When I arrived home from my contemplative break in Pioneer Square, it hadn’t even been ten seconds before Andrew asked where I’d been. I told him I was with the girls and left it at that. He didn’t pry further, but the abrasive tone I used in response set him on edge. He returned to his newspaper and kept silent. Only now that I’m pacing in nervousness does he speak again.
“I was at the café with the girls,” I say, removing my thumb from my mouth and waving the topic away, “and I got to thinking.” I move timidly towards the sofa, across from him. “I took some time out for myself, then. Went to the square.”
“At this hour?” Andrew looks aghast. “With the bums and the delinquents and other men who could do you harm? Do you know how dangerous that could be?” He blows out a low and deep puff of air. “Sometimes, Jackie. Where’s your head?”
I want to tell him it wouldn’t be the first time I’d gotten myself into trouble in the dark of the night, but there’s no need to open up that can of worms. I’ve divulged plenty of my past to Andrew—he is my husband, after all, and I wasn’t about to walk down the aisle with any old guy just because I saw security and care sparkle in his crystally blues. I wanted a partner I could share things with, confide in, turn to, and be comfortable with in my own skin.
Instead, however, I reply with, “My head’s frustrated, Andrew.”
No, that didn’t come out right. I scrunch my brow, then brush off my choice of words.
“So I take it we’re finally talking now?” He gives me an expecting expression. “No more silent treatment?”
I take his cue and say, “We have to work on our marriage.” I swallow the frog that’s rapidly formed in my throat. “It’s a disaster, to say the least.”
My eyes search his, waiting for a response, but after what feels like a lengthy minute of silence, I decide to continue. “I need more from you. I know you’re busy at work and too overloaded with stuff to apparently even give me a return call,” I roll my eyes, “even when it’s something that’s really important to me.” I twiddle my thumbs unassumingly, staring down at the small curlycues that design the cigar box on top of the coffee table. Please say something. Please.
“A marriage is work on both ends, Jackie,” he says at last. In my peripheral vision I can see him fold up his newspaper, slowly and rather sloppily. “You need more from me, I need more from you.” His voice is so calm it’s actually soothing, in an odd way. I’m grateful for the comfort it provides, because my stomach is flipping this way and that, and I can feel my armpits become increasingly damp with each breath. “It’s like we’re not playing on the same team,” he says.
“What more do you need from me?” I cry out in a whisper, keeping my focus on anything but Andrew’s eyes, which I can feel staring at me.
“I want to play on the same team as you, baby doll.” His voice turns even gentler. “I hate not talking, I hate arguing,” he chuckles unsettlingly, “I hate having to replace vases around here. You need to grow up a little and realize that there’s more in my life than just you. I’m a very busy man, and I’m trying all the time to be the best husband I can be for you.”
Slowly I meet Andrew’s eyes.
“I love you, Jackie, but you’ve got to meet me halfway.”
“You have to meet me halfway, Andrew,” I whimper, swallowing another frog. “You don’t know how it feels to be ignored! It’s me waiting for you; it’s what’s convenient for you; it’s me having to be understanding for you, your schedule, your work life.”
“I’m trying.” He folds his newspaper in half and taps it against his knees.
“You need to try harder.”
He rubs long and hard at the grey stubble on his chin. “I’ll try harder if you try your part, too. Be patient, be trusting. And relax!”
“Fine,” I say, empty, confused. “Whatever.”
“Not whatever.” He tosses the newspaper on the coffee table. “I will try my damnedest to give you more attention, but my career isn’t easy, Jackie. If we want the kind of lifestyle we have, then I have to work heinous hours! It’s—”
“You can start by firing Nikki,” I say in a tone more juvenile than I intended. “You want me to trust you? Fire her. Please.”
It’s the meat of the problem: Nikki Dowling. I can’t ignore what happened to Lara, what happened to my mom, my dad… I will not be one of those victims. I already have to battle the fact that my husband works around the clock; but having to stir in the wee hours of the night wondering if Nikki has something to do with his magnetic pull to that office is just too much to bear. The girls told me to be honest and step up and be the bigger person, breaking the wall of silence, well here it is: honesty in its repulsive and painful form.
