The Twilight Wife

by A. J. Banner

  “Thank you. I will.”

  She shuffles back along the path. As I stand in the center of the living room, I see Jacob on the couch, beckoning me. I curl up in his lap. He takes my hand in his, turns the wedding ring around on my finger. We’re finally here, he says. Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?

  I didn’t realize you were so romantic, I said. Why did we wait so long to come here?

  Good question. I always wanted to. He touched my mouth with his thumb, parted my lips, ever so gently. A promise, a question, an invitation.

  I drew a breath. He lifted me bodily, carried me across the threshold into the bedroom. We were unfettered here, free of obligations.

  I shift my gaze away from the bedroom, and I see us in the afterglow, sharing pastries and coffee in the morning. Summer sunlight slants in from the east, a million sparkles on the ocean. That first morning here, life was perfect. But underneath my skin, a vague uneasiness grew. This would not last forever.

  Your family house—does it have a view like this one? I said, parting the lace curtains.

  Better, he said, coming up behind me. The view will take your breath away. As soon as the renters leave, and the cleaners get the place in shape, we’ll head up there, okay?

  Renters. Now I remember. His family home on the bluff became an occasional vacation rental during the summer months, after his mother died. How many cold winter nights had the house stood empty, waiting to become a home again?

  On the living room bookshelves, I find mostly classics, some mysteries, and a few romance novels left behind by previous guests. On a middle shelf, I find a row of printed cloth journals. Some are much older than others, with yellowed pages, loose binding in the spines. The journals are arranged in chronological order, in which guests praise Waverly’s hospitality, the tranquility, the ambience. We saw a pod of orcas passing Mystic Bay, one guest wrote. Two bald eagles circled overhead this morning. They landed on the fir tree at the bottom of the path. Another guest wrote, Try the Whale Tale restaurant. Yet another guest wrote, We were lucky the cottage wasn’t booked for the week. The ferry broke down. We were stuck here four extra days. Four perfect days.

  I flip through the entries from last June, my heart rate increasing. What if I didn’t write in the journal at all? What if I left no record? But there it is. I recognize my confident handwriting, the cursive slanting to the right.

  Our stay here has been idyllic. I can pretend my complicated city life doesn’t exist. Since we’ve been here, I’ve been able to focus on gratitude. I’m thankful for the wilderness, for the view, for my friends. I’m grateful for those who comfort me, for wonderful souls in my life. I’m grateful for the Gargoyle Cottage and Waverly’s hospitality. Thank you for having us.

  Kyra

  I don’t find another entry. What did I mean by “my complicated life”? My entry is maddeningly vague, but I wouldn’t have revealed secrets here, on paper, for the world to see. I try to read between the lines, but no magical, invisible ink comes to light.

  Back at the front desk, I ring the bell, and Waverly huffs in from the back room. “How did you like it?”

  “Brought back fond memories,” I say, only partly a lie.

  She hands me a small white paper bag. “I almost forgot. It’s been so long. You left this in the room. Must’ve fallen between the cushions on the couch.”

  I open the bag, which contains a small box of prescription pills—ibuprofen mixed with famotidine. Half the label has been ripped off the flat box, but my name, Kyra, remains, and the name of the physician, Dr. Louise Gateman. The reason for the prescription, dated last April, eludes me. Yet my heart sinks, and an unbearable sadness darkens my soul.

  “Are you okay?” Waverly says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you earlier. Things get thrown into our lost and found—”

  “I’m fine,” I say, flustered. “Um, but I wonder . . . could I use your phone? We don’t have long distance.”

  She motions me into a tiny office cluttered with files and papers and collectible lunch boxes. Batman, Disney, and every theme under the sun, crowded onto shelves and any other available surface. She points toward a cordless phone on the desk. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” The bell rings at the front desk. She rushes out, closing the door after her.

  I call Dr. Gateman’s office in Seattle.

  “Obstetrics and Gynecology,” a perky female voice says at the other end of the line. Time slows. My heart stops beating, then everything starts again at a frenetic pace.

  “This is Dr. Gateman’s office?” I say in a shaky voice. The line begins to crackle and hum. Please, please keep the connection.

  “Yes, ma’am. How may I help you?” Phones are ringing in the background, the murmur of voices drifting through the line.

  “I believe I was a patient there some time ago, maybe a year or two ago?”

  “Would you like to make an appointment? Dr. Gateman is scheduling about three months out now.” Static on the line. Her voice echoes.

  “I just want some information. I’ve lost my memory . . . I was in an accident, and I need to piece together some things from my past.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry! I’ll leave a message for Dr. Gateman. I’m sure she will want to get back to you. She’s on vacation right now.”

  “Is there anyone else I could speak to?”

  “I’ll see if I can get the nurse for you.”

  “Thank you.” Relief rushes through me. She puts me on hold, and instrumental elevator music wafts into my ears. After about twenty seconds, the music stops, and a throaty voice comes on the line. “This is the nurse.”

  “I’m Kyra Winthrop . . . I was there a while ago to see Dr. Gateman. Do you remember me? I need my records. Quickly.”

  In the background, more telephones are ringing. The clock ticks on the wall. “I would have to pull up your file.”

