The Long Way Home

by Jasinda Wilder

  There’s one last arrangement to make: Ava hates being alone, but more than people, the company she craves more than anything is a pet, but there simply hasn’t been time in the past few years for pets, and Christian never wanted one; it was a constant sore point between them, and a source of conflict.

  So, he finds a labradoodle breeder nearby, Ava’s favorite breed. He buys a puppy, brings it home.

  Ava is awake, drinking wine and watching Mad Men reruns. “Who’s this?” she asks.

  “I’ve been calling him Darcy.”

  “After Pride and Prejudice.” Ava slides off the couch, moving sloppily to sit on the floor, scooping the puppy into her arms.

  He’d known exactly what Ava would name a puppy, if she were to get one.

  The next day, he’s out running when he sees a little girl sitting at a table on the apron of her driveway, with a large transparent storage crate in front of her, filled with calico kittens; there’s a handwritten sign—free to a loveing home only take one if you will really really love it.

  Christian takes one, brings it home, snuggling it against his chest as he jogs back to the condo. Once again, Ava is awake when he returns, a little after three in the afternoon, although she is visibly intoxicated already.

  “This is Bennet,” he says, settling the warm little bundle of fur in her hands.

  Ava stares at him, but says nothing.

  Yet, she cuddles the kitten to her chest, nuzzling her nose into its fur. A tear slides down her cheek into the kitten’s fur, and yet Ava still only stares at Christian.

  Darcy sniffs the kitten, and Ava scoops the puppy onto her lap, letting the two animals meet. It’s a heartrending scene, and Christian finds himself unable to breathe. Eventually, he turns away, returning to his office. It is empty, since he’s already transferred most of his books and his laptop to the boat. There’s nothing in the office, in fact, except the desk, chair, and a half-empty bottle of scotch.

  Which he finishes, slowly, sitting at the desk, fighting the urge to smash the bottle against the wall.

  He pens a note for Ava, using his personalized stationery and Mont Blanc fountain pen—once prized possessions which he now finds…gauche and pretentious.

  12

  [August 3, 2015]

  Ava wakes up on the couch. It is dark outside, but there is a hint of gray on the horizon, prophesying the coming dawn. She is still drunk. Her head throbs, and her stomach is roiling, and her hands tremble. Darcy, the little labradoodle puppy, is asleep at her feet, curled into a comma, his nose tucked under his tail; Bennet, the kitten, is draped along the back of the couch, wide awake, staring and blinking and watching Ava as she rouses herself to a sitting position.

  The cable box shows the time in bright orange numerals: 5:08 a.m.

  Something is amiss.

  Her gut clenches, and it has nothing to do with the alcohol curdling in her system. Any home is quiet and still in the predawn hours, but there is a new texture to this silence, a foreboding, an echoing sense of…otherness.

  Ava shuffles from the living room into the kitchen, peering sleepily around. Then to the hallway and the bathroom. She hesitates outside Christian’s office, but lacks the courage to open that door just yet. Their bedroom is empty, the bed made, fresh sheets turned down, pillows plumped; Christian learned how to professionally make and turn down a bed while working on that rich guy’s yacht, and has always been a bit anal retentive about it. She checks the master bathroom—something is missing. But what? It takes her bleary, wine-fogged mind a moment or two to figure it out.

  His razor is gone. His shaving cream is gone. His deodorant and hair paste and cologne and toothbrush are gone. She checks the cabinet, and any item he used frequently is gone along with his stuff from under the sink.

  She pads into the walk-in closet: his clothes are gone, the hangers empty and neatly arranged against one side of the closet, the shelves empty. His dresser drawers are empty. His watch collection is gone, and even the ceramic dish he’d made in fifth grade in which he keeps spare change is gone. All of his effects and belongings are gone.

