The After Wife

by Summers, Melanie

  I nod and swallow, trying for a happy smile. Then I hear myself say, “No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I put on a carefree air. “Oh, you know, women, never wanting something until we can’t have it.”

  “Don’t do that.” His voice is quiet.

  “Do what?”

  “You have a habit of making a joke when what you really need to do is cry.” I feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to look at him.

  He puts his hand on mine. “You don’t have to pretend around me. I can handle sad.”

  Fresh tears spring out of my eyes. I let out a shaky breath before I find my voice again. “I just realized I may have missed out on something really beautiful.” I gesture with my head toward Olive and tears spill down my cheeks again.

  He slips his fingers through mine and gives them a gentle squeeze without saying anything. He doesn’t tell me it’ll be okay or that I could always adopt. He doesn’t pretend having children isn’t so great anyway. He just sits and lets me cry, and it’s exactly what I need.

  * * *

  The sun is setting when we reach slip number seventeen. I don’t give more than a glance to the vibrant show the sky is putting on. Instead, I watch Olive, who is asleep with her head on my lap, tired out from the fresh air and exploring. She is more of a marvel to me than the sky could ever be, with her bright, fresh mind and her big ideas. We are on the bench seat near the steering wheel, the breeze still warming us as the day draws to an end. My fingertips trace her hairline, and I’m happy to have her here, even though she’s become heavy against my leg. Her palm has opened, and I stare at the single green mermaid tear she’s been holding onto for the duration of the trip home.

  Liam glances over at his daughter, his eyes full of love. He’s taken his sunglasses off and no longer wears his hat. He docks the boat and jumps down onto the pier to tether it in place. I wait for him, not wanting to wake her. When he appears a few moments later, he opens the door to the cabin, then takes her from me, easily lifting her into his strong arms. She shifts into his chest while I whisper, “Good night, Olive.”

  Once they’re inside, I collect my things, hating that it’s time to go home to my empty house, but not wanting to embarrass myself by overstaying my welcome.

  Liam returns carrying two bottles of beer. “If you’re not sick of me yet, maybe you could stay for a drink.”

  Relief washes over me, and I nod and smile, dropping my bags on the bench.

  He sets up a table for two that has been neatly tucked away for our trip. I help unfold the chairs and soon we’re sitting together, listening to the gentle tide lap against the boat. I’m awakened by the cold, malty drink as it slides along my tongue and down my throat.

  “What a lovely day,” I remark. “I hope I didn’t ruin it earlier.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Not every minute has to be filled with laughter in order for it to add up to a good day.” He stares out at the last wisp of pink in the sky.

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “Of course you can.”

  “When I first heard about your … loss, I thought I was the lucky one because I didn’t have a child to look after through all this grieving. But now, I’m not so sure.”

  Liam nods. “When I first met you, I felt blessed that I wasn’t as alone as you.”

  The realization makes us both smile sadly. “I guess you make the most of what you’ve got, right?”

  “That you do, Abby. That you do.”

  “How did you manage … when it all happened?”

  “My mom took over for a few weeks so I could fall apart. But eventually, it was time for her to go and for me to get on with living.”

  “A few weeks? You amaze me, Liam. I fell apart for over a year.”

  “I’m not amazing. I just did what was required of me.” He sips his beer. “I have this theory that when you face hardship, there’s a time when you do what you have to and no more. I had a two-year-old, so I had to do a lot.”

  “Whereas I have a cat, so I could do almost nothing.”

  His expression is warm and understanding. “There were days when it felt like too much. There still are, but I’ve learned to put off my grief until Olive is away at school or at her grandparents’ place for the night. I put on a pretty decent show for her most of the time. I hope.”

  We sit in silence, sipping our drinks as we let the conversation digest. I can make out the sound of a folksong in the distance.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” His voice is quiet.

  “Sure.”

  “Why didn’t you and Isaac have a family?” This is usually the type of question that would irritate me, but from him, there is no judgment, only curiosity.

  I sigh. “I was twenty-two when we met. I was a teaching assistant at a university, and he was one of the professors there. He was close to forty when we started dating and I think that time had already passed for him.” I pause for a second, then go on, trying to figure it out for myself. “It’s hard to remember exactly how we decided it. It’s not like it was a big fight or anything. I think maybe it was because he was too old to want children and I was too young to understand what that choice really meant.” I stare down at my shoes for a moment. “I seem to recall fleeting thoughts of parenthood somewhere in the middle of our time together, but I dismissed it as my biological clock. There was no way I would allow myself to be a slave to something so primitive.”

  “Primitive.” He repeats the word, sounding just the faintest bit offended.

  I shake my head. “No, I don’t mean it that way. I believed I was taking the road less traveled by not having children. I never wanted to be predictable. I wanted to be interesting.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “That wasn’t better, was it?” I ask, then have a couple of gulps of beer. “Let me try that again. As some of my friends became parents, they didn’t want to talk about anything other than their children. ‘Why isn’t he walking?’ or ‘she said her first word’ or they’d spend all their time complaining about how they never slept and didn’t have sex anymore.”

