I hate my husband the most at dinnertime, but I can\u2019t stop myself from cooking his favorites. Tonight the greasy smell of fried chicken hangs in the air and the bowl of mashed potatoes sport the perfect shade of buttery yellow. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies rest on the counter. I breathe it all in, gleaning strength from the heaviness in the air, reminding myself that this is still a kind of love, but the battling emotions jostle through my belly in a new, angry grumble I\u2019ve never felt before.<\/p>\n
I reach for the light switch, flick it up and down three times. It\u2019s been two years to the day since Jim installed the switch, a way for me to gain his attention when he\u2019s sequestered himself away in his basement workshop building bassinets for the new mothers at church. I can\u2019t call down because he won\u2019t hear me, and I stopped descending the stairs one year, 360 days ago. After two nights of cold dinners plus another three days of snaking Home Depot wires through the walls, Jim revealed the beauty of his new light switch signaling system. Silent genius.<\/p>\n
By the time I transfer everything to the table, Jim\u2019s boots have clomped their way up the wood stairs and he stands in the doorway, smiling broadly, appreciative of the fragrances, appreciative of my efforts, but not of me, I don\u2019t think. He\u2019s wearing the headphones, the noise-cancelling ones he pumps with white noise day in and day out, filling his head and his thoughts and his life with burbling static. My brain registers his wide smile, genuine as the day he married me, but all I really see are the giant black headphones wrapped over his head.<\/p>\n
Jim takes a seat, scoops food directly from the serving dishes to his plate. He can reach clear across the table, almost to my fingertips, so he\u2019s done in seconds, already shoveling food into his mouth and nodding his approval before I even reach for a utensil. My stomach gives an unexpected lurch that roars at me inside my head: You can<\/i>\u2019<\/i>t possibly still think he will ever show up for dinner without wearing those stupid things! You can<\/i>\u2019<\/i>t possibly think things will ever be normal again!<\/i><\/p>\n
I don\u2019t understand how that wiggling discomfort in my stomach can be speaking to me, but it is. It\u2019s shouting at me, shutting out everything else the same way the noise in Jim\u2019s headphones must, twisting at my guts and forcing me to acknowledge thoughts I\u2019ve tamped down and ignored for years.<\/p>\n
I haven\u2019t eaten my first bite. Jim is halfway through his first helping, but suddenly he stops, fork suspended in the air. He looks at my plate, my glass of iced tea, my silverware, which rattle against the tabletop as if an earthquake has descended on the 20 or 30 square feet occupied by our kitchen table. There is no earthquake, though. It\u2019s me. My fingers are gripping the edge of the table so tightly my fingers have turned red and white in stressed splotches. The tremors in my body are running down the lengths of my arms, transferring into the table, shaking up my place setting so the lined-up knife and fork and spoon are now askew.<\/p>\n
My mouth drops open when I see what I\u2019m doing. Jim\u2019s jaw unhinges too. His eyes go round, and there\u2019s a wild fear etched across his brow, a mirror reflection of what I\u2019m feeling, an open distress I haven\u2019t seen from him in a long time. I can tell he doesn\u2019t have a clue what to do. We\u2019ve been in denial for too long to even begin to know how to handle this.<\/p>\n
My insides are screaming now. Break away! Break away!<\/i> So I do. I yank my hands off the table, and since I\u2019m the only one who could hear the clatter I\u2019d created, there\u2019s a satisfaction in this abrupt stillness that\u2019s completely opposite of the chaos I\u2019ve endured since Jim went silent. Now I\u2019m fumbling in the kitchen drawer, digging for a notepad, a pen. In the back, I find a tiny pad of Post-its that are curled at the corners. Jim is very adept at lip-reading but this I\u2019m going to write, because I want him to hear<\/i> me. I want what I have to say to linger on his retinas.<\/p>\n
It feels good to drag the pen across the paper, scratching out the words:<\/p>\n
No more, Jim!<\/i>\u00a0 I rip the top sheet away and slap it onto the table in front of him. He reads the paper, has the decency to look at me even if his expression is that of an uncomprehending child.<\/p>\n
I have to leave.<\/i> I palm this note on top of the first.<\/p>\n
Jim touches it with the tip of his finger. No. He shakes his head. No.<\/p>\n