  Finally, she can avoid his office no longer. She stands outside the door for a long, tense moment. Her hand trembles on the knob. And then, abruptly, she twists the knob and shoves the door open, and it shudders and slams against the wall and drifts back toward her, catching to a stop against her bare toe. Empty shelves, clean desk—he was a messy writer, with pages of handwritten notes scattered everywhere, reminders on Post-its, bills half out of envelopes. His laptop is gone. The drawers are empty.

  She doesn’t see the note at first. On a desperate hope, she half-jogs out the back door and out onto the beach. She scrunches through the sand to the place where he’d always sit and drink, as of late, a few feet up from the surf, close enough that water would lap at his feet but not get him wet.

  Nothing but sand.

  Back inside, to his office, and this time she sits in his chair. And that’s when she sees the note:

  * * *

  You look at me with blame in your eyes, as if this is somehow my fault; you look at me with disdain, as if I willed all of this to happen; you look at me as if you don’t even recognize me anymore, as if all of this has somehow irrevocably altered me on some intrinsic level.

  You are not wrong, about any of it.

  No, I could not have prevented Henry from dying; obviously I didn’t want this—I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy; of course this hellscape that is our life has changed me—how could it not?

  It is not my fault.

  Yet still, I accept the blame. I accept the disdain. I accept the distance in your eyes.

  * * *

  I accept it, because I am weak and empty and dead. I am a husk of a man, and it is better to be filled with guilt and self-loathing and sadness than to be so utterly empty and alone as I have been these last weeks.

  Ava, my love: you have always been the best part of me, and through you we created Henry, our son, and in him I found completion and strength and purpose. Now that he is gone, I have lost those things, and I have lost you, and thus I have lost myself.

  I’m sorry, Ava.

  I wish I had the strength to go on, but I don’t.

  Goodbye.

  * * *

  “Christian?” Her voice is tremulous.

  Rushing, now, she rechecks everything, as if his belongings might suddenly reappear. As if he might suddenly appear.

  Darcy is worried, following Ava around, sniffing her heels and nudging her calves with a wet, cool nose, whimpering. Ava stoops, picks up Darcy and cradles him to her chest. He licks her chin, and then her cheeks, and that’s when she realizes she’s crying.

  She collapses onto the couch, clinging to Darcy, her shoulders shaking.

  “He’s gone, Darcy.”

  ErrrrrRUFF?

  “What do I do now?”

  Darcy’s head tilts to one side, and he whines in his throat.

  For the first time since Henry’s death, Ava cries audibly, loud sobs wracking her thin frame.

  13

  [A handwritten letter from Christian to Ava; postmarked August 9, 2015]

  Ava,

  I realize now that I owe you more of an explanation than my short and rather melodramatic note provided.

  As I’m sure you have probably surmised, I bought a sailboat and have embarked on a solo journey around the world. I am not planning to circumnavigate. At least, not yet. At first I am simply going to wander wherever the winds take me, to reacquaint myself with life at sea. It has been a few years since I last sailed, but I am finding the skills return swiftly.

  I have named my vessel The Hemingway.

  I could not continue as things were, Ava. I just couldn’t. You were all but catatonic for two months. You refused to eat, to speak to me, to even look at me. In the wake of losing our son, your withdrawal from life cut me deeply. I needed you, Ava. I tried with all that I was to be there, to remind you of my love, to support you as best I coul
d, to be what you needed. But I too was grieving. I am still grieving—I wasn’t able to indulge in true grief because my worry for you eclipsed even that.

  I am angry with you, Ava. So very angry. You lost Henry the same as I did, but you claimed all the grief for yourself, leaving none for me.

  And then, when you finally emerged from your catatonic state, you sank into heavy drinking. And still you wouldn’t speak to me, wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t interact with me. I know your pain, Ava, for it is mine as well. But you added to my loss by removing yourself from me.

  And I’m afraid that was a loss too great to bear.

  I feel as if I have died, these last months. I am dead. My body lives, but my mind and my heart have perished, and rather than being numb—which would be bliss, I think—I am feeling the pain of an excruciating death.

