UnConventional Page 11
The sudden loss of something magnifies its absence.
I feel that more now than ever before. I thought I could do this, but now, standing here, barely holding back fresh tears, I’m not so certain.
“Mommy, Daddy,” I say, trying to keep my voice low so it won’t echo around the vault. “I fucked up.” I stifle a sad laugh. “I know you hate that word, but it’s the only thing powerful enough to express how badly I screwed up.” I clutch my medal, my other palm pressed to the cold marble.
“I wish you were here,” I say, my lip trembling, starting to lose it. “To tell me to take a deep breath and stop making a mountain out of a molehill.” To hold me tight, and kiss my forehead, and tell me everything’ll be okay.
A tear slides down my cheek, followed by another, then another. “Mommy, I miss you so much.” I sob. “I’m so alone.”
* * * *
I thought once I got back on the plane, I’d be okay. But sitting in first class—I’m one of the first to board this time—the seat beside me empty long after the final coach passengers have dragged themselves to the back rows—I feel worse than if I’d stayed. Avoiding Santiago wouldn’t be impossible, but the problem is, I don’t want to avoid him. And I worry if I see him again… No, much better to make a clean break.
Fortunately my boss likes me and accepted my excuses for needing to leave early. But I can picture Santiago sitting beside me, his legs stretched out in front of him, looking at me with that characteristic grin. My stomach aches; I realize I haven’t eaten anything since dinner last night, and the Jack and Coke in my hands doesn’t help.
But I relish the pain. It’s good to feel something other than the agony of a jagged, confused heart. I pound back the rest of my drink, and when the flight attendant walks by, checking the overhead bins and tray tables and other preflight conditions, I signal for her, gesturing with my cup.
“I’ll have another when you can,” I say.
She smiles that smile that only flight attendants have, forced while still managing to look friendly. I admire that smile. She’s disappeared into coach when a large, red-cheeked man with a beard stumbles on board and sinks into the seat beside me. He smells strongly of cigarette smoke, acrid and used.
I grip my St. Anthony medal, trying to pull myself away from him, from everything. But all I can think of is Santiago: the smell of his hair, the taste of his tongue, the way my hand nests in his. A few stray tears track down my cheeks, and I hurry to brush them away. Santiago is a crush; I was just missing Stephen and displacing that loneliness. I suck in a breath, trying to convince myself that’s true.
But if it is, why does my chest ache, physically hurt, when I think of never seeing Santiago again? And why does the expanse of my loneliness grow when I think of Stephen?
Chapter Ten
The house is dark. Lonely. Quiet. Empty when I finally arrive, dumping my bag and keys on the counter and leaning my luggage against the kitchen island. I cross to the freezer, pull out the vodka, grab a glass, and pour. I ended up sleeping through most of the flight, my plans to get drunk thwarted by a dreamless nap that’s left me more tired than I was before I boarded. How that can be, I don’t understand.
I sip some vodka, grimacing at its fierce coldness, the burn settling comfortably in the back of my throat, before replacing the bottle in the freezer. Normally I’m the type of person who unpacks immediately when I get home, sometimes setting in right away to do laundry. I’ve always gotten a kind of satisfaction from this routine, as if it’s a celebration of my trip finally being over, an expression of my joy of returning home again.
I sigh, looking around the barren kitchen, and fish out my phone, trying Stephen one more time. Then another. A third time. Nothing. Stephen’s notorious for keeping his phone off, or on silent, when he’s working, sometimes even leaving it in his briefcase so he won’t be disturbed. Especially since I’m supposed to be out of town for the rest of the week, he has no reason to expect me to call him now. I text him to let him know I’m home, then abandon my stuff in the kitchen, slinking to my office, vodka in one hand, phone in the other.
This room is my sanctuary, one of the reasons we bought this house. I work from home almost as much as I do downtown, not that I do so much genuine telecommuting, but because I bring a lot of work home with me. And lately, I’ve been picking up a few stray freelance jobs for some extra money that’s just mine.
