by Lynne Hinton
But once they arrived at the hotel, once the door was shut and they were alone together, once he put his arms around her and tried to show how much he cared for her, she grew stiff and distant, claiming she was tired and wanted to sleep.
In the past he would not have pushed her; he always retreated, giving her the space she requested. But after the free and easy trip they had just enjoyed, the light conversation, the way they fell into the gentle fashion of how things used to be, he was so hopeful, so expectant, so sure they were on the right path, he couldn’t give up.
“Come on, baby,” he said, sliding his hands down her back, trying to undo her bra.
They kissed and he felt her loosen.
“You feel so good. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed making love to you.”
She was hesitant. It had been almost six months since they had been together, and she had been relieved when finally, after so many nights of being denied, he had quit asking. She worried that if she relented this time she would have to go back to the constant struggle they endured in bed. They would have to return to what had been the most unsettling part of her melancholy, the most awkward part of her discontent.
She hated saying no to Wallace. She hated herself for not feeling what she believed should be natural for a wife to feel about a husband. She was ashamed that she considered sleeping with another man when she knew her husband would do anything she wanted, try anything she requested.
The sex between Lana and Wallace had been good for both of them since they had been together, so it wasn’t that she had become dissatisfied. She simply was not interested in making love, not with her husband, not with anybody. Roger, the man she was seeing, was just a means to flee the constant ache of loneliness, a distraction from the emptiness inside her. Roger didn’t necessarily please or excite her. But the game was interesting. At least with him, when she refused to get a hotel room or slip away to his apartment, she did not feel guilty or improper. At least when she denied his advances she could feel good about herself, feel some pride in her choice. At least when she said no to him she felt like she was doing the right thing, which was so unlike how she felt at home.
When she tried to figure it out for herself, Lana didn’t know how she lost had her drive. She wasn’t sure what had caused the break inside her. She did not understand how such a thing had happened, but she certainly knew when it had happened. During her nine months of pregnancy, the desire, the arousal, the need for intimacy gradually wrapped itself around Hope; and when the time came, it labored and slid out with her at birth, leaving Lana barren and bereft of passion. She pretended that she wanted to get close to Wallace. She acted like she needed him but after almost two years, she had faked all the longing she could.
As he stood there in front of her, his heart beating so fast she felt his racing pulse more strongly than she felt her own, she realized that he was desperately trying to save the marriage, desperately trying to hold on to what they had, desperately trying to get close. So she softened and decided to try as well.
There, away from home, surrounded by the dark mountains, a green fence holding them both in, she decided to let him inside her again, to see if maybe there was something that had not been lost or stolen or smashed, something that might bind them back together.
After all, she had enjoyed the lightness of the trip too, the ease with which she had napped. She had liked being alone with him in the car, no baby in the backseat, the two of them free and driving out of town. She had enjoyed the conversation, the interested way he spoke to her, the confidence he exhibited behind the wheel. So she chose to let him hold her, let him be close to her. She gently pushed him away and began taking off her clothes. Wallace moved the suitcase off the bed, lay down, and watched as she undressed. He was overcome with desire and pulled her into himself and, with great affection, began making love.
Lana willed herself to be ready. She lay aside the sorrow, ignored the pang of disillusion. She calmly and faithfully resisted the urge to jump up and run away. The young wife, in a grand attempt to please her husband and fortify their marriage, steadied herself, preparing her soul, her mind, her body for the reunion. She tried to open herself, make room for him, create a space in the twisted knot that was her heart; but she quickly recognized her failure.
The weight of his body on top of her, the frenzy of his excitement, the desperate push and pull of him inside her, launched Lana even deeper into the disappointment she could not name. By the time he was finished, exploding in unrestrained pleasure, Lana had retreated further into herself, and the space between them had widened.
Wallace opened his eyes and looked down at her as she lay beneath him. Clearly unaware of how far they had drifted away from each other, clearly unsuspecting of how tangled and jumbled his wife’s thoughts and feelings had become, he expected to find the girl he had first loved.
He expected to find the familiar sweetness of delight and the way she used to shine. He expected it all to be suddenly and completely all right, but in that one glance he now understood that neither the drive and the music nor the holding of hands, the nap on the shoulder, the ease of the summer day, the time alone, even the intimacy of sex—none of it would be enough to reclaim all that had been lost. Whatever had pulled them apart from each other had polarized them, frozen them in positions with no visible way back to each other.
He got up and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He showered while Lana rolled over, the sheets cold and stiff.
They spent the rest of the weekend speaking only of topics chosen with care, superficial subjects, polite conversation. They did not touch each other again, sleeping restlessly at the edges of the bed, and they drove home painfully aware the neither of them had a clue as to what might save them.
“I’ll be late,” he yelled from beyond the room. And the front door slammed shut.
Lana waited a few minutes before getting up, the quiet and emptiness in the house settling around her. She went over and shut the window and returned to the crib while Hope lay down without any direction or assistance from her mother. The baby’s smile dulled once she realized that her father had left, and the young woman started to tell herself that her daughter’s lack of affection toward her was one more sign that Wallace had poisoned everything in her life.