Can<\/i>\u2019<\/i>t do this anymore.<\/i> Slap \u2014 on top of the other two. I don\u2019t wait for his reaction.<\/p>\n
Why are we still here in this house, by the lake?<\/i> This one I stick to my index finger because I\u2019ve run out of room.<\/p>\n
doing THIS <\/i>\u2026<\/i> It<\/i>\u2019<\/i>s killing me. You\u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n
This one goes on my middle finger. I force myself to write smaller, even though I\u2019m trying to scream.<\/p>\n
won<\/i>\u2019<\/i>t let me move on. I can<\/i>\u2019<\/i>t heal, J. I<\/i>\u2019<\/i>m dying.<\/i> I lay all three notes down, one next to the other in a line of neon squares. My chest is heaving. I can\u2019t feel any air in my lungs.<\/p>\n
He doesn\u2019t look up. He\u2019s arranging all the notes into a neat three-by-two grid, each one perfectly squared to its neighbor, and he\u2019s pressing at the curled corners, trying to control the situation.<\/p>\n
My anger drains into sorrow I don\u2019t need, seeing him like that, but I can\u2019t stay, not now that I\u2019ve broken.<\/p>\n
Decide!<\/i><\/p>\n
I push the note toward him. It dangles, quivering, by the adhesive attached to my fingertip. He plucks it away and stares at it while I fish my car keys from my purse and run out the door.<\/p>\n
I stamp my foot on the gas, let gravel fly against the undercarriage, and squeal out onto the asphalt. I can only think of one place to go. I would rather go anywhere than the Tuesday night support group at church, but that\u2019s where my inner GPS seems to be taking me, steering by rote to the exact place where all my well-meaning friends begged me to go back when my wounds were new and open and oozing with fresh pain. They\u2019ll take me in, but I won\u2019t be able to blame them if my arrival is met with a lack of enthusiasm.<\/p>\n
I am wrong, of course. They all speak at once, saying my name over and over until my nerves tingle while they tug me into the fold. I\u2019m dissolving into a frayed wire, but the pressure of their tight hugs keep me from buzzing completely apart.<\/p>\n
From our circle of chairs, Deedee Smith begins by telling us how her husband Clint\u2019s grown children have ostracized her since his death. \u201cThey ate Easter lunch at my house not three months ago, and now they can\u2019t be bothered to call me. It\u2019s as if I don\u2019t exist anymore. I\u2019ve lost a whole family.\u201d Next to Deedee, Alan Maguire reaches across the blank space and covers her hand in her lap, a comforting gesture echoed by a hum of support in the room. I stare at his hand, the lean fingers all-encompassing, marveling at the way her tinier one curls into a ball, disappearing underneath his. When he pulls it away seconds later, it actually feels like a burden has been lifted from the room.<\/p>\n
He\u2019s next in the lineup. \u201cI think I\u2019m doing better,\u201d he declares. I already knew that Alan\u2019s wife, Carol, had passed away four months ago from cancer. Jim and I sent a sympathy card. \u201cI hope it doesn\u2019t sound terrible to say I don\u2019t think about her every second of every day.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course not,\u201d I hear myself say, my words harmonizing into a chorus of similar sentiments.<\/p>\n
Alan basks in the approval. \u201cIt feels like a shift has occurred. There are these moments now when I realize time\u2019s gone by when my mind has wandered into a completely different place and I\u2019m not sure how it got there. The pain comes back, in waves, but they aren\u2019t crashing against me relentlessly anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n
How incredibly poetic, I think, with not an ounce of sarcasm. Jealousy, yes. I want that relief he\u2019s describing, but I haven\u2019t been allowed to have it. I want my loss transformed into a simple, beautiful description like that, but I don\u2019t believe I can make it happen. And I\u2019m right.<\/p>\n
The baton continues passing from one bereaved soul to another. When it\u2019s my turn to grasp it, all I can muster is, \u201cIt still hurts \u2026\u201d An almost inaudible, even to myself, \u201c\u2026 so much\u201d is swept away by heartfelt mutterings of late, late condolences. These people all know that I lost my child. They even think they know how. I can\u2019t elaborate. Even after the way I left Jim tonight, hovering over my sticky-note ultimatums, the truth will always only belong to the two of us. What I\u2019ve said isn\u2019t much, but it\u2019s all I can let go of right now.<\/p>\n