Stephen keeps encouraging me to quit my job, go freelance full-time, but as much as I hate my commute, there’s something unsettling about spending so much time alone in this house, the isolation—since Stephen works his long hours—taking its toll on me. It’s probably one reason I like to blast my music so much: to pierce that penetrating, endless quiet.
I sink into my chair, turning on my computer and sipping my drink, hearing it boot up, gears whirring. Otherwise, the house is completely silent. I need noise. Something to fill the void. To remind me I’m alive—I’m okay. I set my music to play—punk, of course—because I need its loud, upbeat melodies to boost me right now.
Rufio’s “Anybody Out There” begins as the login prompt pops up on my monitor. I quickly enter my password, eyesight blurring. I concentrate on taking sip, sip, sips of my vodka, as if I have to make it last the rest of the week. You’re not supposed to drink alone, I know. But what if you’re always alone, or at least it feels that way?
I open my word-processing program, shift to open a file, hesitating a moment with my finger poised on the mouse, ready to click, my drink in my other hand, cold seeping into my palm.
My novel.
I click. It takes the computer a minute to open the large document. I gulp some more vodka, teeth screaming from the cold, before setting it aside. I scroll to the last page of the document. Next, Rufio’s “Moonshine” begins to play as I start to read, as if in accompaniment to my prose.
She stood on the shore, staring out at the horizon, slowly being lost by the night descending around her. Her skin tingled with the breeze as it blew over her arms, making each of the hairs stand briefly before falling back against her skin, as if waving their own good-bye. She cast her eyes up toward the sky, unable to find a single star, perhaps because the sun left behind too much light in the ebbing dusk, perhaps because clouds obscured her view. The soft sounds of the waves crashing against the concrete steps of the lake, the occasional sleepy cry of a lone seagull, the soft kiss of the breeze against the grass, her clothes were the only sounds. Darkness and stillness and emptiness enveloped her; she wanted nothing more than to turn, to leave, to flee and find someone, something, anything to assuage the emptiness she felt, surrounded by water and a starless sky. Her feet, like her heart, refused to obey, and she remained, still, frozen, on the lakeshore, as if she were a statue waiting to be released from a spell.
I stop reading, staring at the screen, at the blank cursor beneath the text, nausea and sadness suddenly overwhelming me. Coming home is supposed to feel good; instead, I feel trapped, scared, alone, and my music, still emanating from my phone, loud and sad, isn’t helping. So I shut it off.
* * * *
It’s past nine, and I’m sitting at the island, picking at the Chinese I ordered earlier with a pair of chopsticks—straight out of the containers; Stephen would be appalled. I’ve given up hoping to hear from him, either by call or text. He’s probably working extra late, something I know he does whenever I’m out of town. So I’m staring at my phone, at Santiago’s contact information. Simple Plan’s “No Love” blares out of its tiny speakers, piercing the silence of the kitchen. I keep trying to build up the courage to hit the Delete button, but each time my finger trembles and I change my mind.
I’m oh so close to finally willing myself to erase his number when I hear the back door opening and Stephen steps in. I hurriedly shut off the music, then abandon my phone and chopsticks as I hop up, rushing to greet him like an exuberant puppy.
He’s visibly tired, shoulders hunched, but I wrap my arms around him in a hug. He
pats my head. “I was in meetings all day, and when I got a chance to check my phone, I saw you’d called, but my battery was nearly dead. I must not have plugged it in properly last night. You changed your mind about the convention after all?” He pulls away from me so he can drop his briefcase and set his phone to charge. He surveys the room—and I know his gaze is taking in my abandoned luggage, my discarded keys, the boxes of food—but he doesn’t say anything. He just starts cleaning up.