“What?” Andrew squints tightly. “No. No.” His voice is firm. “No, I will not start by firing Nikki. Where is this coming from, anyway?” He loosens his mauve, pinstriped tie. “I will try to be more attentive, but you—you, Jackie—need to trust me.”
He roughly runs a hand through his short, grey-white hair. “And what the hell is your neurotic obsession with thinking Nikki and I are,” he wags his head brusquely, “having an affair? It’s insanity!”
I run my tongue across my teeth. I’m frustrated and confused about why he’s so reluctant. If I’m uncomfortable with Nikki and she’s a big reason why I’m freaking out over our failing marriage and Andrew’s commitment to that office of his, then why not get rid of her? Why the obstinance about this? And he actually wonders why I think they’re having an affair!
“You need to be more understanding and more trusting,” he says. “I need to be more attentive. If we both start there I can assure you our marriage will be far better off.”
“You’ve tried to be more attentive time and again, Andrew.” I fold my hands in my lap and cross my legs, leaning back into the plush sofa. I feel like I’m in a constant, unnerving state of repetitive circular movement. “How many times you’ve promised to come home sooner, or given me diamonds and vacations to say you’re sorry, and we always end up here! Same shit, same story!”
“Marriage isn’t a one-time-try kind of arrangement, darling,” he says with a small, patronizing laugh. “It’s a relationship of consistent trial and error, commitment, determination, challenges.”
“God, I sound like I’m in a board meeting!” I throw up my hands, conceding defeat.
“It’s the truth, dammit.” He loosens his tie again, this time more gruffly.
“Well why would this time be any different?” I fix him with a hard, doubting gaze. “You’ve tried and failed before, why should I expect you to actually, truly be more attentive now?”
“Jackie,” he says, his eyebrows drawing together seriously. “Should we be having a separate conversation? Where are you taking this?”
It doesn’t take a literature professor to read between these lines, but I’ve never told Andrew about my research into divorce law last year. And, honestly, I’m not even hinting at a divorce right now. I just want to know how the hell his supposed vow to be more attentive is really going to fix our problem. An apple will stay an apple; it won’t suddenly become an orange just because you say it will.
“The only conversation I want to have with you,” I say, “is a serious discussion about how we’re going to fix our marriage. You say you’ll be attentive, but how? There’s the talk but no walk, and I just—just—I just can’t do this, Andrew!” I throw up my hands again and make a sharp cry.
“Dressing you in designer gowns and drenching you in diamonds,” he says, waving a hand at me. “That’s a pretty damn big show of love…demonstration of how I feel about you.”
“I won’t lie,” I say, nodding, “I love a designer bag and glitzy jewels as much as the next materialistic girl, but there’s more than that in marriage, in a relationship, Andrew. There are other ways to deal with a problem. It’s like—like—sometimes…you’re just buying me off!” I point a finger at him. “You know, Cosmo says when your man starts to buy yo
u expensive gifts all of a sudden it’s because he’s probably got some mistress on the side. Feeling all guilty.”
“Dammit, Jackie.” He begins to pace the room, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been spoiling you rotten from the get-go. You honestly think I’ve been screwing around on you all this time?”
“No,” I say honestly. “But what the hell do I know now? We’re in a rut, and you’re not willing to fix things.”
“Yes I am!” he shouts, clenching his hands into fists. “Listen, baby doll. You learn to trust me, and I learn to pay more attention to you. That’s our project. That’s it! Everything’ll work itself from there.” He settles back in his chair. “You want something beyond that, go to the shrink I pay a fortune for you to see! I don’t know how else to show you I’m committed.”
“You want a way?” I say in a cocky tone. “I think you firing Nikki is a great start, maybe even scaling back your hours—”
“Nikki?”
“Yes, Nikki! She’s a bitch to me, and I don’t like how when I call your office she’s all weird about saying you’re not available and that you’re gone somewhere, and I go to meet you there and you’re not there… It’s like she’s playing a game with me. She’s hiding something from me!”