  I let out a shaky breath. “That would be wonderful,” I say, nearly fainting with relief.

  “I need to verify that you are who you say you are.”

  “Kyra Winthrop,” I say, my heart tapping in my ears.

  “Hmmm. I don’t have you in here.”

  No, no. A dead end. I spell out my name for her.

  “That’s how I spelled it. You’re not in here.”

  “Was I there too long ago? Maybe I’m not in the computer?”

  “We moved to an electronic system five years ago. If you came in since then, you would be in here.”

  “But then . . . I have to be.”

  “You’re not. Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Wait! The records could be under my maiden name, Munin. Kyra Munin.”

  More typing. “I do have you in here under Munin. Kyra?”

  “Yes, that’s me.” I’m suddenly light-headed. I give her my Social Security number and my mother’s maiden name.

  “Are you still on Cedar Court?”

  An image of a house flashes into my mind—a cedar A-frame with a metal roof and big windows. Then it’s gone. “Cedar Court, no . . . I’m on Mystic Island now. Twelve Ocean View Lane.”

  “Okay, I’m pulling up your file . . . You were a patient for quite a while.”

  “I was married, right? But I used my maiden name?”

  “Your status was married, yes. When you got pregnant.”

  When I got pregnant. I nearly drop the phone. The room vibrates around me. “Pregnant. I was pregnant.”

  “The first time was in April, two and a half years ago.”

  “The first time.” Bile rises in my throat.

  “You had a miscarriage in late June . . . You were about twelve weeks along.”

  I can’t catch my breath. “A miscarriage?”

  “Yes, I’m very sorry.”

  “Did I go into the hospital or . . .?”

  “Normally we don’t hospitalize for an early miscarriage. The doctor might prescribe ibuprofen.”

  “I have a prescription with famotidine.”

  “To pro
tect your stomach lining.”

  “And I didn’t . . . go into the hospital or anything.”

  “No, you didn’t. At least, we don’t have a record of it.”

  “I see . . . And the next time . . .”

  “Looks like early April of last year . . .”

  “Another miscarriage?” My hands tremble. I can barely hold the phone.

  “You were a little further along, but similar situation.”

  I gasp. Another one?

  “Don’t worry—there are many reasons why women miscarry. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with you.”

  “Nothing wrong with me. Clearly, there is something wrong with me.”

  I hear papers flipping. “You didn’t have any infection or blood clotting abnormalities or a weak or tilted or septate uterus.”

  “What’s a septate uterus?”

  “A septate uterus means a uterus divided into almost two chambers by tissue. You don’t have that. No fibroids or adhesions or diabetes or polycystic ovary syndrome.”

  “That’s all good, right?” My voice is barely a thread.

  “Are you all right? I’m throwing a lot of information at you.”

  “It’s okay. I needed to know. What else is there? In my file?”

  “That’s all I have. So you were in some kind of accident?”

  “Head injury,” I say.

  “I’m so sorry. I’ll be sure to pass this along to Dr. Gateman. If there’s anything we can do—”

  “No, thank you. This is all I need for now. I appreciate your help.”

  “There’s always hope, you know.”

  “Thank you.” I hang up and bend over in the chair, holding my middle. My muscles seize up, and my hands go numb. The massage oil for spiritual healing. Our long summer trip to the island, to get away. The decision to escape, to leave the city. You feeling better? Rachel said at the mercantile. Jacob kept my medical history from me—what else is he holding back?

  I knock on Sylvia’s office door. No answer. The lights are off. I slip a note under the door, I need to talk to you. It’s urgent. On the ride home, I pedal hard against the wind. Jacob greets me in the foyer. “Where have you been?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I say as I hang up my coat.

  “Whoa, you look upset. What’s going on?” He tries to wrap his arms around me, but I stiffen and pull away.

  “The miscarriages. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  All the blood drains from his face. “What are you talking about?”

  “You knew about them.”

  He strides past me and sinks into the couch, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. “How did this come up? How did you find out?”

  “I shouldn’t have had to find out.”

  “You remembered.”

  “Not exactly. But I know about what happened. I called the doctor.”

  “Which doctor? Why? How . . .?”

  “It doesn’t matter. The point is, you didn’t tell me.”

  His shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would come up. I thought it was behind us.”

  “Everything is behind us.”

  “I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  “If I didn’t know I had miscarriages, how could I ask you about them?”

  “Believe me, my decision did not come easily.”

  “A lie of omission is still a lie. Did it happen here? The most recent miscarriage?”

  He looks uncomfortable. “The fire’s out. You need to get warm.” He gets up abruptly and starts arranging logs in the woodstove.

  “I need an answer. That’s what I need.” I’m shaky, a headache piercing my skull.

  “What did the doctor tell you?”

  “I spoke to the nurse. I had two miscarriages, but I might still be able to have children.” I try to keep my voice steady. It’s all I can do not to scream.

  “How have you been making long-distance calls?”

  “We don’t have long distance here, so I called from the bed-and-breakfast.”

  “I’ll add long distance to our line. It was an oversight. The technician has to come out from San Juan Island.”