I join him, and we spend the next ten minutes or so in silent communion, like most of our marriage, working side by side but not saying anything to one another. He spies my keys and snatches them up to hang them on the hook by the door. He notices the voodoo-doll keychain and studies it in his hand for a minute.
“I know you better than this,” he says, holding it up. “That friend of yours—what’s her name? Marjorie? Melody?”
“Melanie.”
“She put you up to this.” He shakes his head, goes to his briefcase, and pulls out another keychain. It’s one of the many little items his company gives out to its employees, complete with its logo proudly emblazoned on it. “Much more practical,” he says, switching them out. He demonstrates, as this one is the kind of key ring that splits into two halves with the press of a button. “You can keep your house and mailbox key on one side,” he says as he adjusts my keys, putting them onto the new ring, “and your car key on the other. That way you don’t have to leave your important keys when you take your car in for service, or if you use valet.” Stephen seems exceedingly pleased with himself as he sets my keys on their designated hook. He plucks the voodoo doll off the counter, evidently not sure what to do with it, finally deciding to place it on one of the normally empty hooks toward the end.
He starts undoing his tie and heads toward the stairs without another word.
I rush to follow. “Wait!”
He stops, turns slowly. “Di, I’m tired. I’m sorry if going to New Orleans upset you, but I told you not to go. Can we talk about this in the morning?”
“Actually…” I wrap my arms around him, tilt my head back to try to meet his eyes. “I thought maybe we could cuddle?” I rub his crotch with my palm.
His breathing shifts as I stroke; he’s starting to get hard. “I’m too tired for sex…” he says, but his voice is weak and his eyes have glazed over. After a moment, he leans down and kisses me. I try to deepen the kiss, attempting to push my tongue into his mouth, draw him closer to me. “Di,” he scolds, pushing me away. “You know how I feel about tongue.” He smiles, kisses my forehead, then stalks off, taking the stairs a couple at a time. I sigh and hurry to follow him.
* * * *
I dash upstairs, the sound of running water meeting my ears. Of course Stephen is brushing his teeth. That way he’s free to fall asleep after sex without worrying about plaque. Shaking my head, I strip off my clothes and slip into bed to wait for him.
A few minutes later he strolls in, naked, partially erect. He wastes no time switching off the light and climbing in beside me. He grabs my wrist, places my hand on his cock. I know exactly what he wants, but I hesitate.
“I thought maybe you could…” I take his hand and mimic him, placing it on the soft nest of hair between my legs.
He touches me, but too roughly, too soon, and I squirm. “I really should get to bed. I only budgeted ten minutes, because I can afford to sleep in ten extra minutes in the morning. Anything longer than that and I’ll be late for work.”
I sigh. Fine. I throw his hand back and grasp his cock with one of mine while carefully grazing my fingers over my folds with my opposite hand, warming both of us up. It doesn’t take long for him to reach his full size, pressing into my fist. I can feel the sticky precum on my fingers and hear his breathing, sharp and quick. I pump a little harder, but he soon stops me, pushing my hand away.
He crawls on top of me, his cock pressing into my thigh as he adjusts himself, aligning our bodies. He covers me, his arms in a mock embrace at my side, the closest thing to comfort I’ve had since Santiago.
Santiago.
I clench my eyes shut, trying not to think about him as Stephen shudders and fills me. Within moments, he rolls off, already snoring. I feel alone, moorless, staring up into the darkness, searching for the stars I know I won’t find.
Being with Stephen, my husband, is the “right” thing, but why does it feel so “wrong”? And why, as sleep pulls me, do I imagine the reassurance of Santiago’s warm embrace?
Part Two
Chapter Eleven
Six Weeks Later
The week of ECAC, after I got back home, was tough. Stephen worked till ten every night, and I split my time between sitting at my computer, staring at the blinking cursor, trying to work on my novel, ironically unable to fill the space after as if she were a statue waiting to be released from a spell. The other half of my time I passed parked in front of the TV, digesting hour after hour of nighttime soaps. It felt good to cry when characters died or had their hearts broken, because it meant the tears leaving my body were for someone else instead of me.
