If i am missing or dead, p.23
If I Am Missing or Dead, page 23
Okay, she says. But if you need to talk…
I’m fine, I repeat. I’m going to go check on Kurt.
Kurt is still asleep, his so-familiar face deep in the pillow. I slip out of my clothes and climb in next to him.
Good morning, I say, when he opens his eyes.
He puts his arm around me and pulls me in.
I’m sorry about last night, I say.
He grunts and pulls me closer.
How sorry? he asks.
We make love before breakfast and before coffee and before the road crew starts its daily pounding.
Chapter 20
LATER I KNOCK on Jane’s door.
Do you mind watching her while we go to the beach? I ask.
No problem, Jane says. We’ll play.
Kurt and I gather our things and walk the block to the ocean, where we set up our towels next to each other, facing the water. We open our books and read, side by side. After a while Kurt says, I’m going down to the water. Want to come?
I’ll just stay here, I say, shading my eyes as I look up at him.
If I doze off, will you wake me up in about twenty minutes? I ask.
Sure, he says, and walks toward the water.
I look back at my book.
Here’s a good one, I hear a man’s voice say. Six ways to tell if she’s faking it.
I lift my head and shade my eyes. A group of twenty-somethings sprawl on towels about ten feet away. The girls are long and lanky and the boys have tattoos and the beginnings of beer bellies. One of them is reading Maxim out loud.
Number Six, he says, then pauses and looks at each member of his gathering. She sounds just like a porn movie.
The group laughs.
I know that one, one of them says. He throws back his head and groans—Oh God Yes! Yes! Give it to me! Yes!
The group laughs again.
I stand up and pointedly gather my stuff, then move far enough upwind that I can’t hear their inanities.
I plump up a pile of sand for a pillow, stretch out on my back and let my eyes drift shut. A moment later a shadow falls over my face.
What the fuck are you doing? Kurt asks.
I look up at him, squinting at the corona of sun around his head.
What do you mean? I ask.
I mean, he says, speaking slowly, what…are…you…doing?
I stare at him for a moment.
I moved because that jerk was reading Maxim out loud, I say. It was annoying.
Sure, he says.
I am too drowsy to defend myself, so I let my eyes drift back shut.
Wake me up in twenty, will you?
I doze off before I hear his answer.
When I wake my lips are dry and cracked. I can’t work up enough spit to run my tongue over my teeth, and my eyes are gritty and tender from the sun. I grope for my sunglasses and look around.
Kurt is gone. Shit, he’s really gone. I stand up, then quickly bend back down, my ears ringing and my head swimming. I must have been asleep for quite a while, because I am dehydrated. What time is it? I press my right fingertips into my left forearm. When I pull them away four white indentations appear, then turn quickly pink. He had said he would wake me after twenty minutes, and now I am sunburned.
Asshole, I think.
He has stalked off, I am sure of that. Pissed about something, though I can’t guess what. Until recently I would have run after him like a Pekinese, begged, pleaded, apologized. Now I don’t bother.
I rub the ridge between my eyes and try to clear my head.
A minute later I see him coming toward me, shoulders back, fists and jaw clenched.
Where is he? he shouts, his words half carried off by the wind. Where’s your boyfriend?
What? I ask, grabbing a towel to hold in front of myself as I stand. What are you talking about?
Your boyfriend, the guy you were just talking to. Where is he?
I take a step back. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I say, not defiant, but placating. I was asleep.
You were talking to someone. I saw you. I was sitting on the wall over there, by that tree. He waves to a spot up the beach. And you were all animated talking to some guy.
He puts his hands on his hips and tilts back his head, mimicking a woman flirting. I am still not fully awake, but I know I wasn’t talking to anyone.
Something clicks then and I straighten to my full five feet, one-and-a-half inches. You’re nuts, you know it? You’re out of your mind.
I start off down the beach, but he catches up with me.
Yes, let’s walk, he says, scrambling breathlessly beside me. Let’s take a nice walk down the beach. Let’s share the fucking joy.
I stride on, silent, him scrambling along next to me in the soft sand. Half a mile later he grabs my arm and stops me.
Tell me you weren’t talking to anyone, he says, and I’ll believe you.
I look him in the eye. Mine are hidden behind dark lenses, but his are exposed, the crinkles around them deep as furrows.
I wasn’t talking to anyone, I say. I was asleep.
I shake him off my arm and start walking again. Again, he catches up.
Okay then, he says. I must have been looking at someone else. It must have been a mistake.
I stop, turn slowly to look at him over my sunglasses. My lavender bathing suit glints in the sun.
Show me, if you would, I say, someone else on this whole damn beach in a purple bikini.
He looks down at his hands, apologizes. Promises to never do it again.
I take him back.
That night I put on the tight pink sweater, miniskirt, and spike heels he likes so much. We leave Sarah with Jane and drive in the convertible to an Italian restaurant. It is a beautiful night, and we are flirtatious, light and happy.
We hold hands, laugh at each other’s jokes, eat off each other’s plates. I love it when he’s like this: attentive and happy, relaxed, excited to be with me. I try to let down my guard. His hand finds my thigh under the table, slips up under my skirt.
