mother had come to the table, her father had pulled the chair out for her, kissed the top of her head. “It should feel like…” how could Josie explain?
“Like sunshine and roses?” Natasha crossed her arms, clearly sarcastic. “Like unicorns and lollipops?”
Josie fidgeted with her keys. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Real love isn’t like that,” Natasha insisted. “Real relationships are frustrating. Sometimes you want to give up. Sometimes you have to sacrifice your own needs for the other person. And sometimes they have to sacrifice their needs for you.” Her voice had raised in pitch and people kept looking over at them. How embarrassing!
But Natasha kept going. “Sometimes you feel totally in love and sometimes you don’t. Sometimes it feels like they’re going to love you forever and sometimes it feels like you could lose them any second. Me and Greg, we’re connected, all the time, by a string, an invisible string running from my heart to his heart, and sometimes the string pulls really hard and it hurts like hell. And sometimes it gets tangled up and I have no idea how I’m going to pull it all apart. It’s all knotted up. I’m not easy to love. Like, at all.” She looked up. “You know?”
No, Josie had thought, she didn’t know. Or, she didn’t really agree. “I just want you to be happy,” she said. She passed her keys from one hand to the other. “If that means being with him, that’s what I want. But if you’d be happier without him…”
“I know.” Tash started walking, which was probably a good sign. They both stayed silent until they hit the exit and stepped out into the crisp winter sunshine, the unseasonal breeze of a chinook, floating over from the mountains. In a day or so, they’d be back to minus thirty.
Now, over a decade since that conversation, Josie lies very still in bed beside Solomon as he snores, one arm sprawled above his head. An entire other person could fit in the space between them. In their wedding vows, the minister had spoken about how, if Jesus was not the centre of their relationship, their marriage was in danger. They had promised each other to always make room for Jesus. Josie rubs her three-diamond engagement ring with the pad of her opposite thumb. In this empty space between them, Josie doesn’t feel God. Only Solomon’s words from hours earlier, his hands on the table, palms up. He sometimes held his hands like this in prayer, as though making an offering up to the Lord. He’d said, “I have feelings for someone else.”
He had not, he assured her, acted upon these feelings, not physically. He had not committed adultery, but he was guilty of coveting. He had spent a lot of time with the daughter of the church’s former choir director—the young girl who had sung “Amazing Grace” so many years ago at one of the searches for Natasha. She was in her twenties now, the new choir director (her father having retired), and she and Solomon had worked closely together for the past two years. Two years? Josie thought.
These feelings confused him. He was struggling to push those feelings down, to stay true to his marriage. Okay, once—they had kissed, once. But it had been a moment of weakness, he was a flawed child of God. And while he felt remorseful, while it was technically a sin, the kiss had made him feel peace in his heart, it had been a genuine moment of connection, of joy.
As he’d said this, Josie felt a buzzing in her ears, across her cheeks. A dissolving from the inside out. Perhaps she would simply cease to exist.
The feelings were mutual, he told her, as though he’d anticipated the questions she couldn’t bring herself to ask. He and this…girl… could no longer suppress these feelings. He needed some time to think, to decide what he wanted. He wanted to open his heart to Christ to lead him in the right direction. He wanted to spend more time with this girl, to explore a relationship, to determine the best path to proceed, before breaking his marriage covenant. He had to be honest, he reminded Josie. Thou shalt not lie.
This girl—she made him feel majestic, he’d said. Majestic? Was he serious? He kept going. She made him feel like he could do anything, be anything. She made him feel admired. Desired. Grand. “She pays attention to me,” he said. “When I talk to her, she listens. She cares about what I have to say.”
STOP! Josie had felt like screaming. She was a good wife. She did the best she could. Had Solomon—God forbid—been the one to disappear, she would have done everything she could. Just as she had done—just as she was still doing—for Natasha. How could she not?
She glances sideways at her husband’s sleeping form, his seemingly peaceful sprawl. He looks as though a load has been lifted. He probably feels relieved. He probably feels majestic.
He’s moving out, he told her. He doesn’t know for how long.
What if this is the last time they share a bed? The last time they sleep in this house together as husband and wife? What if this is like the last time she saw Natasha, only this time she knows it’s a last time instead of thinking it’s just a regular day?
The whole thing had started over coffee. Where had it gone so wrong? Could she have stopped it, had she only realized? Can she stop this from happening to her marriage now? And if so, how?
