by Lori L. Otto
“Nothing,” he says. “She told me she was going out with friends.”
“Really...”
“Yeah, what did she say to you?”
“She said Teresa was organizing a party at her loft. I would have thought you and Anna would be at the top of the list of invitees.”
“Yeah, me, too... that’s kind of odd.”
“Well, if she’s going out, that sort of throws a wrench in things. I’m planning to fly home for her birthday, to surprise her.”
“I’m sure she’d welcome a visit from you, no matter where she is.”
“You’d think that,” I tell him, “but she’s been really distant... I feel like I’ve done something wrong, but I can’t figure out what it could possibly be. She just seems... angry.”
“Well, let me make a call or two. I might get Anna to do it. If she’s mad at you, she’s more likely to tell her.”
“Thanks, Chris. Again, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t suspect that something was very wrong.”
“I know. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know something.”
“Thank you.”
I hear from Chris the following afternoon.
“She asked to talk to me right away,” Chris said. “Anna called her, but she immediately assumed you asked us to call.”
“Was she mad?”
“No,” Chris said. “She wanted to know what you said... wanted to know how you were doing.”
“Really? That’s odd. I’d be happy to tell her if she’d speak to me.” None of this makes any sense.
“Yeah, she didn’t seem normal to me, either. Maybe she is stressed out, I don’t know. I’m used to hearing happy Emi, not this one. She seems... depressed. The way she’s acting reminds me of how she was most of last year.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
“Anna and I are going to stop by tomorrow. Maybe we’ll get a little more info then. I did ask about her birthday, though, and she said again that her friends were taking her out. She told me she didn’t know where... that they told her it was a surprise.”
“That’s just weird.”
“I know,” he says. “I told her Anna and I might like to meet up with them, and she said she’d text us when she knew where they would be.”
“God,” I sigh. “I hate that I have to be here. I wish I could just rearrange things and come back sooner, but I can’t. I guess I’ll just plan on coming home next Tuesday on her birthday. When you see her tomorrow, will you call me? Let me know what you think is going on?”
“Of course. I’ll keep an eye on her until you can make it home, don’t worry about her. I’ll call Jen, too. Maybe she can take Clara over. She can always cheer her up.”
“Okay. Thanks, Chris. I appreciate your help.”
~ * ~
Emi continues to withdraw over the following days. As if the physical distance wasn’t enough, she proceeds to pull away emotionally. On her birthday, I find the quietest part of the airport to call her from. I don’t want her to be suspicious. I still can’t figure out what’s going on with her. We’ve spoken three times, and although our text messaging picked up, it just feels like she’s hiding something from me.
I pull the phone out of my left jacket pocket and the Harry Winston box out of the other. I’m not sure I’m going to propose tonight, but I want to be ready. I have a feeling we will be having a serious conversation about our relationship, either way.
I turn the ring over in my fingers and sit down on a bench in a far corner of the airport, waiting for Emi to answer.
“Hello?”
“Happy Birthday, Poppet.” I hope the nickname makes her smile like it typically does.
“Thanks, Jack,” she says... still depressed.
“How are you doing today?”
“I’m not feeling great,” she says.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, just generally blah.”
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask her, concerned.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she answers.
“I miss you... I really wish I could be there.”
“Ditto,” she says, and follows with a sniffle.
“Is it a cold, do you think?” I ask her.
“I don’t know. Maybe allergies or something.”
“Are you still doing something tonight for your birthday?”
“Probably,” she says. “I guess it just depends on if I feel any better.”
“Well, did you finish the job?” I ask.
“No. I’m not going to be able to come out this weekend.” I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s alright,” I tell her through gritted teeth. Sure, I’m disappointed... but I just want to see her at this point. I just want to be with her, feel close to her. I hope she is excited to see me tonight. I begin to fear what she will be like when I show up at her doorstep, if she’s even there. “Hey, can I call you tonight?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “If I don’t answer, just leave a message. I’ll call you when I get a chance.”
“Okay. I love you, Emi. I hope you have a good day.”
“You, too.”
I watch the city disappear as the plane ascends over the Atlantic. My palms are sweating, my nerves shot, thinking about this proposal. I try to play out possible scenarios in my head.
What if she isn’t home? I’ll call her until she answers, find out where she is. Maybe she’ll be out with Teresa and her friends. I’ll go to her. I want this moment to be just between the two of us. I’ll ask her to accompany me outside. We’ll walk, catch up with one another, until I find the right spot to propose. I’ll remember that exact location for the rest of my life. I’ll get down on one knee. She’ll cry. She’ll say yes. This would be ideal.
And if there’s a party at her apartment? I’ll join in, wait until the last guest leaves. Maybe I’ll help her clean up, “find” the ring... ask if someone may have left something behind. She would never see it coming.