When we’re done eating he heads to the restroom and I head for a bench out front. Two men are leaning up against the building. I send them brain waves. Don’t talk to me, don’t talk to me, don’t talk to me, I think. They talk to me.
Excuse me, one says. But are you from Canada?
I laugh. No, I say, but I am from Michigan, and it’s close.
Ah, he says, punching his buddy on the arm. He owes me five bucks. We bet that no one would be that sunburned unless they were from Canada.
I am laughing when Kurt comes through the door, takes one look, and stalks off across the parking lot to our car. I scurry behind him.
I get into the car and he peels out of the parking space before my foot is in and my door closed. I grab my seat belt, but inside I am screaming. What have I gotten myself into? What happened that five minutes ago we were headed to a night of lovemaking, a lifetime of lovemaking and sharing and being entwined and now he is screeching around corners and slamming his palm into the steering wheel? How is the trigger so tight, so abrupt? How can he go from loving gazes to this look of contempt, of betrayal, of wanting to wrap his hands around my throat and shake me?
We get to the motel and storm up to the room.
It’s over, I say.
It has to be over. I cannot take the ups and downs anymore. I can’t take it that at any moment he is going to blow up. I just can’t.
I say it’s over, but beating staccato in my head are the questions. Do I mean it? Is it so bad that I’m willing to be broke and alone? Is it worth tearing apart my family, making my daughter the rope in a relentless tug of war? I don’t want that for her, the instability, the strained loyalties, the feeling that no place is safe.
But she doesn’t have that now. Not stability, not peace. I don’t want her to see her father and mother fighting and hating and arguing, don’t want her modeling her life after mine, with its drama and its disrespect and the stomping off and slamming doors and yelled epithets and insults and belittling comments. I don’t want this for her. Even more than I don’t want it for myself.
But still.
Fine, he says. I’ll leave right now.
Our trip is supposed to last two more days, but I can’t spend the time with him.
Fine, I say, but Sarah and I are staying.
He throws his suitcase onto the bed, then scoops his clothes out of the drawers and crams them in.
I’ll just call a cab, he says.
Fine, I say again.
He storms into the bathroom and gathers up his things, then closes his suitcase and drags it to the door, where he turns to look at me.
You won’t get a no-fault divorce from me, you know, he says. You’ll have to call the sheriff to drag me out.
I don’t respond. I don’t care. I’ll call the sheriff if that’s what it takes, but I don’t think he’s going to put himself up for that kind of humiliation. I think he’s bluffing, so I just look at him.
I’ll call the sheriff if I have to, I say, but you’re going.
I stick out my jaw and clench my teeth to keep from shaking. Is he going to go? I am terrified, but also—deep inside—serene.
He glares at me and I stand up straighter. Finally, through his teeth he says, Fine. I’ll go.
He waits a beat more, then shakes his head and walks out the door. I let it close behind him, then watch through a crack in the curtains as he thumps his bag step by step down the stairs. When he’s out of sight I drop the curtain and sit on the bed. It is one in the morning.
I can’t figure out what I’m feeling. Mostly relief and lightness. Mostly freedom. Mostly like I’ve leapt off a cliff and I’m flying, trying to enjoy but also afraid of the landing. Mostly I am feeling like I have finally done something that should have been done years ago, and I’m wondering what took me so long.
I make sure I have a room key and then walk down the outside balcony and knock on Jane’s door.
Hey, I say when she opens the door.
Her pajamas are twisted and her hair is flat on one side.
Sorry to wake you, I say. How’s Sarah?
Jane opens the door and steps back. Sarah is sprawled on Jane’s bed.
I’m sorry that went so late, I say.
She squints at me.
Are you okay?
Yea, I say. He’s gone.
She closes her eyes and then opens them again.
He’s gone?
I nod.
I told him to leave. I can’t stand the fighting anymore.
You okay?
Yeah, I say. It’s good. I’m going to carry her down to my room. Do you mind getting the doors?
Jane is not like Kurt. She sees what needs to be done and she does it. I am used to doing everything by myself, so it takes me a while to get used to the kind of help she provides.
I gather Sarah’s arms and legs and ever-longer body and her beloved stuffed elephant. She is still small enough for me to carry her with ease, but I have to turn sideways to get her out the door.
Thanks, Jane, I say when we get back to my room.
I kick the door closed and lay Sarah down in her crib, then lie down on my bed and look at her. She is beautiful. Beautiful and at peace, and I will give and do anything to keep her that way. My eyes fill thinking about it. I’m frightened at paying my own bills and being alone and sleeping by myself and being the only one there to fill my daughter’s relentless needs, but I also am at peace.
The door opens.
It’s Kurt.
The cab didn’t come, he says. I ran into the owner and he said he’d call a cab, but I’ve been standing out there and no cab.
Why don’t you call one yourself? I ask.
I thought he had, he says.
Call one now.
I know he is waiting for me to beg him to stay, to say I can’t live without him, but I just want him to leave.
