“Hello, Carrie,” Patrick hummed, expecting no reply. He nearly fainted when she muttered a “Hi, Daddy” in return, although taking her eyes off the TV was simply out of the question.
“Where’s Mommy?” he asked.
Caleb pointed through the kitchen and into the adjoining room towards Amy’s office before flopping next to his sister in front of the TV.
“Why don’t you guys see if you can actually press your eyeballs to the screen?” Patrick said as he walked towards Amy’s office. Both kids blanked him.
Amy swiveled away from her computer screen and faced her husband when he entered. She tilted her chin up as he bent forward for the kiss. He noticed an empty martini glass next to her computer.
He nudged his head toward the glass. “We doing happy hour?” His tone was pleasant, but he could not hide his curiosity. Amy was no virgin when it came to drinking, and it was not unusual for her to have a glass of wine or two in the evening, but a martini? Patrick knew she liked them, but he struggled to recall a time when she ever drank them at home.
“What?” she said. Her cheeks and nose were flushed, and it wasn’t from embarrassment. Patrick wondered if that empty glass had seen a refill or two before he got home.
“Nothing,” he said. “I just can’t remember the last time you drank a martini.”
“I always drink martinis.”
“Yeah, when we go out …” he said. “I’ve never seen you drink them at home.”
“Well so what? I felt like one.” She swiveled back to her computer.
Was he making a big deal of this? Her father’s funeral was only a few weeks ago. Maybe this was all a normal part of the grieving process. His day at work had been rough and he was looking forward to a stiff drink himself when he got home. Did that make his curiosities hypocritical? Maybe. Except it was not uncommon for him to drink scotch at home. It was uncommon for Amy to drink martinis at home.
Stop, Patrick, he thought. You’re thinking too much. You ARE making too big a deal.
Perhaps he should join her? Or would that be playing the enabler? No—joining her would show he wasn’t making a big deal, that it was okay to have a martini or two or three if she wanted. Hell, as long as they didn’t get wasted in front of the kids, he started to think he would join her.
Patrick began rubbing her shoulders. “I’ll tell you what. How about I go fix you another, pour myself a scotch, and then I’ll come back in here and treat your feet to the massaging of a lifetime.”
Amy still faced the computer, he continued kneading her shoulders. “What do you think?” he asked.
“The kids haven’t eaten yet,” she said.
“I’ll make dinner. I’ll do some chicken nuggets with mac and cheese. They’ll be in heaven.”
He leaned in and kissed her neck, waiting for her to turn towards him with a devilish smile and then plant a good one on his lips after the irresistible offer to fix her another drink, cook dinner for the kids, and the crème de la crème: the foot massage.
Instead she shocked the hell out of him when she stood and said, “No, that’s okay,” and left the room, taking the empty martini glass with her.
When a stunned Patrick eventually wandered back into the family room, Amy was sitting in front of the TV sipping a fresh martini. She glanced over at him and asked: “Are you still going to do dinner?”
Patrick mumbled something that was meant to be “yes,” then turned and waded into the kitchen. Now it kind of felt like a big deal.
*
Amy lay in bed, an open book propped on her chest. The words were fuzzy from too many martinis, and she couldn’t concentrate. But it didn’t matter. The book was a prop, a visual aid to let her husband know that she was sober enough to read (she wasn’t), and that she didn’t feel like talking (she didn’t). She knew her behavior this evening was odd, and for the moment, even she didn’t understand why she had behaved the way she did. But she could figure that out tomorrow, and more importantly, they could talk about it tomorrow. Tonight was all about getting her drunken butt to sleep ASAP with as little drama as possible. She had considered rolling to her side and faking sleep, but Patrick would know she was faking. He’d know.
So she lay there, words of the book in and out like a camera trying to focus, listening to Patrick tucking in Caleb, and then Carrie. Listening to Carrie asking to leave her door open, then to leave the hall light on. Listening to Patrick say yes to the door, no to the hall light. Listening to Carrie fake a frightened moan. Pleased to hear when Patrick called her bluff, told her to go to bed, and switched off the hall light.