Fifteen minutes later, the group disburses. Not enough time has passed for me to go home. I cross the parking lot as slowly as I can and linger by my car, keys in hand, watching other cars exit, one by one, punctuation on a smile and a wave from each driver. I would prefer a shroud of darkness, but I\u2019m thankful for the promise in the fading light.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnna.\u201d<\/p>\n
Alan Maguire has pulled his truck alongside my car. \u201cAre you all right?\u201d<\/p>\n
He\u2019s asking me. This man with his own grief to handle is asking me how I feel, and I can\u2019t answer. My silence must speak volumes. Ironic.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnna,\u201d he says again, gently, like he\u2019s trying not to spook a horse. \u201cCome with me. We\u2019ll get a coffee.\u201d<\/p>\n
I have to swallow. \u201cNo coffee,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe can go to the park. Walk. It could help.\u201d<\/p>\n
Walking. Yes. That sounds good. The park down the street doesn\u2019t have a lake or pond. I can walk there, with this man who is willing to talk to me. \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n
His truck is foreign territory, layered in dust from a different world wherever his fingers haven\u2019t buffed out a shine. He gathers several fast food bags from the passenger seat, crumples them, and stashes them behind the seat so I can take their place. A startling pang of sympathy zips across my midriff for this man. The skin over my ribs used to contract like that for Jim.<\/p>\n
\u201cSorry about that,\u201d Alan says.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh no, don\u2019t worry about it. You\u2019re busy.\u201d I\u2019m thinking of the homemade zucchini muffins Carol used to bring for Sunday school breakfasts on Fifth Sundays. My trite response hangs between us on the short drive, and I\u2019m grateful when we turn into the park\u2019s entrance, more grateful to be out of his truck and on the path.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t eat very well now that \u2026\u201d Alan tapers off.<\/p>\n
\u201cI cook like crazy. It\u2019s all I do.\u201d What I\u2019ve said feels instantly inappropriate, like I\u2019m lording my meals over him. \u201cI\u2019ve never mastered cooking for two.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo?\u201d It\u2019s incredibly bright, this one word spoken while he looks at his feet.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s the recipes,\u201d I back-pedal, trying to correct my faux pas before it gets worse. \u201cI could never divide the measurements and have things turn out right, so I gave up. It\u2019s always too much. I could pack you some meals.\u201d<\/p>\n
No doubt he\u2019s run through all the home-catered casseroles that appeared in droves in the beginning. He might be entirely content with his trips to Chick-fil-A, now that I think about it.<\/p>\n
\u201cI miss her cooking.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cZucchini muffins,\u201d I blurt.<\/p>\n
This gets a smile. His head pops up, and I realize in this moment that for all his nice intentions back in the church parking lot, we aren\u2019t here for me. We\u2019re here for him.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh my God, yes! Were they not delicious?\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo delicious.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you ever taste her apple fritters? They were so flaky.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, but remember that time she made jambalaya for the basketball banquet? I asked her for the recipe, like ladies do. She didn\u2019t say no, but I\u2019m pretty sure she had one of those telepathic excuse-me-I-have-to-answer-this-phone-that-didn\u2019t-actually-ring calls.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cRight!\u201d A hearty laugh boils up inside him. \u201cDon\u2019t take it personally. That recipe was her grandmother\u2019s. The Villemont women guard that thing like well-trained Dobermans.\u201d<\/p>\n
I throw my head back to laugh with him and a smattering of raindrops hit my face.<\/p>\n
Yards away, a sudden wall of rain chases our warning drops. Alan holds out his hands, palms up. \u201cUp for a sprint?\u201d<\/p>\n
I grab one of his hands, knowing full well that\u2019s not why he\u2019s put them out there, but he folds his fingers over mine anyway, and we take off.<\/p>\n
The rain catches us, drenching our hair and the top half of our clothes. We let go of each other and jump in the truck, slamming our doors at the same time while the rain pounds onto the roof and windshield.<\/p>\n
