Remembering who I mean to talk to, I find my own voice. “Hi, ish James there?” I’m slurring, but my tongue is obviously too big for my mouth, so I can’t help it. Why is this nice lady on the phone? I wonder. I must have the wrong number.
“No, he’s still at work. Can I take a message?” she asks, still friendly and forthcoming, choosing to ignore my current speech impediment.
A kid calls out in the background and there’s rustling across the line, like she has her hand over the receiver. My hands are shaking, probably from the drugs. “No.” I pause, because I want to say more. “No, it isn’t important.” The words trip over my teeth, each one heavy in my clenched jaw. “No, I’m fine.” I’m truly not fine, but this seems like the proper response.
She hesitates for the first time, finally realizing something is off. “All right . . . are you sure you don’t want me to take your number? He’ll be home soon,” she offers. Still so kind. James deserves a kind wife. Some semisober part of my brain recalls hearing he got married a few years ago. I should’ve expected his wife to pick up the phone.
“I’m just an old friend. It’s not important at all,” I repeat. Without thinking, I add, “It’s Karen. Karen Martin?” Maybe he’s told her about me. His high school sweetheart. The one who broke his heart.
“Sure thing,” she says, without a hint of recognition. This bothers me more than I care to admit. “Merry Christmas,” she says, so cheerfully I decide I don’t like this kind wife at all.
I hang up. “Merry fucking Christmas,” I mutter to the wall. It stays respectfully quiet in response.
***
I swallow a few more oxy with a sip of Pinot Noir before popping a couple cyclophosphamides and methotrexates for good measure. If I take too many, I might end up puking it all back up, so I’m careful to take just enough to get the job done. The Paxil bottle lays on the bedspread, unopened, and I grab it and take four. Then more wine. My stomach churns, and I think I’ve taken enough. All that’s left is to wait.
Lying back on the bed with my eyes closed, I wonder why I’m not sad. I’m not even scared. I’m nothing.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger. I love you.
That’s all I wrote in my last letter. I didn’t address it to anyone, since I’m not sure who will be the first to find me. Probably my mom, but just in case it’s someone else, I kept it vague, hoping it serves as a general apology. Sorry for killing myself. Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the headache finding a dead body will inevitably cause. I placed the note on my dresser, under my jewelry box and next to my array of chemo drugs that are now killing me. Somehow I managed to put most of the tops back on before my fingers went completely numb.
My stomach continues to rumble, and I fear I might throw up. This is moderately concerning, since I didn’t envision myself being found covered in vomit. I suppose it’s unavoidable, but I hope I can keep it in. I’d like to retain my sense of dignity, if nothing else.
Turning onto my side, I pull the comforter up to my chin. It’s yellow, my favorite color once upon a time, back when I believed in sunshine and fairy tales. Lying in this position, I can stare at myself in the full-length mirror beside the bed. It’s hard to keep my eyes open; my lids keep fluttering closed. There’s a glass of water on my nightstand, but I don’t have the strength to grab it, even though my mouth is dry and tastes like sour wine. Settling deeper into the pillow, I adjust the auburn wig I’m wearing, twisting it until it’s straight. I can’t be found bald.
Everything slips, little by little. My breathing slows, my heartbeat fades. It’s like the moment right before I let go of the high bar, a moment of weightlessness before I’m twisting and flipping, waiting to stick the landing.
Before my eyes close for the last time, I glance into the mirror. For an instant my heart speeds back up, so loud I hear it in my ears, pounding strong and alive. Sitting on the edge of the bed behind me is my twin. I blink, certain I’m hallucinating—it’s a possible side effect of a few of the drugs—but the vision remains. This woman looks just like me, except her hair is still honey brown and her freckles are stark on her tanned cheeks. She’s beautiful and healthy and all that I’m not. She smiles at me before I let it all slip away.
10
Jimmy
Age 24
June 1995
My palms are sweaty. I’ve heard the expression but never experienced the actual sensation. Nothing has ever made me nervous enough to make my hands sweat. I clasp my palms together, hoping to still the subtle tremble, but they slip against each other. I hope the ring stays on my finger.