Patrick walked into the bedroom. She kept her eyes on the book but watched him from her periphery. He did not look her way. Was he pissed or worried? They had not truly talked at dinner; their attention was overtly diverted to the children, making sure food was eaten and manners obeyed, even when it was and they were. An occasional question about his day at work from Amy was asked, and a reply about the rigors of the upcoming presentation, now one month away, was given. There had been no inflection in either of their voices. They were both empty, seemingly rehearsed through years of mundane routine. Except Amy and Patrick didn’t have that type of relationship. There was no boredom. Routine, yes—they had a family after all, so some routine was unavoidable. But there were no mundane, ritualistic motions repeated day in and day out as they pined away for a secret life from one another. They were each other’s life. This awkwardness at dinner may have passed without scrutiny in the eyes of a stranger, but for those that new the couple well, it screamed conflict.
Amy watched Patrick undress down to his boxers and toss his clothes in the hamper. He still did not acknowledge her when he disappeared into the bathroom. She heard the faucet running, Patrick brushing his teeth, gurgling with mouthwash, spitting, running the sink a final time. Here he comes.
Patrick stepped out of the bathroom and joined her under the covers. He lay on his back and looked at the ceiling. Wait for it, Amy thought.
“So what’s up?” he asked.
Amy paused a moment, then laid the open book flat to her chest and turned towards him as though she had just been interrupted in the middle of an engrossing scene.
“What?”
“You can put the book away now, Amy. I doubt you can even focus on the damn words.”
She loved him, but for a split second she wanted to whip the book down onto his face for knowing her as well as he did. Instead she tossed it to the floor.
“Why are you making a big deal out of a few martinis?” she asked.
He rolled to one side and faced her. “You know it’s not that—I offered to make you another one.”
“So then what’s the problem?”
“I want to know why you blanked my offer. I want to know why you’re pissed at me.”
“I’m not pissed at you.”
“Then what? I offer to make dinner, make you another drink, and then offer you a foot massage and you turn it down? Then you go and make your own drink and wander off to watch TV? What am I to think?”
“Well don’t think, okay? For once, just don’t think.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just don’t … overanalyze everything so much.”
“Amy, I … fine, I’ll admit, I tend to overanalyze sometimes, but come on … even a caveman would be biting his fingernails over this.”
Amy thought of the Geico commercials with the prejudice towards cavemen, and before she could stop herself, her drunken mouth let out a giggle.
Patrick frowned. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She forced her smile down. It surfaced again for a second, and then she pressed her hand to her face and got it back down for good.
There was a long, very awkward pause.
“So are we going to talk or not?” he asked.
Now she rolled to him and they faced one another.
“Patrick, I swear there’s nothing wrong, okay? I�
�m not mad at you. I don’t know why I did what I did.” She shrugged a shoulder when she added: “I wanted a drink. A strong drink, you know? I was edgy and feeling a bit down. I was thinking about all the bullshit we’ve been through this past year, and then I was thinking about Dad.
“Your offer was very sweet, and you know ninety-nine times out of a hundred I would have gladly taken you up on it. But tonight I just, I don’t know … I wanted to be left alone I guess. Maybe it’s a part of grieving.” She rubbed his shoulder and looked sincere when she added: “Baby, I swear I’m not mad. Please leave it at that. I just needed some alone time. I know that’s unusual for me, but tonight I needed it. That’s all. I still love you as much—more—than I ever did. I swear everything’s okay.”
Patrick’s eyes crinkled with a soft smile. He ran his fingers through her hair. “Okay,” he said. “I just love you so much. I was worried.”
She rubbed his shoulder some more. “I know.” She leaned in and gave him a small kiss. “Goodnight.”
Amy rolled away from him and clicked off the light on her nightstand. She stayed on her side, away from him, and wondered if he would try and cuddle up to her. She was conflicted just then: She wanted him to because it would mean she had convinced him all was well, and had put the matter to rest, and she didn’t want him to because she still felt like being left alone.