  I nod, but it’s the last thing I’m worried about right now. “What if I hadn’t found out on my own?”

  “There are reasons I didn’t tell you.”

  “I hope they’re good.”

  “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He goes to his room. The hall clock ticks interminably, while acidic emotions eat through my stomach. Sadness, anxiety, and anger at Jacob. He returns a few minutes later carrying a small wooden box the size of a large hardcover book. The latch is made of polished brass. He places the box on the coffee table and sits on the couch, clasping his hands together on his lap, elbows on his thighs.

  “What is this?” I say, touched by dread.

  “Pandora’s box. The reason for everything.”

  “What do you mean, everything?”

  “The reason you got depressed.”

  “I was depressed.”

  “It was the reason we left Seattle and came here last summer. You wanted to be away from everything. So I brought you here. To get better.”

  “From the miscarriage? Why didn’t you show this to me before?”

  “I was going to show you, when you were ready.”

  “When did you think I would be ready?” I open the box, and the smell of scented powder wafts out. Baby powder. With trembling fingers, I pull out a tiny white jumper for a newborn. Pale purple leggings and a matching knit sweater. White booties. A rolled up, lavender-scented blanket, as soft as a puff of air.

  Despite the roaring fire in the woodstove, the room is suddenly too cold. “What is this, Jacob? Why did you keep this from me?”

  “You asked me not to show it to you.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “You wanted to forget. It was too painful for you. I thought, if you started to remember, then I would tell you. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

  “I’m confused. I don’t know what to think.” I wipe tears from my eyes. He’s right. This is painful. Even without my memory of the miscarriages. “What if I never started to remember on my own? Would you have eventually told me?”

  “I don’t know. Look, it’s not just the baby clothing. You need to see something else.” He reaches into the bottom of the box, hands me a folded sheet of pale blue stationery. “I swear you didn’t want me to say anything. This is why I didn’t tell you.” The letter reads, in my distinctive, bold handwriting from before the accident:

  Dear Jacob,

  You have been here for me through all of the pain—a steady presence, the only person I can count on. I want more than anything to escape with you to Mystic Island. I want to forget everything. I’ll go with you, to be away. Don’t even mention the past. Don’t even mention the way my body has betrayed me. Don’t mention what is lost, ever again. Promise me. Cross your heart. I want to move forward from here.

  Love,

  Kyra

  I drop the letter on the coffee table. My words slant across the page, clear and direct. He was only following my wishes. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I should’ve trusted you. It’s just . . . this is so hard. Seeing these little outfits . . .”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought out the box after all.”

  “I’m glad you did.” I get up and go to the window. I need distance from the evidence, from the letter. The memory rises inside me. I wanted a girl. I wanted to show her the shells on the beach, sea stars, sea snails, bald eagles. Orcas, porpoises, migrating humpback whales. I wanted to be the tooth fairy, Santa, the Easter Bunny. Every rite of passage would fill me with wonder—her first words, first steps, first laugh, and her first gold star in the first grade.

  I turn around to face him. “You said there were reasons you didn’t tell me. More than one, then. More than the letter?”

  He exhales, rubs his temples. “The dive. I didn’t tell you everything about the dive.”

 
; “What about the dive?” My feet grow heavy, immovable, as if they’re cemented to the floor. “There was someone else drowning.”

  “No, it was you.”

  A beat of time passes, stretching into an eternity. “But you told me what happened. We were saved . . .”

  “Did you ever think maybe you didn’t want to be saved?”

  “What? That’s not even possible.”

  When he looks at me, his eyes are tortured. “You swam away from me. You swam into the strongest current.”

  “You’re saying I wanted to drown? That’s impossible. I’m not suicidal!” But in the fabric of my self-assurance, a tiny hole has been torn. Is there a version of me that wanted to die, under certain circumstances? Or at least to become oblivious?

  “At first, I thought you had seen something spectacular. But you wanted to just take off and swim away . . . I went after you. I tried to save you. To get you to come back.”

  “You’re saying I put you at risk. I put both of us at risk.” My heartbeat thrums louder and louder in my head.

  “You didn’t intend to. But it happened. I went after you and you . . . ended up hitting your head. I managed to get us up onto the beach. If I hadn’t acted quickly . . . We both would have died.”

  I want to say, You’re lying. It didn’t happen that way. I could not have put both of us at risk.

  But I can’t say another word. My voice dies in my throat, and my body has turned to stone.

  “He should’ve told you about the miscarriages,” Sylvia says. She has met me for an emergency session early in the morning. Her hair looks hastily combed, and she’s in jeans and a sweater and sneakers. Without makeup, her features look more angular, but her expression is soft and kind—and genuinely worried.

  I was up most of the night. Jacob slept alone in his room, to give us each some space and time to think. “Even with my note and what he says happened on the dive?”

  She taps her pencil on her notebook. “He kept something very important, very emotional, from you.”

  “He was trying to protect me. I’m angry at him. At myself. For not trusting him, for writing that note in the first place. For pushing him too hard. But maybe he should’ve ignored my letter and shown me the baby clothes. Everything in that box. Maybe he should’ve had faith that I could handle the truth.”