I don’t understand why they make the man wait at the end of the aisle. Everyone knows women are more patient. I’m about ready to jump out of my skin, ready to run down the length of the church and carry her back to the altar. The wait is torturous. The longer I stand here, the more I sweat, and I fear I’ll soon have two dark patches under my arms. It’s not even that hot in here, but each minute bends and stretches to twice its length. The collar of my tuxedo is so tight I can barely breathe, and the back of my neck is hot and itchy. I only hope I can manage to say my vows without needing to unbutton my suit. A drop of sweat trickles behind my ear and down the front of my shirt. Where is she?
Finally, the music begins. We picked “Spring” from the Four Seasons symphony. Wren loves the symphony. She claims she always wanted to learn how to play the violin. I’m sure she would have been great at it—she has an ear for music. It’s how she sings so well without any training. She can hear a tune and sing it in perfect harmony, one of her many gifts.
Of course it’s how she got her silly nickname. She hated it at first, but Wren is like that. She can’t just accept something without giving me a hard time. It’s both frustrating and endearing. At the time, she complained that if she was going to have a nickname, it should be about gymnastics, not singing. Then she complained that a wren sounded like an ugly bird and it must have an ugly voice. It took an entire morning in a bush with binoculars to convince her that the tiny little brown bird with the effervescent voice was her namesake. I think she finally gave in to the name because I went to such great lengths, even if she still didn’t love it. It stuck, and she will be Wren forever.
Like a cool breeze, the air in the church shifts when the music starts. As soon as I see her silhouette in the doorway of the church, the sunshine bright behind her, all my anxiety slips away. Her dad takes her by the elbow and they step into the aisle, all eyes on her. She’s glowing, her white gown casting a halo around her. Everyone is enchanted by her beauty, but she has eyes only for me. She smiles in my direction and winks. There are a hundred people in the church, but it feels like it’s just us.
Even though we are marrying in the church, neither of us is religious. We agreed to have the ceremony in front of God, but we both wanted our own words to seal the deal, not the words of the gospel. Wren warned me writing our vows wouldn’t be as easy as it seemed, and she was right, of course. When faced with a blank page, I had trouble figuring out how to describe all the big things I wanted to say. As a lawyer, I usually have no problem expressing myself, and I take pride in my ability to articulate even the most difficult argument. But I was at a loss. I wanted my vows to encompass everything I felt about Wren and feared I would leave something out.
Eventually I just wrote the first thing that came into my head, knowing it was impossible to capture all that Wren is to me. Words will never be enough.
Wren. There is so much I want to say to you, but not enough time in the world to say it all. I want to say that today is the best day of my life, but I am hesitant. Every day since you entered my life has been the best day of my life. I wake up every morning and I thank the universe that I hit you with a baseball freshman year of high school. Today is one of the best days, for sure, but I suspect we will have many of these days. Our honeymoon, the day our babies are born, our fiftieth wedding anniversary, and so many days in between. Wren, you are the hand that I’m holding when I envision my future. You’ve held
me together through the hard times and held on to me through the good. You are everything I want, everything I need . . . you are my everything. So even though I can’t say everything that’s in my heart at this moment because it’s too much, I can say that I vow to make every day the best day, till death do us part.
11
Wren
Age 28
September 1999
“You look tired,” Jimmy says, studying me out of the corner of his eye while stirring the tomato sauce. “Everything okay at the gym?” The kitchen smells delicious, sweet and salty and rich, just like a kitchen should smell.
I’m not surprised Jimmy’s noticed something’s up. Though I try to hide it, I’m beyond tired. I’m the type of exhausted that no amount of sleep seems to fix. I know I’m getting older, but I consider myself fit and healthy. Each night I get almost eight hours’ sleep. Every morning I wake up and drink a full glass of water with my multivitamin. But still, just the effort of lifting my arms into my leotard has become tiring lately. My legs are heavy as I walk down the stairs, and by the time I get to my car, I’m already ready for a nap. The only way I make it through a day of teaching tumbling and vaulting is by relying on multiple cups of coffee and a handful of ibuprofen as a midday snack.