He pulls out his cell phone and makes the call.
I don’t want you waiting in here, I say.
He doesn’t move.
Seriously, I say. I want you to go.
He glares at me, then turns and slams out of the room. As soon as the door closes, I put on the security chain. He probably can hear me do it and it will hurt him and make him angry, but I don’t care. I don’t want him coming back in.
I sit on the bed, pull out a notepad, and write.
“Sarah turned three today. Kurt and I are getting a divorce. For her birthday I am giving her a tension-free home, one in which her parents aren’t angry and wary and ever cautious.”
An hour later he calls. He is at a high-rise Sheraton. He is lonely. He wants to come back.
No, I say.
He tells me he loves me, that he will change, that he will do anything to keep me. He jokes, tells stories from our marriage, talks about our daughter.
I relent and let him come back. For the next two days, he is the good Kurt. He is charming, loving, funny. Neither of us storms or stomps or sulks.
We make it through the vacation.
A week later I call Amy. He is nice now, I say. She has been hearing my daily vacillations. I think maybe I should let him stay. It’s not really his fault. I know he’s jealous, and I must be doing something that makes men come on to me. Maybe I need to tone it down, interact with people differently.
Uh huh, she says.
I don’t know, though, I say. I don’t know if I believe he’ll be the Good Man in the long run.
How long has it been since he blew up at you?
Nine days, I say proudly.
Uh huh, she says.
His pleasantness lasts three more days, then he snarls and apologizes. It was a small thing, I tell Amy, and at least this time he apologized.
Yes, she says. I remember back when I was married to Jim. He had been sober for a couple of months. One night he had a beer with a friend. I said, It’s only a beer. A week later, he had two. Who am I to begrudge him a couple of beers? He works hard. He’s an adult, he can have the occasional beer. Then it was every night, and before long I was back to finding bottles under the couch.
I understand, although I don’t want to.
You know what to do, she says, so do it.
The next day Kurt blows up at me and I tell him it’s the end. He storms out. An hour later he comes back and hands me a letter.
Give me a month to make you fall back in love with me, it says.
I am emotionally cold. I don’t care.
Fine, I say.
The next week we are again at the marriage counselor’s.
I’m sorry, I say to both Kurt and the counselor, but I see no hope. Not because I don’t think it would be wonderful to stay with this good-looking, intelligent man—if he controlled his anger, if he kept working on his own issues, if he became sociable, if he learned to embrace the occasional risk…
Kurt looks at me with sad eyes.
I can do all of that, he says.
I walk out of there confused, rooting in my mind for even a wee smidge of hope. I am ambivalent and conflicted, even though I’m 98 percent positive. No, I’m 100 positive I couldn’t be with the man I was married to. But could I be married to the man he swears—cross my heart—he could be?
I tell Amy I’m going to give him another chance.
Why?
I don’t know, I say. Because I’m tired. Because maybe I’m wrong.
She is quiet for a long moment.
You there?
I’m here, she says.
You don’t think I should.
I didn’t say that, she says.
Un huh.
Amy canceled again, Mom says. She and Ron were supposed to come down, but Ron has to go paint at his parents’.
Didn’t the same thing happen a couple of weeks ago?
Yes, and when I offered to come up she said the place was too messy. Have you met him?
No.
We are both quiet for a moment.
Has anyone?
A few days later Kurt and I leave Sarah with a sitter and drive down to Tan Tara, intent on dancing and getting massages and having fun. On the way down I read to him, and we talk about careers and goals and our children. We are happy, although it’s tentative, like walking after being on crutches.
Do you know where you’re going at the end of the month? I say. I don’t want to get to the end of the thirty days and then have you start looking for a place.
He is quiet.
So you aren’t going to try, he says.
I thought he knew we were separating. His letter had said he knew the month wouldn’t change everything, but maybe it would be good enough to make me want thirty more days, and then thirty after that.
You’re not even going to try.
It’s not that, I say. I just want to know that there’s a plan in place, so we don’t drag this thing out.
He threatens to try to get Sarah, although later he promises he won’t. It is a long, sad drive, although no longer angry. We are both exhausted, I think.
When we get there we agree to just let it go and have fun. We order a pizza, make love, watch a movie. In the morning I sit on the balcony overlooking the lake. I drink my coffee.
I wonder if we could separate, go out on dates together, have Sarah drift freely between the houses while I figure out if I can forgive and forget and love him again and want him to touch me. Maybe by being apart we can reapproach each other and find a balance that works. I don’t know how we can overcome our differences, but I think a separation would be a great thing for both of us.
I watch the boats and the birds. For the moment I am at peace. Soon I’ll work out, and then we’ll have breakfast and shop for family birthday presents and head home. Tomorrow is the family’s spring birthday party. It may be the last such family function for me, and for that I feel sad.
On the drive home he gives up.
The thirty days won’t work, he says. Your heart isn’t in it.
When we get to the house he packs another suitcase.
You won’t get a thing, he says. Not a thing.
I don’t care. I just want him gone.
What about tomorrow’s party? I ask.
