The First Husband

by Laura Dave

  Lost him.

  This was when I noticed her. Coming into the waiting room—coming back into the waiting room—holding a tray of insipid cafeteria food. And looking worried in the way only a mother could when her child was in danger.

  Emily.

  She drilled me with a look. She drilled me with such a look of consternation that when she remembered herself enough to give me a small smile, I knew that not only wasn’t everything forgiven between us, maybe none of it was.

  And still, she cleared her throat. “We’ll be here when you come out,” she said.

  It was all I could do not to rush her right then, and collapse into the tears that I refused to let come.

  “I appreciate that,” I said. Then I turned back to Cheryl and Jesse. “Which way?”

  Jesse pointed, and I went.

  Griffin woke up slowly, and I moved from the chair where I had been sleeping to the side of the hospital bed.

  He opened his eyes, trying to focus. Until he was looking at me, confused. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey . . .”

  I bent down—half kneeling, half standing—an awkward half position, so we were exactly at eye level.

  “They called you?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, talking low, matching his voice, trying not to look too hard at him. It felt like its own betrayal to look too hard, especially this close, at how he looked lying there. More than the tubes or the other tubes or the oxygen mask. More than the heartbeat of a machine, connected to him. His skin so pale, his green eyes weak and wrong. And I started to understand it then—what made Griffin, Griffin. That light coming off of him. What happened when it went missing.

  He closed his eyes again. “I told them not to call you,” he said.

  I felt that in my chest, like a punch. I got it, of course. He didn’t want this to be the reason I was back. He didn’t want this to be how I decided anything. Was this the right time to tell him it wasn’t? That I’d already decided? I didn’t think so. Because it wasn’t just about that. Maybe he’d already decided he wanted something else himself.

  “Do I still get to get in?”

  His nodded. “Sure.”

  I slipped into bed beside him, lying down, holding closely there, my face against his chest. Listening to his heart, which seemed slow to me. But what was my basis of comparison? Why hadn’t I paid attention before, so I’d have one? This seemed, suddenly, like the most brutal thing of all.

  “Do you remember what happened?” I asked.

  “Some of it,” he said. “Like . . . I do remember the best and the worst thing.”

  I looked up toward him, my chin still resting right there—resting on his chest again. “Really?” I said.

  He nodded. “I went to the restaurant early Monday morning. A little before seven A.M. To try to do some inventory.”

  “So that’s the worst?”

  “That’s the worst,” he said.

  “And what’s the best?”

  “I didn’t have to do inventory.”

  I felt myself start to smile, turning so my cheek was resting against his chest. Almost lost him. Cheryl’s words echoing in my head, loudly, making it hard not to turn the smile into tears. Right there. But I wasn’t going to let that happen. I wasn’t going to let myself cry.

  “That is a good thing,” I said.

  “I definitely thought so.”

  Then, I could feel Griffin drifting—and I wrapped my arms around his chest, covering as much of him as I could.

  “You look different,” he said.

  “No, I don’t,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “Not so much.”

  He paused, not saying anything for a minute. Neither of us saying anything.

  “You’ll be here when I wake up?” Griffin said, finally.

  “I’ll be here when you wake up,” I said.

  Then, as he started to fall back to sleep, he moved in closer to me, just a fraction, just until I felt his hand on the small of my back, holding us there.

  I lay there next to my husband, listening to him breathe, as if my life depended on it. And, in the ways it mattered most, it did.

  37

  I felt someone shake me awake a few hours later—was it a few hours later? I had no clue. All I knew was that Jesse was before me again, two enormous cups of coffee in his hands. My eyes went to the clock, which read 5:08. But was it A.M. or P.M.? I had no idea, the dark hospital room casinolike, only low light coming in through the closed shades.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I have to show you something,” Jesse said.

  I blinked hard, still trying to acclimate, still trying to believe this was where I was, Griffin breathing softly and soundly—thankfully—beside me, beneath me.

  I shook my head, adamant. “No,” I said. “I told him I’d be here when he wakes up again.”

  “He’s already woken up again,” Jesse whispered. “You’re way behind the times.”

  “I am?” I blinked a few more times. “Is it morning or night?” I asked.

  Jesse reached out his hand for me to take. “Come and see,” he said.

  It was night. And ten minutes later, we were pulling out of the hospital parking lot and driving out into it, down Route 9 in Jesse’s beat-up car, coffees in hand, the Avett Brothers singing to us from the radio.

  I turned toward him, watching him tap on the steering wheel, to the music’s slow beat.

  “So,” I said. “No chance you’re going to tell me where we’re headed?”

  Jesse shrugged. “What, you new here or something?”

  I shook my head, smiling. “I guess not,” I said.

  Then I turned back to face the road, and whatever was in front of us.

  “You must have been surprised to see Cheryl in the waiting room earlier?” he said.

  “I’m trying not to be surprised by anything these days,” I said.

  “Too risky?” he said.

