Sick Day

by Morgan Parker

  I stopped at the edge of the living room, disgusted by the crumbs on the floor next to the sofa where he watched the game with his back to me. Yet I was the one with the nasty nickname. Right.

  “Where were you?” he demanded.

  “You’re a slob, Tim. This place is fucking gross.”

  “It’ll be clean tonight. Now where the fuck have you been sleeping, you fucking whore?”

  I stood there, watching him. I didn’t have to think too long about my next statement. Like driving in a blizzard or a sandstorm, I saw only as far as the few feet in front of me, not the miles between here and my ultimate destination.

  At last, my husband turned around, his eyes red and puffy, his beard unshaven. I swore his teeth had gone yellow, and I shuddered at the prospect of just how foul his breath might be. Despite his obvious rage, I stepped forward.

  “I’m not asking again, bitch,” he said. “Where the fuck have you—”

  “Done. I’m done with your bullshit, Tim.” I glanced back at the sink and gave it an elaborate wave—it was a scene that repeated itself at least a couple dozen weekends every year, a reminder of his laziness and how he cared about nothing and no one but himself. “You’re fucked without me; we both know it.”

  He laughed, a crazy laugh that reminded me of what made me fall in love with him in the first place—that craziness, seemingly untamable, so new and foreign to me. But it also reminded me of everything I now hated about him.

  Standing on unsteady feet, he approached me.

  I wasn’t scared of him, not anymore. I was tired. “You’re fucked without me,” I repeated, and I tasted the venom on my words. I decided at that moment that no man would ever walk all over me ever again. Starting right now.

  My husband stopped and swayed, but, by some miracle, he kept his balance. He was close enough to hit me, but far enough away that if he swung and I stepped backward, he would fall flat on his face.

  “I’m leaving you,” I told him, because Oliver made me believe in the impossibility of love being all that I’d ever need. The finality of my promise turned his eyes a bloodshot red.

  His face tightened, possibly with confusion, but judging by the way his brows slanted inwardly toward the bridge of his nose, there was a dare in there, too. “You’ve never been alone,” he hissed, but there was the hint of something else in there, too. “Either you’re fucking someone else, or you’re just pissed about the mess.”

  I shook my head, a slow and deliberate motion that allowed me to keep my eyes glued to his as his pupils flickered from side to side. The weekend with Oliver had given me more strength than I had ever thought possible. “I’m done. Either you let me pack my things and walk out of here, or I walk out without them, and you’re stuck going through them on your own. Either way, I don’t care. I’m leaving. I’m done with you.”

  He wiped his wrist across his lips, unblinking. “Nobody will take you. You’re fucking crazy. And you suck in bed.”

  I laughed at him. If only he had felt, tasted, and lived what I had these past two nights. Not just the muscular contractions of orgasm, but the true, inseparable sensation of being loved by someone. It wasn’t about sucking in bed, but it was definitely all about being crazy.

  A forced half-smile rose on his lips, but I didn’t fall for it; those lips camouflaged the underlying fury. “You want your stuff?” he asked me. “Before you get the fuck out of my face, you dirty cunt?”

  I shrugged my shoulder, noticing the tension in my upper-back had climbed into my neck. “Your choice. I don’t care.”

  My husband had a gift. He could move swiftly. But with so much alcohol in his veins, his aim was all wrong. He missed my face entirely and collapsed. I moved aside so he couldn’t grab my ankles and pull me down with him.

  “You’re pathetic,” I spat, leaning forward so I could get as close to his face as I safely dared. “And you don’t deserve me. You don’t deserve anyone or anything. You treat me like shit. And you think anyone will want to lay next to your drunk, fat ass?” I shook my head, chuckling again. “You have nothing to offer. Nothing.”

  “Get out,” he whispered to the floor, but I knew his words were for me.

  I leaned in a little closer to this slob on the floor, his gut visible between the waist of his elastic band and the stained shirt. “Not even to yourself.”