“The gym is great. I have a really good group of kids this season; a few of them might even be Junior Olympics material.” Little Stephanie and Jasmine—my two superstars—come to mind. I’ve been training them since they were each only four years old. Now eleven and twelve, they’re pretty darn amazing gymnasts.
“Look at you, bringing along the next generation of gymnastic stars,” Jimmy says. He rests the spoon against the side of the saucer and grabs me by the waist, pulling me close. His mouth tastes like tomatoes and garlic. “Maybe soon we’ll have our own little rising star?” He rests his hands on my flat stomach, tracing the shape of a heart with his index fingers. “I can’t even imagine how awesome she’ll be with such amazing and talented parents,” he jokes.
Babies. Lately I’ve been noticing every mother I see pushing a stroller down the sidewalk. Clearly Jimmy is also dreaming about having a baby of our own. We’ve always assumed we’d have children when the time was right. I’m beginning to think that time is now. The other day Jimmy basically tripped over himself to ooh and aah over a baby at the grocery story. I think we’re ready for a baby. I just wish I weren’t so damned tired already.
“We will be pretty awesome and amazing parents,” I agree. “Maybe we should start working on it?” I reach my arms up around his neck and pull him toward the kitchen table.
He eyes the bubbling sauce and turns the heat down to low. “Mrs. Knight, I like where your head’s at.”
***
“So we may need to work on our kitchen skills before bringing another life into this world,” Jimmy jokes.
The smoke detectors have roused us from our postcoital bliss. Tomato sauce has spilled across the stove and the pasta is stuck in a gluey mess to the bottom of the pot, so far from al dente that it’s more like pasta paste.
“Pizza?” I offer, sponging up red sauce from the floor.
“Pizza sounds like a plan,” Jimmy agrees, handing me the phone.
I haven’t eaten a piece of pizza in years. Not a whole piece to myself, anyway. As I order a large sausage pizza and medium Greek salad, this sad fact occurs to me. Over the years I’ve had bits of Jimmy’s slice or a corner of crust, but I’ve never thought to take an entire piece for myself. I always order a salad, undressed. This has been my go-to meal since high school. Maybe junior high.
Tonight, I want a slice of pizza. A whole slice, and I don’t even want to dab the cheese with a paper towel to absorb all the oil. I’m sick of worrying about my weight. What twenty-nine-year-old woman denies herself a slice of pizza just to stay at one hundred pounds and ten percent body fat? I’m tired of living my life like this, obsessed by how I look. One slice of pizza won’t kill me.
No one is pressuring me to look this way except me. Jimmy loves my body. He loved it when I gained five pounds after starting birth control and even after I went on a crazy bulimic binge after gaining those five hormonal pounds. I no longer have a coach pressuring me to stay small or else lose my spot on the team. There’s only the little, evil voice in my head insisting I stick to my insane diet and lifestyle of denial.
***
I place a slice of gooey pizza on my plate. Jimmy raises his brows but says nothing. The dimple in his cheek deepens, and I can tell he’s trying not to smile. Silently, he grabs a slice for himself and puts it on his own plate. He waits. My mouth waters. Usually I start forking as much lettuce as possible into my mouth until my urge to reach for carbs subsides. Not tonight. Tonight I fold a delicious, cheesy piece into my mouth. It tastes like heaven. I take another bite.
“Okay,” Jimmy says, his mouth agape and his own slice still untouched. “You feeling okay?” he asks, eyes twinkling.
“What?” I say, my mouth full of sausage and grease.
“Oh, okay, you’re right. This is completely normal. Don’t get me wrong, I am very, very happy to finally share a pizza with my wife,” he says, picking up his own slice and taking a big bite. “But you can imagine my surprise, considering you’ve never, ever done this before. Should I be concerned? Do you need to see a doctor?” He’s kidding, but I do sense a note of worry in his voice.
I shrug and let out a breath I’ve been holding for twenty years now. “I just wanted a slice of pizza.”