Patrick rolled onto his back, reached over and clicked off his own light. He remained on his back and didn’t try to cuddle. Amy reached behind her and took hold of one of his hands, squeezed it, and then held it there. They fell asleep that way.
Chapter 32
“Going on a trip?” co-worker Steve Lucas said when Patrick walked into the office kitchen the next morning for his third cup of coffee.
Patrick glanced at Lucas as he stirred in some sugar. “Huh?”
Lucas pointed to his own eyes, then to Patrick’s. “Looks like you got some extra baggage there,” he said, a smirk following his dime-store wit.
Patrick didn’t have a problem with Steve Lucas. The guy was annoying, but tolerable. However, after only a few hours sleep and yet another colossal day looming ahead, he felt the sudden urge to throw his steaming coffee into the man’s face.
“Didn’t sleep too well,” Patrick said.
“Are you still on schedule?”
Patrick tossed the wooden stirrer in the trash. “No, it’s not that.” He sipped his coffee. “I just didn’t sleep too well.”
“Maybe you need a Megablast instead of coffee.” Another proud smirk. “Have you even tried the stuff yet?”
Patrick shook his head and sipped more coffee. “No. Amy and I went out with a younger couple awhile ago and they kept ordering us Red Bull and vodka. I don’t think either of us slept for a week.”
Lucas kept smirking. “So you’re hyping a product you won’t even touch yourself?”
Patrick imagined scalding him with the coffee again. The smirk was quickly losing its harmless status and venturing into the realm of patronizing dickhead. “It’s called advertising, Steve. We don’t have to love the product—just hype it.”
Lucas chuckled, opened the fridge, took out a small bottle of orange juice and started shaking it. “Well I hope you eventually get some rest. And it might not hurt to try the stuff at least once before the big day. Could only help. If it was me, I’d be drinking a bottle of the crap while I was giving my presentation.”
If Steve Lucas hadn’t been so preoccupied with the new foreign language software company he’d recently been working with, Patrick might have guessed that he was trying to worm his way in on the huge account that was Megablast: the first all-natural, all-day energy, almighty heart attack in one 16-ounce can. Patrick had lied to Steve. He had tried a can—of course he had. And after about twenty minutes, when he was sure he could feel his pulse in his teeth, Patrick wondered if cocaine wasn’t a safer option—and at $8.95 a can, a cheaper one too.
But in this field, it was all irrelevant. Patrick’s job was to propose a marketing plan for any and all things that came his way. Who cares he liked it or not? It was his job to make it shine, and he liked his job. In fact, dare he admit it, it was the products he didn’t care for that were the most fun to market. They produced the biggest challenge. And Megablast was indeed a challenge, especially when you considered the dozens of energy drinks that already flooded the market. The key selling point on Megablast was that it was “all-natural”—whatever that meant. Patrick was very aware of all the ingredients in Megablast, and was also humble enough to admit that he hadn’t heard of, nor could hardly pronounce, two-thirds of them. “All-natural,” in this particular market, seemed a very subjective term. But that was the main angle he was going with—among others—and he was determined to make this stuff look like it had been poured from the Holy Grail itself. If he succeeded, his already promising status within the company would climb that much higher.
But there was still lots to do. His presentation as of now was akin to a jigsaw puzzle that was complete around the edges—it was the shape of a picture, but the middle still needed work, still needed to be put together just right until it began to look like something beautiful.
And this is one hell of a big puzzle, he thought as he settled into his office chair and clicked open a document on his PC. One hell of a big puzzle.
Patrick sipped his coffee, yawned, and then went to work.
Chapter 33
Patrick was still yawning at a quarter to five when the phone on his desk rang.
“Patrick Lambert.”
“Hey, baby, it’s me,” Amy said.
She sounded pleasant. Downright happy. It filled him with a wonderful sense of relief and he could feel the remainder of last night’s anxiety melting away.