To make things worse, the jeweler fucked up my rings. The engagement ring was easily fixable, and I got it back a few weeks after ECAC. The wedding band, on the other hand, was more complicated, and I’m still waiting to get it back. The two rings used to nest together, and even though they assured me they could resize the band without problems, they ended up warping it, causing it to lose its shape so it no longer fit together with my engagement ring. After going so many weeks without, I’m used to not wearing a ring, and it feels wrong to wear one without the other, as if doing so reminds me that something is always missing.
So six weeks pass, and I get through them, as I always do, and though I think of Santiago daily (despite my best efforts to forget him), everything else fades to a blurry memory, as if it really were a dream.
After almost a week home alone, I returned to work, grateful for the grind. My office is large and generic, filled with cubes manned by people like me, spending our workweek slaving over other people’s writing.
I lean back in my chair, glancing around my cube to avoid staring at my computer monitor. Although my home office has a tendency to look like an episode of Hoarders, I try to keep my work space clear. Barring a few exceptions, I like to keep the desk clutter-free so I can focus on whatever manuscript I’m currently assigned. The occasional yellowing comic pinned to the gray fabric walls, a picture of Stephen and me the day we married, looking young and…I don’t know if “happy” is quite the word for it, but we’re smiling. Neither of us has any family, so eloping was the practical thing to do.
My latest project is a doozy. I’m the go-to girl in the office for documents written by nonnative speakers, but this one is compounded by two additional factors—the author is not only not an experienced or trained writer, but it’s far more technical than my usual assignments. Despite being good with writers who aren’t experienced with English, the jargon and style makes me wonder if my boss would have been better off assigning this manuscript to someone else. Or maybe it’s simply that I can’t seem to focus today.
A ping on my computer alerts me to a new e-mail, so I open it, skimming the contents quickly. Looks like my boss has scheduled a new meeting for Friday. I grab my tablet, flick to my calendar app, and hurry to enter the info so I’ll be reminded. Before I can lock the screen, an alert pops up from my period tracker app. Your period is late, it says.
I freeze, my grip tightening on the tablet. The sounds of the office around me momentarily magnify: the click of keyboards, hum of voices, echoing rings of phones, whir of my computer. I hurriedly switch to the app. It’s only a couple days, probably, I imagine. But then I see it.
Your period is late 16 day(s).
Fuck.
Wait. My mind is racing, and I have to consciously remember to breathe. Over two weeks. I’ve been late by as much as a week before, and even though I might be pregnant… Oh my God.
I’m pregnant!
I reach for the phone, thinking to call Stephen, when it hits me.
I’ve been off birth control for years and haven’t gotten pregnant once. Not once.
What is the one thing that’s changed in all this time?
Oh God.
I feel faint, sick, like I’m about to melt out of my chair into the carpet.
One word.
Santiago.
My cheeks suddenly feel uncomfortably hot, my head is swimming, and I’m nauseated. This baby… If I am pregnant… There’s a very real possibility that…
It’s not Stephen’s.
I sit in my chair, staring vacantly at the suggestion of my reflection in the darkened, power-saved screen, my pulse so rapid I can feel it jumping in my neck. I place a hand over it as if to silence it, as if everyone in the office—or at least the surrounding cubes—can hear it. As if it’ll somehow betray my secret.
That I’m pregnant, and the baby probably isn’t my husband’s.
I try to calm myself by taking a few slow, deep breaths. I shouldn’t panic yet. I might not even be pregnant. It’s never happened before. I could just be extra late this time because of stress or something. The voice in my head isn’t doing much to assuage me, and I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to focus and get any work done, despite the stack of manuscripts I have waiting for me.
I exhale, attempting to release every last molecule of air before waking my computer and opening my most pressing assignment. Maybe work is exactly what I need right now. Distract me.