“I just
meant,” Josie had struggled to explain, that day at the coffee shop, her best friend and her sweet chai in front of her, “a two-parent home is more ideal. Obviously. You know?” All she’d wanted was for Natasha to understand why she’d suggested adoption for Abby’s baby in the first place. She hadn’t meant to offend anyone.
Natasha had raised her eyebrows and glared. “Obviously?”
The coffee shop had felt unusually warm. “I don’t mean it in a bad way,” Josie said.
“What other way could you mean it?” Natasha had crossed her arms. “I’m not from a two-parent home.”
“You’re taking this personally.” Remnants of Josie’s pale pink lipstick had smeared along the rim of her paper cup. She’d swiped absently at her mouth with the back of her hand. Couldn’t Natasha just calm down? People could hear them! “I remember what you went through when your parents split up and your mom left. You would have been happier if—”
Tash cocked her head, arms still crossed. “If I’d come from a family like yours?”
Josie shrugged. “Maybe.” Why was Tash being so hostile? Had they not spent most of their childhood playing at the Carey’s where they didn’t have to worry about anybody screaming or calling names? Natasha’s mom leaving had traumatized her. Natasha herself had said, more than once, that she wished she and Josie were sisters.
Natasha had leaned back. “Okay, well then, what about Jason?”
Josie felt a little jolt. “What about Jason?”
“He came from a—” Here, Natasha raised her hands and formed air quotes with her fingers, “stable, two-parent home.”
Low blow, Josie thought. Since Finn’s birth, Jason had made some really good strides. He was an excellent father, even if he and Finn’s mother weren’t together anymore. It wasn’t ideal, but he was making the best of it. Plus, he had epilepsy. “That’s different,” Josie had challenged. “There are medical factors. It’s harder for him.”
“The epilepsy doesn’t excuse everything,” Natasha interrupted. “The drugs, the fights—he has his problems, Jo. I know your parents would like to think it’s just because he has seizures, but I think that’s a cop-out. Lots of people have epilepsy and function totally fine. How people turn out—it’s more complicated than just black and white, medical issue or none, one parent or two, married or divorced.”
Josie had tried to change the subject. She still hadn’t brought up the fact that she’d been offered a promotion at work. She wanted to take it, but what if she got pregnant right away? Would it be fair to take the position, only to go on a maternity leave nine months later? But then again, she and Solomon could use the money, especially if they got pregnant. Babies were expensive. Maybe Tash would have some insight.
She remembers Tash looking pale, with dark circles under her eyes, her ponytail slightly greasy. Has Josie exaggerated Natasha’s fatigue and frazzled appearance in all the years of rehearsing this memory? Natasha had arrived at the coffee house fifteen minutes late, unusual for her, apologizing, saying she’d worked a double shift and had been having trouble sleeping. Josie had decided, in the moment, to forgive the comments about Jason. And yet—Josie wonders now if, in the moment, she had really let it go. Maybe she had simply stuffed her feelings down. Why had Tash’s criticism of Jason bothered Josie anyway? Tash was typically more sympathetic to Jay, despite the lack of familial relation. Was this where the conversation had taken such an ugly turn?
Natasha wouldn’t let it go. “It’s not like all two-parent families are stable. Just because a couple is married doesn’t mean they’re able to provide a stable home for kids.”
Was that comment some sort of dig at Josie’s marriage? When she and Solomon had taken pre-marital counseling, their pastor had encouraged them not to air their dirty laundry. But sometimes Josie slipped and shared details about her relationship with Natasha, just as she had in high school and university. Except those men—those boys, really—were not her husband. And Natasha always seemed to dislike Solomon. Maybe she was just jealous. It wasn’t Josie’s fault that Greg hadn’t proposed.
The week before that coffee date, Josie had shared an incident in which Solomon had chastised her in front of another couple from their church during a dinner party they’d hosted. She’d served his favourite, steak and potatoes, but apparently set the table with the wrong knives. Solomon, seated at the head of the table, had asked her to go back into the kitchen to retrieve the proper cutlery. Josie had obliged—despite the fact that Solomon’s seat was technically closer to the kitchen, and wouldn’t it have just been easier to get the knives himself, given that he knew exactly what he wanted?
When she’d returned with the new knives, Solomon had practically sneered. “Not those ones. The ones with the serrated edges.” Didn’t all knives have serrated edges? It had taken her three tries to find the “right” knives, each time forcing a smile for her guests while Solomon redirected her back to the kitchen like a petulant child. When she’d finally found them, she’d taken her seat beside her husband and he’d reached for her hand, gesturing that they should all hold hands, in a circle, to pray before they ate. As Solomon led the prayer, thanking Jesus for their meal, and for their fellowship, Josie hung her head and closed her eyes, painfully aware of Solomon’s large hand enclosed around her small, sweaty one. When she’d told Natasha this story, she’d felt herself redden all over again, especially when Natasha had raised her eyebrows and said, “Why didn’t you tell him to get up and get them himself?” As though it were that easy.