  “Get out!” he screamed, flailing because he was just too washed up to do anything else.

  And so I left. With nothing except my bank card and a credit card that I had obtained in college.

  } i {

  The Barney’s coffee house in Winnetka had bistro tables out front that faced the main street and a private patio out back that faced a quiet parking lot. Usually only the loners sat out back, seeking peace and quiet to read or write, or even meditate with their capps or lattes. Since the neighboring buildings cast long shadows and kept the sun out, few extroverts or couples opted for that back patio. Nobody saw you out there, not like the bistro tables out front.

  I sat out back, just like Oliver had asked. For one, he couldn’t risk his wife or kids walking by and seeing us out front, and since Barney’s brewed Oliver’s favorite coffee beans, if he was out too long, chances were quite high that his wife might come looking for him inside as well.

  But never out back.

  Out back seemed reserved for those loners.

  Or lovers.

  I waited for the 349 train to arrive and when I heard its bell at 6:01 (early, yay!), I retreated inside and ordered a non-fat cappuccino before reclaiming my table out back in the shade. The train station was close, less than a ten-minute walk. So I waited fifteen minutes, then decided to drink the cappuccino rather than waste it.

  I waited for the 351 train to arrive, and when I heard its bell eighteen minutes later (late, boo!), I ordered another non-fat cappuccino and reclaimed the same table out back. This time, I waited twenty minutes before drinking my second cappuccino.

  It was ten minutes after the 359 train arrived at 7:19 PM that I noticed the silhouette standing in the doorway to this back patio. I looked up from my lonely seat, my mind buzzing and half-insane. I had been crying, which meant the baristas or clerks, or whatever the fuck they were called, only asked once if I was okay.

  Oliver bowed his head before pushing the door open and walking to my table, our table. He didn’t sit down, and I didn’t look up. Instead, I looked into my lap and thought of happy things—my latest book sales, the quarterly royalty check that would help me move to Chicago to be with the man I loved.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, standing there above me. Although I didn’t see whatever torture occupied his face, I heard the crack in his voice, and it wasn’t the kind that would ever heal. It was the kind that broke me as well, the kind my best friend, Jannie, had warned me about when I first told her about Oliver.

  No matter how happy those earlier thoughts, I noticed a tear drop from my face and absorb into the thigh of my jeans. At first, it was just one, then two, and then many, and my shoulders racked back and forth. It was repulsive, it lacked grace, and when I finally found a way to bury the devastating heartbreak of our reality, I looked up from my soaking legs and saw that he was gone.

  Oliver had walked away without saying goodbye.

  That day, all those years ago, the air had been sucked out of my lungs, and I had to learn how to live all over again—how to eat and breathe, smile and observe—just see the world around me. Something that had previously been so simple and mundane had taken on an ugly hue without Oliver in my life.

  Oliver was the freight train.

  } i {

  Present Day

  Chapter 26

  10:25 AM

  When we leave the Art Institute, Hope hurries ahead of me by a few paces like she might be pissed, angry about something. I catch up to her as she hurries across Monroe and steers toward the lake. I call out a pleading “hey,” but she keeps going, her heels clacking on the sidewalk. As I fall into step next to her,
I slide my hand across her lower back, but she rolls away and takes an open-handed swing at me. I duck away, feeling the smack of air waft past my face. I can’t help but chuckle.

  “What am I doing, Cameron?” She grabs her hair, forces her eyes closed, and shakes her head. “What are we doing? This is so wrong.”

  I reach for her hands, but she steps back.

  “No, Cameron. I’m going.” She continues toward the lake again, so I join her.

  “Let’s just go to the park. We can sit by the waterfall or the big, reflective kidney bean, or whatever the fuck it is.”

  “Why?”

  I stay quiet until we reach the corner of Monroe and Columbus, where the concrete stairs lead back into the park. Once she stops, Hope crosses her arms and stares across the street.