And if she’s home, alone... which I suspect she will be, based on her mood and the tone of our recent conversations. I’ll kneel in front of her door and knock. The words “Will you marry me?” will be the first words she hears from me. I wonder if they’ll bring back the smile I have missed since I left... since before I left...
I struggle to figure out what has upset her so badly. She’s never been so stressed out about work. It has always been something she has enjoyed. I can understand unrealistic deadlines, and her disappointment in not being able to go to Europe with me, but still... stress or sadness over these things should be fleeting. I would think she would get over it relatively quickly, especially as she makes progress on the job... or gets reassurances from me. Something isn’t adding up.
As I ponder asking her to be my wife, a traitorous thought creeps into my head. What if this is about him again? Could she be upset about Nate... still? Is there an anniversary I don’t know about? Did something set her off? What if it is him? Then what?
Then what?
I fight. I fight for her. I fight with this figure from her past and I show her that I love her with all of my heart. That I accept her for who she is, understand the issues she brings with her into our relationship. I show her that I am here to help her through it, through everything. She just has to trust me. She just has to love me...
An uneasy feeling overwhelms me, and stays with me through the entire flight. It only gets worse once we land.
As I step off the elevator, I touch the ring box one last time to make sure it’s still in my jacket. I just have to be conscious of it until I can take my jacket off. I don’t want her to know it’s there, in case this doesn’t happen tonight. I just don’t have a good feeling about this at all.
When I get to her door, I adjust my tie and take a deep breath... and I’m pretty sure I hear her crying. I knock loudly, calling her name from the hallway.
“Jack?” she calls back to me, sounding confused.
“Yeah, it’s me, Em,
open up.”
“Just a second,” she says. I wait in the hallway, and after a minute, I knock again. I get my keys out of my pocket and slowly open the door myself.
“What are you doing here?” she says, her eyes red, face flushed. She stands five feet in front of me in sweat pants and a t-shirt, her hair messy, no makeup. She makes no move to welcome me home, no hug, no kiss. She barely moves out of the walkway to let me in.
“Emi, what’s wrong?” I walk past her into the loft and put the bouquet of daisies on the cabinet before taking my jacket off and hanging it on the back of a chair. She closes the door and stands with her back against it. “Emi?”
“What are you doing here?” she repeats her earlier question.
“I wanted to see you, for your birthday.”
“But I just talked to you a few hours ago...” She looks confused. Just as I did last time, I find two wine bottles on the kitchen island.
“I wanted to surprise you.” She walks over to me quickly, throwing her arms around me, and pulls my head to hers for a kiss. I taste the wine on her lips and tongue but am more caught up simply in her presence and embrace. It amazes me, what a single kiss from her can do to me.
“Oh, Jack,” she whispers, a tear falling from one of her eyes.
“Emi, what is the matter?”
“I’m just not feeling well.”
“Why?” I ask. “What doesn’t feel well?”
“Just me.” She starts to cry.
“Come sit down, sweetie,” I encourage her, taking her hand and leading her to the couch. “Please, talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.” When she doesn’t answer, I continue with my questions. “Where are your friends? I thought you were doing something with them tonight.”
“I cancelled,” she says. “Jack, I missed you so much.”
“Really?” She interrupts me with another kiss. “I didn’t get that from our conversations.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” she cries and takes a sip of the wine that had been sitting on the table beside her.
“Shhhhh, Em, it’s okay. Whatever is wrong, I’m here. We’ll figure it out together. What hurts?”
She holds her hand over her stomach. A jolt goes through my system as I take the glass from her hand and set it on the coffee table. “Are you pregnant?” I didn’t even have time to consider the words before they escaped my lips. My heart begins to pound.
She ducks her head and cries more.
“Emi, are you?” I can’t help but smile at the thought and take her hands into mine. Is this why she’s so upset? She looks into my eyes and shakes her head.
“Stop,” she says. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Smile. Don’t smile at me. I’m not pregnant.”
“Okay, I was just wondering. All the signs were there... are you sure?” I laugh sympathetically.
“It’s impossible,” she answers with a sigh. I reach for a tissue and wipe her eyes for her. She takes it from me and blots her nose.
“Not impossible,” I laugh again. “Highly improbable, because we’ve been careful, but not impossible. That time–”
“No, impossible,” she says, sitting up straight, her stare piercing directly into me, into my soul.
“Not likely,” I correct her tentatively, gauging her reaction, my smile quickly fading.
“Impossible,” she responds tersely. Silence overtakes the room as she swallows hard. She clears her throat before continuing in a voice so soft I barely hear the words. “It would be impossible.”
“What do you mean?” I squeeze her hands tighter, anxiously awaiting her response.
“I had a doctors appointment... just my yearly exam.” Her eyes are unsure, scared.
“And...”