  The words spill out quickly now, loosened by the alcohol. “They stopped caring about things like politics and world events and became completely absorbed in their little lives. Isaac and I used to congratulate ourselves for our mutual wisdom to remain carefree. It was all very easy with no one to look after but ourselves. I could stay up and write until the early morning hours and sleep all day if inspiration struck. We could take off on a whim for the weekend or for the entire summer, even. No way you can do that if you have a child.”

  He stares at me while I talk. “Well, then … "

  “I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” I wince, feeling like shit for what I’ve said.

  “Not really. What you’ve said is true. Most parents do start to lose track of the outside world. We don’t get to sleep as much or have as much sex as we’d like, and we certainly can’t drop everything and get on a flight to Paris. We’re also fascinated by our little people. They hold our hearts and minds hostage, pretty much forever.”

  His words squeeze at my chest, and I can almost imagine the depths of the love I would have had for my own child. “I can see that now, after spending time with you and Olive. For the first time, the whole thing makes sense.”

  * * *

  That night, as I climb into bed, I am grateful the long day has worn me out. I know I’ll sleep well despite the twisting and churning of my heart. I feel as though I’m going to start the grieving process all over again, this time for a family that never existed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard.

  ~ Dorothy Parker, You Might as Well Live: The Life and Times of Dorothy Parker

  It’s just after midnight on Sunday evening, and I have been alone all day. I took a long walk this morning and had a most wonderfully refreshing swim before spending the afternoon curled up with my laptop, trying to distract
myself. Other than words I have spoken to Walt, my tongue has had no exercise today. I feel restlessness bear down on me as soon as I finish the chapter I’ve been working on.

  It suddenly occurs to me I was supposed to make my Sunday call to my mom already today. I grab my phone and call her number, hoping she’s still awake.

  After three rings, she picks up. “Abigail? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just remembered it was Sunday. Well, it was until five minutes ago.”

  “It’s still Sunday here for another three hours, so close enough.” She sounds old to me. When did her voice start sounding like an old lady’s?

  “What’s wrong?” she asks again.

  “Nothing.” I consider steering the conversation to something trivial but decide against it. “Can you remember a time when I wanted children?” My voice cracks. Yup. I’m a mess again.

  She sighs. “Of course I remember. Don’t you? You used to play with your dolls all the time as a little girl. Changing diapers and giving them bottles. You practically wore out the wheels on that red carriage.”

  “Yes, I know that. But what about when I was older? You know, a teenager or a young woman.”

  “No teenager wants to have children, Abby. And to be honest, after you moved to New York, I didn’t really know what you wanted anymore.” For once I don’t hear a martyr in her voice. I hear my mother, who lost me a long time ago.

  I gasp for air, and my exhale is loud.

  “Are you crying, honey?”

  I nod, then remember she can’t see me. “Yes,” I whisper.

  I hear my dad’s voice in the background. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m talking to Abby. Go back to sleep.”

  “Were you in bed already, Mom?”

  “Yes, but I was reading. Just a second.” There is a long pause, then I hear her pick up the cordless phone in the kitchen. I hear her breathing as she walks back to her bedroom to hang up the phone in there. A few moments later, her recliner squeaks, and I can picture her settling herself into it, dressed in her fuzzy pink robe. “Abby, are you still there?”

  “Yes.” My voice is a bit stronger now.

  “We were really scared when you met Isaac. He was so much older and so sure of what he wanted in life, while you were just beginning to figure it out. I had a horrible feeling that you’d end up living a life suited to a middle-aged man and not a young woman.”

  “I know, you’ve told me that before, but I thought it was just because you wanted me to move home and give you more grandkids to spoil.”

  “I hate that you always put that on me, as though my reasons were purely selfish. It was never about that.” She sighs, then says, “Well, a little bit, maybe. But it’s natural for a mother to want to be near her children.” She seems to catch herself mid-lecture and stops. “Abigail, what a mother wants more than anything is to see her children live the fullest life possible. In your case, it may not have meant becoming a mother, but I never believed you explored that idea enough. When you married Isaac, I saw your future. And it made me so sad.” She’s crying now, and I hate that I’ve done this to her.

  Sounds of sobs come from both sides of the continent, and I’m completely unaware of how long we stay like this. “I’m sorry, Mom. I know you tried to tell me. I just wish I had understood.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You were so young. There’s no way you could see it from my side.”

  “But I should have trusted that you just wanted the best for me, instead of deciding you were trying to control me.”

  “Oh, Abby, you did what young people do. You fell in love, you got caught up in it, and you set out to prove your parents wrong about everything. I did the same thing when I married your dad.”

  “Because of the whole religion thing?”

  “Yup. And look how we turned out. Only two kids. My father’s probably still rolling over in his grave about it.”

  I laugh for the first time in over twenty-four hours, and it comes as such a relief.

  “Come home, sweetie, even just for a while. Let me help you get through this.”