  “Exactly.” Then, biting on my coffee cup’s lid, I peeked at him out of the corner of my eye. “You feel like talking about it?” I asked.

  “What’s there to say, really?” Jesse shrugged. “We’re having two more.”

  “Babies? ”

  “Twins.” He smiled, shaking his head. “Yep, twins.”

  My jaw must have been on the floor, must have actually made it all the way down there.

  “What is even the statistical probability of that?”

  He stopped smiling, his eyes getting thoughtful as he considered.

  “Well, actually . . .” he said, “statistically, once you have one set of twins, I believe you are twice as likely to have a second set in another pregnancy.”

  I looked at him in disbelief. “It’s amazing, because you look like a normal person,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “You’d almost believe I was just offered the associate professor position in the Department of Physics and Applied Physics at UMass.”

  “UMass, here?”

  He nodded. “UMass, right here.”

  I shook my head. “I mean, a girl goes away for a few weeks . . .” I said.

  “It’s amazing what the desire to provide for three more babies will do to your motivation level,” he said. And he was smiling so big—so proud—that I almost didn’t want to ask him about baby three.

  “And Jude Flemming?”

  “Jude Flemming is currently proud of me for being offered the associate professor position in the Department of Physics and Applied Physics at UMass,” he said. “And we’re going to work out the rest.”

  “Really? How?”

  He turned and looked at me.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

  “No, I get it. I have no idea . . .” He turned back to the road, and sighed. “The calm continueth not long without a storm,” he said.

  “You lost me there.”

  “The origin of the expression, the calm before the storm,” he said. “From an unknow
n source in the sixteenth century. But it started a little different than how it’s evolved. I like it more. The original idea that the calm can’t last, not if you’re really living. If you’re living fully, the storm’s coming to get you.”

  I gave him a look. “Now, you’re showing off, Professor,” I said.

  “Someone has to,” he said.

  I started to laugh.

  “It wasn’t easy convincing her, though,” he said. “To try again.”

  “Cheryl?” I asked. “How did you?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “The pregnancy gave me the chance to finally sit down with her and tell her. That, in her absence, I figured out the secret.”

  “To what?”

  He shrugged. “You know, love.”

  “Oh, that,” I said.

  “That,” he said.

  But before I could ask what he thought he had figured out, Jesse was pulling over to the side of the road and stopping the car. He was stopping the car behind a small building I knew very well. Griffin’s restaurant.

  “This is where we’re going?”

  “Yep,” he said, turning off the ignition.

  “Why?” I asked.

  But I was pretty much talking to no one, because he was already out of the car, walking around to open my door for me.

  “Follow me,” he said, as I stepped outside.

  And I did.

  I followed him to the front of the restaurant, where I saw the large, red sign—the one matching the red door, the one previously resting beside it, nameless—now hung up, and ready for the world to see. No longer blank. A name on it. In lovely black, block letters. Just one word, just a one-word name:

  HOME

  I looked up at it, taking it in. “Home,” I said. “I like it.”

  Jesse just nodded, giving me a small, unrecognizable smile. Then he unlocked the door and held it open for me.

  I walked inside, and I was at a loss. How could I explain it? How could anyone begin to explain it? The moment where everything becomes unstuck: the world around you suddenly moving both slower and quicker, until you are completely and totally present in it. Your everything.

  The empty walls of Griffin’s restaurant were now full. They were completely full of the most beautiful frames you’d ever seen: black and metal and wood and mirrored frames.

  My photographs inside each one.

  All of my photographs, like nothing had happened to them. Like they didn’t meet their demise among blueberries and little boys and barbeque sauce. Like they were here, like they’d always been right here. Exactly where they belonged.

  I touched the wall in disbelief. A grand Flemish town house beside an even grander Nantucket Craftsman; a modern Cape Town flat next to a converted Prenzlauer Berg church.

  “How did he do this?”

  Jesse was standing right behind me, his hands folded in front of him. “It’s amazing . . .” he said. “When you’re willing to do the work, it’s amazing what can be saved.”

  I was overwhelmed, though overwhelmed felt like too small a word to hold what I was feeling.

  I turned toward him, tears filling my eyes, falling down my cheeks.

  “So is that it? Is that the secret, or something?” I asked.

  He tilted his head, looking at me. “What?”

  “Is that your secret to love? ”

  “Oh! ” He nodded, understanding. “No, but that would’ve been a good one too.”

  My tears turned to laughter as I reached out and hugged him, drying my eyes on my sleeve. I held my sleeve there, against my face, more tears spilling out. And from over my shoulder, I was looking at the walls again—my walls—taking in all I could see.

  “Mine was simpler,” he said.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Sometimes,” Jesse said. “We just pick right.”

  38

  When we got back to the hospital, Gia was heading out of the revolving door. Gia and Emily, more accurately, were heading out the revolving door together—right toward us.

  Jesse started to change direction, heading toward the side door.

  “Where are you going? They see us!”