She wanted to say that it was Wallace’s fault that she felt so unloving toward and unloved by their daughter. In the beginning she tried to make herself believe that he was the cause of her misery, both as a mother and as a woman. She wanted nothing more than to say that he was to blame for the fact that she wanted to leave everything, him, the marriage, their baby, the town, that he was the reason she could no longer cry. But even when she first began to feel so broken, she knew she was being unfair. She understood that the indictment she placed on her husband was undeserved and improper.
None of her trouble was his fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. She simply could no longer find the path that at one time had been so clear. She did not know how or why, but she suddenly found herself in unfamiliar and perilous territory, and when she tried to remember what she was doing, where she was going, how she got to where she was, she realized she had lost her way.
“Go to sleep,” she instructed Hope and left the room. She reached up and turned off the light and walked down the hall toward the kitchen.
She was collecting and stacking the dirty dishes when she looked on the table and noticed an envelope stuck behind the napkin holder. She pulled it out and saw that it was a letter from Mrs. Jenkins to Wallace, something his grandmother must have written before she left. Lana put the dishes down and opened it as if it were also addressed to her.
Dear Wallace,
I know I’ve left you all the instructions about taking care of the house; and I know that everything will be fine while your grandfather and I will be gone. I just wanted to say a few things to you before I leave.
I got a bad feeling, Wallace, and I can’t seem to shake it. I’ve tried to get
clear-headed enough to know who it concerns, but I don’t have anything but the feeling. No understanding to go with it. Maybe it’s like what folks say, just traveling nerves and maybe everything will be fine. But I needed to say some things to somebody in the family in case the badness happens to me on the trip. So I decided to write it to you, the oldest grandson, the father of my great-grandbaby, and the one living in my house.
First of all, I want you to know that I’m real proud of you. I don’t know how you manage everything, but somehow you do. And it just goes to show what a fine man you’ve become. Second, I’m glad you married Lana. She’s a good girl and she loves you, and, well, there’s no need to even say anything about little Hope. That baby has been the light of my life this past couple of years, and she’s the real reason I’m writing this letter.
What I most need to say is that I’ve lived a good life and I’m happy. And I just want to make sure that my children and my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren understand that even though all my years haven’t been easy and I know I’ve made plenty of mistakes, I feel at peace for the way things have gone.
I love your grandfather and it’s a blessing to me that he’s come home. I cannot pretend I understand why he left and why we spent so much of life apart, but I’ve learned over the years that a person doesn’t get to choose their sorrow. Like the weather, it just comes.
I’m writing this letter because I want my great-grandbaby to know that nothing about life is easy. That more often than not, the sunshine doesn’t last and the nights can go on forever. People you trust disappoint you, and love is not always enough. But in spite of what you lose or gain or take or give, it’s all worth it. It’s the living itself that’s the gift.
I turned sixty last birthday, and for the first time I see more years behind me than I do in front of me; and though it saddens me to think it’s almost over, I am grateful for every day I’ve had. Good, bad, unbearable, every day was a blessing.
I travel now to Africa, and I hope my bad feeling is nothing more than a case of separation anxiety. Because even though there’s more yesterdays than there are tomorrows, it doesn’t mean I’m done.
Take care, Wallace, take care to love fiercely and to live completely. It all goes by faster than you’d think.
With all my love,
your grandmother, Jessie
Lana folded the letter and stuck it in the envelope. She replaced it where she had found it, standing between the napkin holder and the salt and pepper shakers, and then finished stacking dishes. She thought about Jessie and her kindness toward her, how she had welcomed them into her home, without hesitation or criticism. Mrs. Jenkins had been good to Lana, and the young woman knew it; and now, having read such an intimate and loving letter, Lana felt a deep regret that she was hurting more than just her own family.
She opened the cabinet, got out the dishwashing detergent, turned on the water, and began filling the sink. She placed the dirty flatware, the knives and cooking spoons, the measuring cup, and Hope’s plastic fork into the water and wondered how long it would be before she would leave.
It wasn’t that she loved Roger, the teacher in her accounting class at school whom she had met before she dropped out. He was older and had money, drove a nice car, and could speak two languages. He wore silk shirts made in Italy and insisted that she get dessert when they went out to eat. He was interesting and had traveled to China, read women’s magazines, and thought she could be a model.
But Lana understood that she wasn’t leaving Wallace for him. She wasn’t abandoning her marriage and her baby because she had fallen in love with somebody else. He wasn’t the reason for all that she was feeling. She only wished it could be that simple. That was understandable, even acceptable. Friends and family would be able to explain that to each other. It could be the hook for everything else to hang on.
She’d be hated and despised for what she had done, but at least they’d think they had a handle on why she left. There would be a reason, an explanation. They would all shake their heads with disgust but not confusion. Lana wished all that she was feeling could be summed up so cleanly. But it wasn’t that easy. It wasn’t that simple.