  “Okay. I’ll come as soon as the work is done on the house.”

  “Really?” Her tone suggests she doesn’t quite want to let herself believe it.

  “Really. It should be ready sometime in October. I’ll come home then.”

  * * *

  In my dream, I’ve been waiting for Isaac in front of our favorite café overlooking the Central Park Zoo and when he finally shows up, he’s sauntering instead of running like he should be.

  I start yelling as soon as I catch sight of him. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting here? Three days!” I scream at him, not caring that I’m humiliating us both in front of all these people. “Where were you?”

  “I had to go to Spain for some vino de Jerez.”

  “You flew all the way to Spain for some sherry we can buy five blocks from our house?”

  He shrugs. “It was on sale.”

  “But we were going to have dinner together! You told me to meet you here!”

  “Sorry, Abigail, but you’re not the center of the universe, you know.”

  I wake myself up punching the air above my bed. Sitting up, I rub my eyes while my heart pounds out the tune of my rage. It’s a little after four in the morning and there is no way I can fall back asleep at this point. I don’t even want to, in case I go back to that fight.

  Getting up, I wander through the empty house, which has taken on an inky gray tone. I’m both furious and restless. Without thinking, I slide on a pair of flip-flops, then walk out the back door. There is only the full moon and a distant streetlamp to light my way. The cool air runs over my skin, waking my body. By the time I’ve crossed through the wet grass of my yard, my feet are soaked and cold, but it doesn’t put out the fire that burns inside me.

  The wind whips my hair across my cheek as I walk through the maples and make my way along the path to the shore. Other than the waves lapping against the rocks, the world is still. The sun hasn’t woken the birds yet, and I am glad for that. It means I can be alone with my anger.

  I walk all the way to the ocean, then stand on a large, flat rock and stare out. My bathrobe flutters around my shins, but I do not tighten the sash to shield me from the chill.

  Why am I so furious?

  My dream comes flashing back into my mind. I see Isaac’s face. I suddenly hate him. I hate him for leaving me. I hate him for loving me. I hate him for showing me a life I can no longer have. I hate the young woman sitting at that staffroom table thinking it would be deliciously fun to turn his head. I hate her for letting him make decisions that were mine to make. I hate the pitiful woman wallowing away in that apartment, wasting so many days. I hate her weakness, her self-pity.

  I reach up and take hold of his ring. Some wild part of my mind believes the delicate gold chain around my neck is going to choke me. I have to get it off now or I will die. I give it a sharp tug and the chain snaps with the force of my rage. I pull my arm back and hurl it into the water, letting out a scream of pure hatred.

  The moonlight reveals to me the exact spot in which the ring drops. I’m shocked. I’m relieved. I’m done.

  I walk back to the house, strip off my wet clothes, climb under the covers, then drop into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  I wake with a start and reach for my necklace. It’s gone. I actually threw Isaac’s ring into the ocean.

  I throw off the blankets, startling poor Walt, then dress quickly in my swimsuit, not bothering to brush my teeth. I run out the back door and down to the water where I scour the shore. I know I won’t find it, but I wade into the ocean anyway, diving under, trying to feel my way along the rocky bottom below me. Rays of light shine through the water, but I can’t keep my eyes open without the salt stinging them. I surface, take a deep breath, then close my eyes and grope around some more before giving up and returning to the shore, my teeth chattering with cold.

  The sun is too weak to war
m me as I sit on a rock, breathing hard and staring out to the water. It’s too late. I can’t undo it. I have thrown away the dearest thing of Isaac’s that I had. The symbol of my undying love and fidelity. What kind of a horrible wife am I? I slump down and sob into my hands.

  “Abby, is that you?”

  I know that voice without looking up. “Hi, Eunice.”

  “What’s wrong, dear?” I glance up in time to see her as she hurries over, dressed in a neon green tracksuit with matching sneakers. Her hair is up in a high ponytail that is probably meant to take a decade off her face.

  “Nothing. I lost something.”

  “What was it? I can help you look.”

  “A ring. But it’s gone. I can’t find it.”

  “It must have been very special for you to be so upset.” She sits next to me and pats my hand.

  I nod and feel the sting of fresh tears. “It was.”

  “Hmph, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s not about the ring, though, is it?”

  “You’d be right.” I look over at her and finally see past all the hair and makeup and matchy-matchy clothes. I see a woman who wants to make the world a bit brighter. “Did you ever feel like maybe the life you built for yourself isn’t necessarily the one you should be living?”

  She looks up at the sky for a second before answering. “Do you mean because I married the wrong Beckham?”

  I chuckle and watch her as her gaze follows a sailboat.

  “I hope you know I’m only joking. Dennis is a good man, and I love him to death. But, yes, sometimes I feel like I should be living a different life.”

  “Doing what?”

  “It sounds a little silly maybe, but when I finished high school, I wanted to move to New York and perform on Broadway. I was sure I was the next Liza Minnelli. I was already with Dennis by then, if you can imagine. He wanted to stay here and get into island politics.”