This is the honest-to-god truth. I want pizza. I want to stop living my life by some restrictive code I’ve created for myself. I want energy. I want a baby. I want to stop being a gymnast.
“I don’t want to do gymnastics anymore,” I say, and a weight is lifted off my shoulders. I feel lighter than ever as I finish my first slice and take another without a second thought.
12
James
Age 28
January 2000
Whiteness. White walls, white sheets, pale-white wrist draped across my chest. Skylights filter the bright white sun across the expanse of my bedroom. Snow flurries flutter past the windows, at odds with the stark blue sky. My interior designer assured me a white room would be a nice sanctuary, a quiet retreat from my demanding job. Some mornings I wake up and think I’m in heaven. Other days it’s more like waking in an insane asylum.
Sarah is still asleep. She’s facedown on my Egyptian-cotton pillowcase, right arm stretched across my side of the bed, snoring lightly. A small dribble of drool wets the sheet. Gripping her wrist between my fingers, I shimmy her back to her side before slipping out of the bed, my tan feet landing on the shaggy white rug. I toe around and find my black slippers and slid them on.
It’s Saturday, but I’m a creature of habit. Every day I wake up at five thirty to go for a forty-five-minute run on my treadmill while watching the early news. Before showering, I drink a cup of coffee, black with cinnamon and honey, while skimming the Wall Street Journal and New York Times. I eat the same thing each morning—two hard-boiled eggs and a banana with peanut butter. When I’m done eating, I blend myself a chocolate protein shake for later and store it in my thermos in the fridge. By seven thirty a.m. I’m showered, dressed, and ready for the day, whether that day consists of going to the office or hanging at home, like today.
Relaxing has never been one of my strong suits, so it’s no surprise that I’m sitting at my home desk by nine o’clock. I’ve been trying to wrap up a case for a few weeks now. The poor son of a bitch left evidence on his family computer of his affair with the children’s tutor. I’m sure he’ll be more careful next time he plans his indiscretion. Lucky for him, he owns enough houses to keep himself, my client, and the tutor in different states if need be.
“You’re up early,” Sarah says, appearing out of nowhere to step behind me and kiss my cheek.
“Early bird catches the worm,” I say, not looking up from the files spread out in front of me. I hope she doesn’t expect me to make
her pancakes or want to go for a walk.
She lingers at my side. I’m sure she wants me to join her for breakfast. I made the mistake of making pancakes and going for a walk in the park the first weekend she stayed over. I should know better than set the bar so high. She sighs, and I lift my gaze for just a moment.
“You can go ahead and make yourself some breakfast,” I say. “Help yourself to the coffee and papers.” I doubt if Sarah has ever read the Journal, but then again, I don’t know much about her.
Her shoulders sag, but she holds out a second longer. Some girls can’t take a hint.
Don’t hold your breath for me, I want to warn her, but I ignore her instead. She waits a beat longer and then backs out of the room. Maybe she’s smarter than I thought.
***
Noon rolls around before I know it. Sarah’s lounging around somewhere, and though I don’t want to spend the day with her, a repeat of last night sounds not so bad. I find her on the couch, still wearing the white silk robe I keep in the bathroom. It amazes me that women actually use this robe. Don’t they wonder who it belongs to? Or wonder why I keep one there in the first place? Ignorance really is bliss, I guess. It is a nice robe, though.
She stretches like a cat, arching her back and lifting herself up so she’s propped on one elbow. Beneath the thin silk she’s naked, her nipples just visible. Opening her arms, she invites me closer, and I feel myself getting aroused as I fall into her embrace.
“Finally done working?” she whispers before gently nibbling my ear.
“No rest for the weary,” I murmur, kissing her neck and working my way down to her collarbone. I’m almost at her perky little breasts when my phone buzzes. Reaching with one hand, I try to silence it, but it’s a new phone, so different from my old flip phone.
Sarah pouts as I pull away.
“One second, babe, I promise.” I pick up the Blackberry. “Hold this thought.”
Sometime, Somewhere Page 5