“Hey, honey. How’s my girl?”
“Good. I’m standing outside Friday’s right now. Me and a few of the girls decided to go out for happy hour. Would you mind picking up Carrie and Caleb on your way home from work?”
The relief was short-lived. Of course he had no problem with Amy going to happy hour with friends; she did it from time to time. But it seemed wrong after what had happened last night. And then Amy’s words came back to him, as clear as if she had just spoken them over the phone: (“Just don’t … overanalyze everything so much.”)
So he tried not to. “Happy hour, huh? You aren’t still hurting from last night?” His tone was pleasant but forced. He was walking that exceptionally thin line between pleasant and passive aggressive. He steeled himself for a defensive reply.
Except Amy’s response was anything but defensive; it was just as happy as her initial greeting. Happier even?
Because she’s been drinking.
“Oh stop,” she said playfully. “So can you get the kids? They’re next door with the Lehman’s.” She slurred a little when she spoke the last sentence. Many might have missed it. Patrick spotted it immediately.
Not even five o’clock yet and she’s got a buzz.
(“Just don’t … overanalyze everything so much.”)
Patrick closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose when he said, “Yeah, I can get the kids. What time do you think you’ll be home?”
“I don’t—hold on.” A pause, followed by the muffled then blaring sounds of bar noise as Amy reentered the bar. Amy yelling over the noise: “Hey! HEY! HOW LONG DO YOU THINK WE’LL BE HERE?” A woman yelled something back and Amy laughed. She was still laughing when she came back to the phone and said, “We have no idea.”
“Well how are you going to get home?”
“WHAT?”
Patrick pinched harder on the bridge of his nose. “HOW WILL YOU GET HOME?” he yelled back, drawing a few looks from colleagues outside his office.
“I’ll get a ride. Sarah’s not drinking.”
Patrick wouldn’t testify in court, but he was fairly certain he heard a woman shout: “YEAH RIGHT!”
“Amy, I —” He stopped himself. Did he need to point out the obvious? Her d
ad? Last night? She had to have sensed his concern. But then again, she was on her way to being drunk, and those considerations have the uncanny ability of dissolving with each new drink that slides down the chute.
“What?” she said. And then, her mouth away from the receiver, apparently addressing her crew: “SHUT UP! I CAN’T HEAR!” More laughter. “Say that again, baby?”
“Nothing,” Patrick said. “I was just telling you to have fun and be safe.” His voice was intentionally flat—a somewhat shameful attempt at getting her to shed the party girl for a second and send some reassurance his way.
“Thanks, baby. See you tonight. Love you.”
Patrick said “I love you too” into a dead line. He hung up and stared at his desk without blinking for a long time.
*
Patrick was going over some notes on the kitchen table. It was after ten, the kids were asleep, and Amy wasn’t home yet. He had read the first page of his notes at least ten times. Actually, this was a lie. He had never gotten to the end of the page. He would get halfway, sometimes a quarter of the way, and then his mind would wander and he’d go back to the beginning. He remembered Amy with the book propped up on her chest last night, pretending to read, trying to draw attention away from the issue at hand. Was he so different now with his notes? He was getting nothing done. The notes were a prop, just like Amy’s book had been. He wanted an excuse to be at the kitchen table, to be in plain sight when she walked in the front door. Their motives might have been slightly different—she using a book to dilute her intoxication and steer away from heavy conversation, he using his notes as an excuse to appear working as opposed to waiting for her like a worried father whose daughter was past curfew—but if you got down to it, they were both doing something they loathed: they were playing games. After so many years together, after knowing and loving each other more than they loved themselves, did they really need the book and the notes as catalysts to get awkward moments up and running? Why was a straightforward approach still so difficult? Patrick wondered. Amy could have waited for him to walk into the bedroom last night and immediately unburdened herself without the book, and Patrick could now be waiting at the kitchen table with nothing but a cup of tea, rightfully concerned about the well-being of his wife.
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