“Dammit!” he yells. “Enough! I don’t want to hear her name and insinuations of an affair in the same sentence one more time! Do you understand me?”
The combination of his loud, aggressive tone and the deeply creased wrinkles of confusion and frustration that cover his face startle me into momentary silence. Squeezing my lips tightly, I can only nod my head harshly.
“Thank you.” His voice registers calm. “I’m sorry for shouting, love. I’m just sick and tired of hearing this nonsense. It’s like you’re so bored you have to concoct drama.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be so bored if you were around more.”
“I told you,” he says through a locked jaw, “I’m a busy man. If you are so bored then go to the spa, go shopping, go visit your girlfriends…your shrink! Do something, Jackie, instead of fretting about insanely.”
I nod again, then meekly say, “So that’s it? We’re going to keep on trying? Trying to play on the same team? That’s the solution?” My upper lip slowly curls in a mock-sneer.
Reaching for his iPad, then Scotch, he says, “Quitters never win, Jackie. Winners keep on trying.”
“And the ones in between?”
He looks at me with a muddled expression.
“The ones in limbo,” I say without much life. “The ones stuck in the middle trying to win, trying not to quit…to lose.”
Andrew simpers as he takes a sip of Scotch. “We should go on a trip soon.” He licks his lips. “Just you and me. You’re right, we need to spend some time together and you’re obviously bored.” He takes another sip of Scotch. “A weekend getaway. Get away from this noise,” waving his glass of Scotch about, “the fighting, the tension, the stress of every day.” He sets his glass down and begins to fiddle with the iPad. “I’ve got a wide-open weekend coming up soon, so let’s do something. Help us reconnect, calm down. What do you say?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice small. “I guess.”
“And, look.” He smiles at me, and I subtly oblige. “Since we ignored Valentine’s, why don’t we go do something tonight?”
I want to ask who Andrew thinks he’s fooling by saying that we’ll keep on trying, that things will get better, that a weekend getaway will really be the answer. I want to tell him that I lie awake at night or wander about Pioneer Square second-guessing my decision to marry him. I want to say I fear we’re on a path that’s leading to nowhere. No matter how much we may love each other and no matter how many efforts are made—all futile—we both know our marriage is doomed, and neither of us can admit it to the other. All we’re doing with bandaging up this chronic problem—taking a trip and not making honest and real steps to recovery—is borrowing time. I like the idea of a getaway with Andrew, but what happens afterwards, or even in the weeks leading up to our “romantic getaway”? How much longer will we let the cancer grow before it takes us?
Instead of telling him this, I suppress the urge to speak out, the urge to cry, the urge to question, and I nod and grin, as I always end up doing—letting the cancer fester and grow.
“That’d be nice,” I say. I force myself to think that things will get better from now on, just like Andrew promises. This lie won’t cure anything, but it’s less painful than the truth…at least for now.
Tonight is the start of our new beginning, I will myself to think even as those pesky feelings of emptiness, loneliness, and helplessness that weigh heavy on my heart double in size.
“Let me get changed and I’ll call us a table at Metro Grill.” Andrew stands and heads into the bedroom. “And we’ll plan something spectacular and romantic for a weekend,” his distant voice sounds. “Just us, baby doll. Just us.”
I’m not a quitter, I think optimistically. But I’m not quite yet a winner.
I lie down on the sofa and hug a plush pillow to my chest. “I’m somewhere in limbo,” I whisper as I close my eyes, listening to the not-so-distant stream of water sound from the bathroom.
Chapter Fourteen
It’s been about a month since Andrew and I had our serious discussion, deciding our marriage wasn’t going to fix itself and we had to do something about it. Andrew’s been doing an okay job at working on things. He answers more of my calls, but not all of them; we go out for dinner a couple nights a week, but haven’t danced in forever; things are better, but we’re still in limbo. We have plans of going to Bainbridge Island for that weekend getaway he’s been wanting to do, in two weeks. Should be nice. Am I feeling a bit better? I suppose. Do I still think our marriage needs work? It needs something. Maybe more time? More commitment? More hard evidence that Andrew wants it to work out?