  “Hope,” I beg, giving her a mild pout, just enough to show her I care, but not too much to look like a whiny little bitch. “It’s all good; it’s a fucking gorgeous day. It should be illegal to work on days like this.” Because she hasn’t taken another swing at me, or continued walking, I carry on with my plea. “Give me until lunch. We’ll meet Gordo and have a light meal, but until then, why don’t we…” I nod up the stairs. “Have you seen Millennium Park?”

  She stares off in the other direction, then shakes her head. “Just tell me why. You’re married, and I’m in love with Matt. This? Our ‘sick day’ together? It’s sweet and everything, but it’s not changing anything.”

  “Okay,” I agree, stepping closer to her. “Nothing changes. But at least I have this day with you. Please. Why can’t you just give me that, this last day before you move and I walk away, just like I promised?”

  She swivels on her heels and starts climbing the concrete stairs. I know that the Monet might have been a little too much for her because in Our Story it seemed to be a lot for Olivia, too.

  } i {

  While standing at the mirrored jelly bean thing that seems to fascinate all sorts of people—I still don’t understand this art piece, and I wonder if half of the others in this crowd are trying to figure it out just like I am—Hope glances over at me and gives me a half-shrug. Her simple act reminds me of some of the times we spent together in our lost past. It means she has something on her mind.

  “What is it?” I ask, hoping to get her talking again, anxious for her to just loosen up and live a little.

  She stares at the bean.

  “Hope,” I say, stepping close enough to her that I can actually taste the soft perfume that wafts off her clothes with the wind. Vanilla, the bean not the ice cream. “I highly doubt you’re contemplating this disturbing piece of art. And you forget I know you better than that. You can’t just give me that half-shrug thing and expect me to let it go. I never have before, so why would I start now?”

  She walks away, and I follow a couple of steps behind, still a little gun shy after her meltdown a few minutes ago, but also a little worried that my threat of not letting go might have crossed a few lines. As I trail her toward the waterfall sounds coming from the Crown Fountain, I dig into my pocket for my phone and notice the reel of missed messages and calls. I count half a dozen voicemail alerts from Newman, which seems about as important to me as missing a call from Riley’s brother—insta-delete. But the others concern me. Eight texts from Raj, four from Gordon.

  Raj: Newman says you did it. You called in sick. I hope you realize this might cost you your job if you’re not careful, Cam. I’ve got your back, but he knows you’re not sick.

  Raj: Might want to forge a doctor’s note…and let your doctor know about it because Newman’s on a rampage. He’s got the biggest hard-on for you right now.

  Raj: That crazy motherfuck just left my office with your employee file and a paper copy of your absences. You owe me, fucktart.

  I chuckle at his use of the word fucktart, mostly because I hear his accent in the text. I skip through to his last message, the mist from the fountain reaching us as we turn the corner and step through the trees.

  Raj: Heads up today, Cam! Newman just left the office, and I think he’s coming for you.

  “Fuck,” I whisper under my breath as we step onto the dark concrete with the two fountain structures spewing water.

  Hope glances back before veering off toward the benches. I follow her, sitting next to her while my eyes scan the traffic on Michigan, the faces in the crowd.

  “Cameron, I see what you’re doing. Or what you’re trying to do. But I won’t be staying behind next week.” She stares into her lap and picks at her fingers. “I’m sorry, but my life is with Matt now. It’s where I belong.”

  I let out a long breath, still deliberating the herd of tourists here at the fountain and out there on the street. Even with Newman clearly determined to catch me playing hooky today so he can fire me once and for all, I never considered aborting my plans for today, regardless of what Hope said or threatened or promised. All it takes is a look, a glance even. Hope’s heart has not changed or aged; to my eyes, everything about her remains as perfect and flawless as ever.

  When her big eyes find mine, I see that something is lacking, despite her words.

  “Conviction,” I say, mostly to myself because that, I am certain, is what’s missing.