  “Don’t care,” he said. “Not going to deal.”

  I grabbed his arm, talking in a fierce whisper. “Jesse! Don’t leave me alone here,” I said. “Haven’t we done this already?”

  He disentangled himself from me, squeezing my shoulder. “Sure,” he said. “It’s our thing.”

  Then, with barely a wave, Jesse moved toward the side door, but not before he leaned into me and whispered into my ear.

  “Oh, by the way, Gia is the one who found Griffin,” he said. “Just so you don’t feel sideswiped.”

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  But he was already gone, and Gia and Emily were in front of me. Emily and Gia, standing close to each other, standing seemingly united, in their matching black coats and cashmere sweater sets—and matching in that they each looked the exact opposite of me: my hand reaching up to touch my disheveled hair, to pull at my ripped sweatshirt.

  I gave them a smile. “Hi . . .”

  They gave me one back. “Griffin said you were back,” Gia said. “Welcome back.”

  “Thank you.” I looked right at her, trying to figure out what to say about her finding him, knowing none of the details. “And thank you,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “Finding him.”

  She gave me another smile, this one more meaningful. “Thank yourself for coming back. He’s doing better,” she said. “He’s looking more like himself.”

  “I’m glad to hear you think so,” I said, feeling something loosen something inside of me, feeling it starting to let go.

  Then I turned toward Emily. “And I just saw the restaurant,” I said. “I just saw Home . . .”

  I started to add that it looked incredible. But incredible felt tiny in comparison to how I felt about it. So I had to hope Emily heard it, in my silence.

  Amazingly, Emily seemed to. “He did a wonderful thing there, didn’t he?” she said.

  “He did,” I said.

  And she nodded, further agreeing with herself. Which wasn’t the same thing as complimenting—or even commenting on—my photographs now lining the walls. As commenting on why. But it wasn’t not the same thing either. I chose to focus on that part.

  “I should probably be heading home,” Gia said. “Brian’s been waiting for me.”

  Then Emily pushed Gia’s hair behind her ear. “Okay, sweetie,” she said. “Thanks again for checking in.”

  “Tell G I’m here if he needs anything.”

  “Of course,” Emily said.

  G? She called him G. No big deal. Just something I didn’t know. She called him G, and she knew, maybe even better than I did, what it meant for him to look like himself. They had history—a lengthy, deep history—and that was never going away.

  But now we had some history too, far more critical to deal with. Our first marriage. The first time through. When we were starting to figure out what it meant to get things right.

  Life is messy, Aly had said in London. The calm continueth not long without a storm, Jesse had said just a few hours before.

  Looking at my mother-in-law and the daughter-in-law she’d no doubt prefer—there was no denying that.

  But still, we could let it be the other way too, couldn’t we? At least some of the time? Especially when the most important thing was just almost lost for us.

  Couldn’t I—right now—let life be incredibly, incredibly . . . simple?

  In the spirit of that, I gave them another smile, a fearless one. “It’s really good to see you both.”

  Then I reached out and hugged them both to me, like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. It was a triangulated hug, with two sides of the triangle standing there as stiff as could be. Just waiting for it to be over.

  Finally, Gia awkwardly pulled away.

  Then Emily followed, straightening her
skirt, trying unsuccessfully to hide her bafflement.

  “Well,” she said. “Okay, then.”

  I don’t care. Still. It was so worth a shot.

  I watched Griffin sleep from my vantage point on his hospital room windowsill: his mask now off, the tubes starting to disappear.

  He’d been sleeping for hours as I sat there, the sun coming up behind me. I watched him and tried to figure out how to do it. How to begin to say thank you for the restaurant. How do you thank someone for having that kind of sure-hearted belief in you, that kind of faith in your future? At the very least, by being honest, I decided.

  Which was when Griffin woke up.

  He turned toward me, covering his eyes with his arm, at first, to block out the little bit of sun coming in toward him. Then, adjusting to it, he put his arm behind his head. And gave me his smile.

  “Hi there,” he said.

  “Hi there,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

  He felt around for it, the real answer.

  “I’m feeling a little better, I think . . .” he said. “Somewhere between a little better, and a lot.”

  And he looked it. Gia had been right about that. He wasn’t there entirely, not just yet. But I could see the seeds, just below the surface. Pushing their way out.

  “Good,” I said. “And maybe this will help. The doctors are saying you can go home.”

  “Today? ”

  “Not today, but soon,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I’ll take soon. . . .” He nodded. “I’ll take tomorrow. Maybe.”

  I gave him a smile and got off the windowsill, moving to the edge of the bed, dragging the hospital room’s one chair with me. Straddling it, the high part between us.

  He reached out and took my hand, held on to my fingers, between the chair’s beams.

  “Tell me something . . .” he said.

  “What?”

  “I want to know about London.”

  I looked down, looking at our hands, as if they had the answer. “I’m not sure where to start,” I said.

  “The beginning is usually a good bet,” he said.