  Enough of my self-indulgent, solipsistic rambling.

  I have arranged things for you so that all you will need to do to take care of yourself is buy food and put gas in your car. The utilities are all on auto-pay, deducting from an account created for that purpose, which will always contain the requisite funds—you are an account holder, so should you wish to alter this arrangement, simply visit our bank. The condo and your car are both paid for in full. Car and health insurance are both part of the aforementioned auto-pay system. You will have plenty of money in our joint account, and you have your own personal account to draw from as well, so you are, in every way, financially solvent. Meaning, you are taken care of. I hope you did not think I would leave without seeing to your needs, first.

  I love you, Ava.

  That has not changed. That will not change.

  I know you must have questions for me. I don’t have many answers for you, however.

  I do not know how long I will be gone. I do not know when or if I will come back. I do not know where I am going or where I will be. I do not know if I will ever be okay, if I will ever recover from this. From losing Henry and then losing you.

  In truth, I think I lost you before Henry ever died; his passing was merely the final nail in the coffin, so to speak—and I apologize for the macabre metaphor. I began losing you when you couldn’t bring yourself to seek intimacy with me after his birth, and I lost a little more of you when he was ill and the doctors couldn’t identify the problem, and I lost a little more of you yet when he was admitted to the hospital for the final time, and I lost the rest of you when he died.

  I hate myself for being so weak as to leave you like this, but I could see no other course of action. I was dying. I couldn’t take it anymore. I just HAD to leave. I’m sorry.

  To send me letters via post, i.e. “snail mail”:

  Christian St. Pierre ℅ Jonny Núñez

  P.O Box 136

  9846 Estate Thomas, Charlotte Amalie, St Thomas 00802, USVI

  * * *

  I cannot guarantee how often I will receive post, however. As impersonal as it may be, if you wish to contact me directly, email is the best bet—you know how I am.

  I wish I knew what the future holds, Ava. The only thing I know is that I love you. I will always love you, no matter what. I hope you find a place of healing, a place of peace. However you get there, whatever that looks like.

  Email me.

  14

  [Email from Ava to Christian; 3:23 a.m., August 11, 2015]

  Chris,

  I’m just going to sort of unload on you. No rereading, no editing, no filtering. I’m just going to type until I feel like I’ve said everything I want to say.

  FUCK YOU.

  You left me, you piece of shit.

  I needed you. I STILL need you. I was trying, goddammit. There’s no guidebook for how to cope with this kind of thing, Christian. I get that you were in pain too, but couldn’t you have just hung on a little longer? You say you love me, but then you vanish in the middle of the night like this was a one-night stand or something? Like I’m some barfly you hooked up with and now you’re just done, buh-bye, gone. Seriously? No warning, nothing.

  I’m starting to think I don’t know you as well as I thought I did. The Christian I thought I knew, the Christian I thought I’d fallen in love with and married would never have just fucking left me like this. I had to get stitches once, do you remember? I’d cut my finger dicing onions, and I needed stitches. You drove me to the ER, and you sat with me, distracting me, teasing me, and then you insisted on going with me to get the stitches, and you refused to let me out of your sight, even though it was, like, eight or nine stitches and totally routine, but you wouldn’t let me out of your sight. You’ve always protected me. Taken care of me. Even now, even in this, you’re taking care of me.

  Thanks for making the arrangements. That was pretty thoughtful of you. Demonstrates how far ahead you planned this abandonment. Two thumbs up, fucker.

  Darcy is amazing. He’s so smart! Sitting on command, even rolling over, and he’s already potty trained. Bennet is an asshole, but then all cats are assholes, which is why I love them so much.

  Honestly, I’m not sure why you brought me a kitty AND a puppy, but I’m not complaining.