“Jack, I can’t have children.” My heart sinks at the news as I involuntarily let out a heavy sigh. “I can’t look at you,” she says, burying her head into my chest. I pull her into me tightly, hold her close, trying to process the information. I have to fight off my own tears as I try to comprehend what she’s said. Nausea fills me from the pit of my stomach to my head as the news hits me like a punch in the gut... chest... arm... head... it’s all-encompassing, the shock and despair. I look for hope, grasp to anything that might give us hope.
It takes me a few seconds to realize I’m not breathing.
“Wait... what do you mean? You were pregnant once before...”
“There’s scar tissue,” she says, pulling away. “There’s too much damage, left from the accident. I could never get pregnant now.”
“Can’t they remove it? The scar tissue?”
“It’s too much,” she says.
“Says who? Let’s get a second opinion.”
“I already did,” she cries.
“A third, then.”
“Jack, I did. It’s too late. If I had caught it early on–”
“Emi, we can afford the best doctors in the world. Let me–”
“Stop,” she says to silence me. “I talked to Donna.”
“Why Donna?”
“Because she’s not really family, and I trust her.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Of course I do. But I didn’t want to have this conversation with you if I could do anything to avoid it. But apparently there’s nothing more I can do.”
“What did Donna do?”
“She knows a doctor from all of her charity work. He’s apparently the best OB-GYN in the country. Some sort of fertility specialist. He’s booked months in advance, but she got me in to see him. He ran a bunch of tests... I even had a procedure done–”
“God, Emi, you should have told me! When?”
“Last week.”
“Are you okay?”
She looks at me with consternation. “No, I’m not. I can never have children. I can never give you children. I’m devastated. I’m scared.”
“Maybe there’s another doctor... another way...”
Tears drip down her cheek quickly. “Believe me, I exhausted all of my resources before telling you this. The last thing I wanted to see was that face.” She points at me. “The last thing I wanted to see was your disappointment. I can’t stand it.”
I’m sure she’s right. I can’t hide my reaction to such news. “I’m sorry, Emi. When did you find out?”
“My first appointment was the Wednesday before you left,” she says.
“God damn it, Emi!” I stand up and begin to pace around her living area. “This is what’s been going on all this time? You’ve known this for almost three weeks? Why wouldn’t you talk to me about this before? When I could help you through this?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“There is no freelance job, is there?”
She just shakes her head. “Well, there was. But I finished it before you left.”
“Emi...”
“I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I wanted to find out for certain before I told you. And I didn’t think I could bear to see your reaction. I wanted to tell you before you left, but I thought maybe there was still a chance... and my heart was already so broken... I couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving me forever. I know it was selfish.”
“I can take just about anything you throw at me, Em,” I tell her. “But not this.”
“That’s why I’ve been distancing myself from you. I wanted to make it easier for you to leave... before we got in too deep.”
“What? You don’t think we’re already in too deep?” I ask, incredulous.
“I don’t know,” she cries, looking so small on the couch. “We aren’t engaged... you could still love someone else...”
“Right.” As I nod my head, a tear escapes. I can’t pick an emotion and stick with it. Shock, anger, disappointment, sadness... love. Love. My love. Emi. My love for her is stronger than all the rest, combined. “Emi, please listen to me. Please stop crying.” I kneel down on the floor in front of her and put my hands on her legs.
“I don’t want
you to leave, but it’s not fair to make you stay with me.”
“Emi, what I was going to say, is that I can take anything you throw my way, except for you pulling away from me. You can’t force this distance between us, not now, not when you are hurting... not when you are dealing with something this monumental.”
“Why has everything been taken from me? What did I do to deserve this?”
“Not everything, Em. I’m still here.”
“But I don’t want you to be,” she says. “I can’t give you what you want anymore... and I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay with me under these circumstances.”
“Stop saying that,” I tell her. “I’m not leaving you. I told you I wouldn’t leave you. I couldn’t leave you.” I put my hands behind her and pull her body into mine, embracing her, untangling her hair gently.
“But you want a family... you can’t have that with me.”
“Of course I can. We’ll figure it out.”
“I want you to think about it,” she says. “I don’t want you to commit to this life without thinking about everything you’d be losing.”
“I don’t see myself losing if I end up with you,” I explain.
“Jack, I’m serious. I don’t want you to resent me in ten years.”
“Do you love me, Emi?”
“More than anything,” she cries.
“Do you trust me?”
“I do.”
“Well, I’m not leaving you. Ever. Trust that. Why don’t you come back to my place tonight and we can talk about it some more.”
“I’m a mess,” she says. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“Okay, well, I’ll stay here.”
“No, Jack,” she says. “I want to be alone.”
“You’ve apparently been alone for weeks. I don’t want you to be here, alone, any longer.”
“Please, Jack. Please give this some thought. Tonight. For me. I don’t want you to make any impulsive decisions because you feel sorry for me, or feel put on the spot... or whatever.” Her voice is soft and pleading.
“You’re not thinking clearly, Emi. I’m not. I don’t.”