“Our weekend away will probably be really good for us,” I say to the girls. “Andrew’s probably right that we need some time away from all of the craziness of everyday life. But, you know me, up and down. One day I think this trip’s great and the fix-all, the next I figure it’s delaying the next inevitable blowout.”
Lara and Claire nod their heads.
“Dr. Pierce said it’ll probably be good, anyhow.” I blow a puff of air to the side. “Sometimes, though,” I lean forward in my seat on Robin’s front room sofa, “I think it’s just a cheap move to placate me again.” I rest my elbows on my legs and clasp my hands together. “Take the wife off of the mantel, show her a fun time, and that’ll keep her quiet for a while.”
“Whatever happened to Hawaii?” Lara asks, her fingers rifling about the bowl of homemade Chex Mix. “Wasn’t Andrew secretly planning something like that for you?”
“For Valentine’s?” Claire queries.
“That was a guess,” Sophie jumps in. “Snooping, were we, Jack?” She gives me a wink as she reaches for the snack mix.
“I don’t know what that was,” I say listlessly. “Forgot all about Hawaii until now. Thanks, Lara.”
Lara tosses a mini pretzel at my head.
“Well, I’m glad you talked,” Emily says as she makes funny faces to baby Phillip, who’s lying on his back on the blue and white blanket Claire crocheted for him, snug between Lara and Emily. “It’s the first of many talks, I’m sure.” Emily eyes me scrutinizingly, and I shrug. “Step by step.”
“Talking is always better than deathly silence,” Sophie says.
“Definitely,” Claire says. She sets down her crochet needle and patch of yellow yarn in her criss-crossed lap. “If I could tell you how many times Conner and I have had tiffs.” She heaves a dramatic sigh and returns to her craft. “I mean, it doesn’t matter if we’re having yelling contests or turning cold shoulders, they’re both nasty. But not bringing up a problem will get you nowhere. Just ask Lara.”
“Puh-lease,” Lara moans, tucking her hair behind her ears reservedly. She checks the backing of her pearl earrings. �
�I’m finally over Nathan for good—”
“And Jack’s little gaffe?” Sophie cuts in.
“Yes,” Lara says, looking at me. “Even Jack’s foolish little gaffe with his car.” She gently rubs Phillip’s tummy as he begins to fuss. “Jackie was only standing up for a friend in the best—albeit insane—way she knows how. Anyhoo, I’m over Nathan.” She caresses Phillip’s head as Emily makes a soothing cooing sound to try to settle him.
Phillip’s fussing only grows so Robin scoops him up. She situates him gently on her chest and shoulder, like a pro. She drapes a receiving blanket over him and lightly bounces in her seat as his mewling softens.
“The silence, the cold shoulders, that big void Nathan and I had,” Lara says. “Not a recipe for a healthy relationship.”
“So if you’re through with Nathan,” Robin says, “then maybe you’re ready to get back into the game?” Her voice is thick with jest. If anyone would be happy to direct Lara to the dating podium, it’d certainly be matchmaking Claire…or even me. God, how fun would it be to go out to a club, play the wingman? Do some dancing, have some drinks, some fun?
“Between the bottles of wine, the chick flicks, and the suspenseful Koontz books,” Lara says, “not to mention Sophie’s scrumptious cupcakes. After all that, I’m much better. I’m ready for a new start!” She tosses back a sip of wine, then adds, “But that doesn’t mean I’m ready for a new guy.” She looks from me to Claire, then back to me. “I’d like to keep things calm for a while before I head back into the dating scene.”
“Claire,” Robin says, pointing at the crochet project. “Sorry to change the subject, girls, but Claire?”
Claire’s transfixed by her project, surprisingly not jumping at the chance to suggest a blind date set-up for Lara. She raises her brows in response.
“Are you making Phillip another blanket?” Robin asks.
“Didn’t you just make him that one?” Sophie gestures to the one on the floor.
“Actually,” Claire drawls out.
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