  “Pardon me?”

  Realizing a little too late that I spoke the word aloud, I shake my head and tell her about Raj’s email. “You were right, my boss doesn’t like me very much. He thinks what I do with my analysis and financial psychology is just bullshit. Yes, I’m paid well, and yes, our executive team has a soft spot for me. But Newman…” I shake my head. “He wants me gone so he can get back to his archaic way of designing products and programs.”

  “He’s threatened,” Hope tells me.

  “What about you, Hope?” I ask, happy with myself that she has taken the “he feels threatened” route. “Is accounting really as rewarding as you thought it would be?”

  She tells me a little about her work and one of the relationships she has built with a client, whose bookkeeper was stealing cash. “It’s the toughest thing to tell someone. The look in their faces when you let them know that a trusted employee and, in a lot of these cases, a good friend is taking financial advantage of them because of their position…” She shakes her head.

  “I bet that’s the worst part of your job.” For all I know, replacing the printer tape on her calculator could be the worst, but I try to empathize with her anyway.

  “What else are we doing today, Cameron?” she asks, making a point of staring straight ahead to let me know our conversation about our careers has ended.

  “We’re telling Matt you don’t love him anymore,” I reveal to her with so much confidence, there’s enough for both of us.

  She allows a laugh, a good and healthy one. “We’ve already talked about this.”

  “Two months ago—”

  “Was a mistake, and you know it.” She puts some distance between us without ever moving away from me—her words do a good enough job that she doesn’t even have to move an inch. “Have you told Riley?”

  “Have you told Matt?” I counter, not seeing the relevance in her question.

  And then we fall into a respectful silence.

  “Riley left,” I tell her at last. “She just left.”

  Hope mumbles an empty, “I’m sorry.”

  “She knows it’s you, knows that all of this time has been a waste for her. Because of you, Hope.”

  Sighing, she rolls her eyes. “All right, goob, I get it. Homewrecker extraordinaire here. I said I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault, though,” I assure her, and start reaching for her arm but think better of it because I know how sensitive she can get when I touch her. “My heart, it’s all yours, Hope. You own my thoughts, my focus…you own me. Since running into you again…” I shake my head, closing my eyes. Deep breath. Here goes. “You want to know what this is all about? If you’re not going to stay behind, then it’s about closure. It’s about allowing myself to know, one hund
red percent, that I tried. That I fought.” I turn my attention to her. “That I tried to fit a round peg into a square hole.”

  She chuckles and corrects me, “I actually wrote square peg into a round hole.”

  “So you really do remember!”

  “Cameron…” She shakes her head.

  “But you remember, and your flaws are your perfection. Nobody knows them or loves them like I do, Hope.” I slide my fingers lightly across her knee, aware of the scar there. Her eyes flutter at my touch. “You know that just as well as I do.”

  She closes herself up to me again, facing the other direction. If she decides to place her hands over her ears and shout La la la la, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  “What about kids, Hope? Why haven’t you gotten pregnant yet?”

  It takes her a moment to respond, and even then her voice comes out as a sigh, weak. “We’re not married.”

  “And when will that happen?” When she doesn’t offer a response, I tell her, “It won’t. You’ve been with this guy too long, and you said it yourself, there’s no true purpose in getting married.”

  “Maybe I’ve changed, Cameron. Maybe the girl you loved in high school, who shared all of those picket-fence dreams with you, maybe she doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “Sure she does. I’m looking at her right now.”

  “Is that what you think?” she says, her voice breaking a little. But the broken expression on her face tells me I’m right.

  “It’s what I know, Hope.” I try to touch her again, but she pulls back.

  “Don’t touch me,” she warns.

  “You’re perfect.”

  “Perfection doesn’t exist,” she tells me with her stern accountant tone.

  “It exists every time I look at you, every time I hear your voice, and feel you move underneath me. Or on top of me.”