  Wait. I think I’m understanding this a little: you brought me them so I wouldn’t be alone after you left, didn’t you? You know how I am about being alone, I guess. So…again, thanks. It’s sweet, in a backhanded sort of way. Like, you knowingly abandon me in the time of my greatest need, but you have the foresight and thoughtfulness to make sure I’m financially set…AND you get me a puppy and a kitten to keep me company, AND you give them the perfect names. That’s so messed up I can’t really prise apart the conflicting emotions. Is it prise apart, or pry apart?

  I hate you.

  But I also love you.

  If I saw you right now, I’d probably punch you straight in your perfect Roman nose and then kiss your stupid perfect lips. And then ugly cry, snot and all. And then rip your clothes off and ride you like a stallion. Or maybe all of those at once. Kiss you, punch you, and fuck you, all while ugly crying.

  I can’t believe Henry is gone. Sometimes, when I’ve gotten really really drunk, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night thinking I hear him crying. It’s an audible thing, like, I seriously hear him crying, and I get up and go to his room, but the second I put my hand on the knob, I remember that he’s dead.

  It fucks with my head super hard, TBH. It’s like…phantom pains, I think. You know what I’m talking about? When an amputee feels pain in the limb or extremity, even though it’s not there anymore.

  I think I’m so used to writing in the 500-word blog-post format that I’m almost incapable of anything else. Because…i’m out of words. I’m just…lost. Lost without henry, and lost without you.

  I’m lost.

  I know I deserve this, but it still hurts, Christian.

  I want to beg you to come back, but I won’t. I can’t. If you’re capable of leaving me, then it’s best you stay gone.

  I’m not sure how to sign this email off.

  Love?

  Yours truly?

  Best?

  Wait, I’ve got it.

  * * *

  I love you, and fuck you,

  Ava

  15

  [Email from Christian to Ava; 12:33 p.m., August 13, 2015]

  Ava,

  * * *

  I apologize for the delay in my response, I was making the crossing from Jamaica to the Yucatan. I spent some time in Kingston, and now I’m in Tulum, which is a tiny little town south of Cancún. There’s not much to it, but it’s less crowded than Cancún. The accommodations are much less…well, everything, but since I’m on the boat, it’s a non-issue.

  I appreciate the bluntness. Never filter yourself. Your honesty, even your sometimes crude unfiltered transparency is something I’ve always loved about you. I always know exactly where I stand with you.

  Yes, I left you. I wish I could make excuses or give a better reason, but I can’t. I accept your hate, because I deserve it. I abandoned you, as you said, in your time o
f greatest need. But it was also my time of greatest need, and I was utterly alone. I remained with you, giving you everything I had for three months, and I got absolutely nothing in return except a couple blank stares, and that was literally it. Not a word, not a glance, not a touch. How was I supposed to cope? What was I supposed to do? Sit around waiting forever? Bring you food you never ate, 3x a day every day until you died of starvation? And then when you did finally start functioning like a human being again, you drank yourself stupid every day. I know, I know, I did too. I’m not passing judgment at all, I promise. But you did it alone, you didn’t talk to me, didn’t acknowledge that I even existed. And when you did, it was with a stare that made me feel like a bug.

  It was torture.

  I struggled to stay sane, literally every moment of every day for three months, and I just couldn’t do it anymore. It was utter hell. Because I was grieving, only I couldn’t give in to the grief, because you needed me. But…you didn’t, really, did you? You pushed me away. Shut me out utterly and completely. Why should I have stayed? For what?

  Maybe I’m not the man either of us thought I was. I know I don’t feel like it. I feel…I don’t know, it’s hard to put it all into words.

  If you want the raw, unvarnished truth, Ava, I cry myself to sleep some nights. I lay out on the trampoline between the hulls of my catamaran and I stare up at the stars and I miss you—as you were, once—and I miss Henry, and I miss us—as we were, once. I miss our life. I miss feeling whole. I miss feeling loved. I miss feeling like part of an us. I miss all of that, alone out here on the vast ocean, and I cry, as I have never cried in my life.