He runs a hand over his head, dragging water through the strands, and wipes water from his face. \u201cSo was your walk cleansing<\/i> enough for you?\u201d A surprisingly soprano giggle bursts out of him.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. It was,\u201d I say. I touch a wet strand of his hair that he missed and comb it back with the rest, allowing my fingers to lightly trace the naked top of his ear. I want to dig my fingers into a man\u2019s untethered hair, to cup my hand around the back of his head, to draw him to me and kiss him and whisper into his ear, and I want that man to be Jim. I give Alan\u2019s hair a little tousle, like he\u2019s a 5-year-old child, and put my hands in my lap. \u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>\n
The rain shower has conjured a mist that reaches up off the lake, illuminated in my headlights as my wheels crunch across the gravel leading to my house. At first I don\u2019t see him, but then the outline of a man emerges intermittently through the wavering fog.<\/p>\n
Jim. Not Jim. Jim again. Staring out over the lake.<\/p>\n
I cut the lights, get out, pick my way through the weeds toward him. The closer I get, the better I can make him out. Disappointment surges through me, but something else too. Hope? The headphones are there, black sentries wrapped over the top of his head. He won\u2019t have heard me walk down the bank, but he knows I\u2019m behind him.<\/p>\n
Without turning, he holds up a square of neon orange paper.<\/p>\n
Through the moonlight, I read my own handwriting: Why are we still here <\/i>\u2026<\/i><\/p>\n
Then he holds up a second note. Because <\/i>she<\/i>\u2019<\/i>s<\/i> here. <\/i>It\u2019s his lumpy writing, his boxy letters penned neatly onto the tiny square, not like the frantic scrawling of my note. This feels like a decision.<\/p>\n
I walk around so I\u2019m standing in front of him, my back to the lake, planting myself between him and the demon that took our child. I can\u2019t undo the fact that he took her swimming too far out, that when he saw the boat speeding straight toward them, the boy on board drunk and laughing and plucking at his girlfriend\u2019s bikini strap, he uttered his last words to our daughter. \u201cBig breath, Linds. The biggest.\u201d Together, they gulped in air that stretched their lungs, then Jim flipped and dove with Lindsey in his arms, into the cold depths with the churning blades of the boat\u2019s motor chomping after their heels. Jim thought the boat was circling back; he could hear the muffled motor buzzing away, but then it sounded like it was coming back at them, so he stayed under too long, holding onto Lindsey, listening, listening for the quiet of a lake with no boats that never came while she clawed her tiny fingernails into his back and finally let the air go from her lungs.<\/p>\n
I can\u2019t blame him for never wanting to hear another boat scuttle across these waters \u2014 his keen hearing betrayed him that day on the lake \u2014 but it\u2019s time for my husband to stop punishing himself.<\/p>\n
Because <\/i>she<\/i>\u2019<\/i>s<\/i> here, <\/i>the note says. <\/i>It\u2019s an answer, but it\u2019s not a decision. I need Jim to decide, so I back toward the water, my body trembling with the aftershock of the quake that shook our kitchen table hours before.<\/p>\n
The muscles in Jim\u2019s face tense, folding in on themselves.<\/p>\n
When my feet touch the water, he shakes his head, begging me to stop, but I can\u2019t. I walk backward until the lazy water laps against my shins. There\u2019s movement in his shoulders, like he\u2019s leaning into me.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m up to my waist before he moves. He reaches me, wincing as the water folds over his feet, and I can see the streaks drawn by tears along either side of his nose.<\/p>\n
I take his hands and slide my feet backward through the muddy bottom so the water is at my chin. A moment passes when I think he will leave me, that he won\u2019t be able to bear what I\u2019ve put in motion, but then he drifts into me, presses against me. We breathe and go under. I can\u2019t see him in the dark of the water, but my hands follow the line of his shoulders and neck till I find the headphones. Barely moving, I slip my fingers underneath them, then over his ears, and push them away from us forever into the cool black water.<\/p>\n
The lake is completely silent. I hope he can hear it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I hate my husband the most at dinnertime, but I can\u2019t stop myself from cooking his favorites. Tonight the greasy smell of fried chicken hangs in the air and the bowl of mashed potatoes sport the perfect shade of buttery yellow. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies rest on the counter. I breathe it all in, … <\/p>\n