Lana realized that, just as Wallace was not to be blamed for her unhappiness, this other man was not everything she was missing. He, like her husband, was not the reason she was running away. Although she enjoyed the attention he gave her, found relief in the distraction of the new relationship, and appreciated having to put forth an effort to keep things secret, the young woman knew it was not enough to fix all that was wrong. She understood that Roger was just a balm, a Band-Aid, an excuse. Lana even knew that she would not stay with him for very long before she would go again. He was merely the convenient means to help her leave.
The young woman was finishing washing the pots and pans when she heard the doorbell ring and looked over at the kitchen clock to see that it was after 9:00 P.M. She dried her hands on the dish towel, walked over to the entryway, pulled aside the curtain on the window beside the door, and saw Margaret Peele standing on the porch. She unlocked and opened the door, and the older woman was smiling in front of her, holding a box of cocoa.
“It’s not too late, is it?” the woman asked.
Lana shook her head in surprise. “Um, I was cleaning up a bit,” she answered and then realized she should ask her former Sunday school teacher to come in.
She stood back, pulling the door with her. Margaret walked in.
“I was just thinking of you and decided to stop by.” She spoke a little nervously. “I remember how much you used to like hot chocolate.” She lifted up the box in her hand. “Sorry, but it’s instant.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Lana responded. “That’s really nice of you.” The young woman shut the door. “Here, let me take that.” And she reached behind Margaret and pulled off her coat. “Wallace just left and Hope’s gone to bed.” She opened the closet and took out a hanger, hung up Margaret’s coat, and shut the door.
“Then it’s just you and me,” the visitor said as she turned around to face Lana.
“Yeah, I guess so,” the young woman replied. “Come on in the kitchen while I heat up the water.” And she moved ahead of Margaret toward the other room.
“I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks. Did you and Wallace go away?” The older woman followed her into the kitchen.
Lana dried one of the pots she had just washed and turned on the water. She filled two cups and then emptied them in the pot and placed it on the stove. She turned the dial to high.
“Let’s see,” she said to answer the question, “two weeks ago Hope was sick with a virus so we didn’t go to church that Sunday, and then last week Wallace and I went to the mountains.”
“Oh, that sounds like a nice trip,” Margaret responded. “Did you ski?”
Lana shook her head, remembering the brief discussion they’d had about the cost of skiing. Wallace had wanted to try it, but Lana had said it was too expensive.
Margaret sat down at the table and Lana joined her. Neither woman appeared to know what to say. There was an awkward pause.
Finally Margaret asked, “Have you heard from Jessie?”
Lana nodded, glad to have an easy topic of conversation.
“She called when they got to London and then also after they checked into their hotel in Nairobi.” Lana hoped she said the town in Kenya correctly. She wasn’t sure how to pronounce it. Then she finished, “They’re both fine. Tired, but fine.”
“That’s a long trip.”
“Twenty-two hours, she said.” Lana shook her head. “I think I’d go crazy on a plane that long.”
Margaret agreed with a nod.
Lana got up from the table and opened the packets of hot chocolate. She emptied the contents into two mugs and then waited until the water started to boil. She took the pot off the stove and poured the water into the cups. Then she put the pot in the sink and got out a spoon and stirred both drinks. She handed her visitor a cup, an
d the women blew across the top, trying to cool down the liquid.
“Reminds me of old times,” Margaret said before she took a sip.
Lana smiled, trying to recall an occasion when she had drunk hot chocolate with the older woman.
Margaret could tell Lana was puzzled, so she said, “When you first found out you were pregnant, remember?”
Lana put down her cup.
“You came over to the house and we talked and then we went over to your mom’s.”
Lana didn’t respond.
“We had hot chocolate.”
The younger woman started to think back to that night she had gone to see Mrs. Peele. She certainly had memories of going to her house, how it felt finally to have made the decision to tell an adult, how frightened she was to let somebody know what had happened. The evening seemed so long ago to her now, and though she did remember the occasion of her confession, she did not recall drinking hot chocolate.
“I used to make it from scratch,” Margaret said, hoping that might spark a memory.
Nothing. Lana just sat watching.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” the older woman finally said. “Two friends don’t have to remember doing something earlier to enjoy it at a later time.” And she took another sip.
Lana smiled and nodded.
There was another awkward hesitation between them.
“How’s your health, Mrs. Peele?” Lana inquired, unsure of whether she should ask but uncomfortable with the silence.
“I went to the doctor a couple of days ago. I’m cancer free!” she said and lifted her cup as if she had given a toast.
“That’s great,” Lana responded.
“Better than great,” Margaret answered.
“Yes, you must be so relieved.” And the young woman pulled out a couple of napkins and pushed one toward Margaret.
The two women sat in silence, both of them trying to think of something to say, one of them tangled in what she had seen and the other one caught in what she had done. They sipped their chocolate and listened to the sounds of the furnace coming on and the passing of an airplane overhead.