It wasn’t fair to judge a marriage from the outside. Josie had promised to love Solomon for better and for worse. Nobody was perfect. That day in the coffee shop, after Natasha’s comment about a stable home, Josie felt the words spilling from her lips before she had a chance to edit them. “That’s not fair. You don’t know anything about marriage.”
What if, Josie wonders now, in bed next to Solomon, Natasha’s comment about marriage had nothing to do with her? What if, that day long ago, she’d overreacted, taken it personally, lashed out for no reason? Or what if Natasha was hinting about Solomon because she could see the cracks in their relationship long before Solomon started to have feelings for the choir director? What if Natasha was just trying to protect her, and instead, she’d gotten her back up? Which was worse?
That day, Natasha had looked at her across the table, her skin pale, her eyes blank. She didn’t say anything at first. Then, quietly—“Are you trying to push me over the edge?”
Josie hadn’t known how to respond. Why didn’t she say anything? Why didn’t she apologize or ask for clarification? Why didn’t she run to the other side of the table and give her beloved friend a hug, tell her that she was worth more to Josie than some stupid argument? Why hadn’t she known something bad was going to happen? Why hadn’t she had some sort of premonition?
They’d both sat there, for a second, saying nothing. And then—“Seriously,” Natasha said, still quiet, too quiet. “Do you think I haven’t had enough to deal with over the past year? Do you really want to jump on me about marriage right now? Knowing everything I’ve been through? Do you want me to just give up? Or have a complete breakdown?”
Josie remembers feeling stuck to the chair, her words stuck inside her mouth. Natasha had stood and pushed her chair back. Leaning forward, she held her fingers in front of Josie’s face, her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Because I’m this close,” she said, and walked out of the coffee shop, abandoning her latte and Josie.
Now Solomon is leaving her, too.
GREG
WHEN HE WALKS INTO THE KITCHEN, GREG SEES THAT SYLVIE has left breakfast for him on the counter, even though she’s already eaten, and even though she’s still technically upset with him. Sylvie eats whatever she feels like, regardless of social conventions, for breakfast, lunch, dinner. The other night he came home late and she was eating a slice of pineapple upside-down cake; this morning, she’s left him a plate of Triscuit crackers and some thick slices of cheddar che
ese, alongside orange juice in a floral coffee mug. She often leaves him a helping of whatever she’s having, but doesn’t push him to eat. Today, he chews on a salty cracker and washes it down with some OJ. His stomach snarls at the slosh of acid. He’s still not a breakfast person.
Sylvie’s upset with him, and he’s not entirely sure why. The house is quiet. Has she left for work already? No, it’s Saturday. He opens the door to the dishwasher and is met with a sour stink; dishes are loaded, but not yet washed. He fills the caddy with chalky soap and starts a load. Nibbles another cracker. Pads down to the basement in his bare feet.
There’s Sylvie, in child’s pose, on her yoga mat, face to the ground, legs tucked up underneath herself, arms outstretched. Larkin stretches out this way sometimes, too, arms out in front, like a swan dive. Maybe he should go for a swim this morning, clear his head. He started swimming again a couple years ago, after he and Sylvie bought the house. At first, it made him feel old, out of shape, out of breath. He’d wake up the next morning, shoulders aching, skin itchy from the chlorine. Now, his muscles know the pattern of his strokes, his lungs no longer scream from the lack of oxygen when he holds his breath and goes under. He knows to rinse off the chlorine afterwards and to keep granola bars in the car so he doesn’t get dizzy. Hypoglycemic, Natasha would have said.
After the day Sylvie came to his office to tell him about her conversation with Reuben, they’d occasionally met for lunch in Mac Hall, the campus hub. She was still finishing her Ph.D. then. They’d go early, before the line-ups got too long. Sylvie went through a phase of ordering a Vietnamese sub every day, after which she would give the owner, a sweet, middle-aged woman who drew smiley faces on the napkins she wrapped around Sylvie’s sandwiches, a large tip. Greg got into the habit of ordering the same thing, minus cilantro. Often they took the food back to Greg’s office to eat. One day, Sylvie had glanced over at the cactus and run one finger through the dry dirt at its base. “Do you ever water this thing?” she’d asked.
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