Sometime, Somewhere

by Kalyn Fogarty

  When she wakes up, she’s staring directly at me. I smile, but her expression doesn’t change. I will myself to speak, but the sound is lost on my lips. Instead she slips into a blue cotton robe and floats out of the room, still so light on her feet. I am helpless not to follow.

  She doesn’t bother to turn on the lights but moves immediately to a rocking chair facing a large window. The curtains are pulled back and she stares blankly at the moon shining brightly in a cloudless sky. The night casts a purple haze into the room.

  Even in the dark I can tell the walls are yellow, clearly her favorite color. Along the border, blue ducks and pink bunnies skip over one another, hopping around the perimeter of the small room. There is a mobile hanging above a cradle, little baby animals suspended in the air, ready to dance.

  Wren rocks back and forth gently. In her lap she strokes a blanket so soft I want to wrap myself in it, but I know I wouldn’t be able to feel it even if it were made of sandpaper. Her fingers absently pull at the fabric and she bites the inside of her cheek, like she’s trying not to cry

  “Don’t cry,” I say. I want to move closer, but her pain makes me keep my distance. I’m safer in the doorway.

  She doesn’t listen to me anyway. Tears are streaming down her face, and she rubs the blanket harder. She rocks more forcefully. I have no idea what to do. If I were alive, I would go to her, hold her. Instead I just study her, useless. Her face is illuminated in moonlight and she is beautiful, like a doll. Only dolls don’t cry.

  Glancing around the room, I see everything a baby could possibly need. There’s a playpen, a changing station, and stuffed animals of all kinds. There is a high chair stowed in the corner in front of the closet. Bags of diapers are piled on the floor. A stack of onesies is neatly folded on the dresser. All that is missing is a baby in the cradle.

  “Wren,” I say. I jump at the sound of my voice, just in time to see Jimmy enter the room. He’s the one who called her name. Not me.

  “Baby, what’s wrong?” he says, crouching on one knee in front of her rocking chair, now still.

  “Everything is wrong, Jimmy,” she says, her voice raspy from crying. She throws her hands in the air, dropping the blanket to the ground. She sweeps her arms around the room, gesturing at the cradle and the toys. “What’s missing from this room?” The empty crib screams against the silence.

  Jimmy reaches his hand to stroke her face, but she turns against him. He ignores her rebuff and takes her in his arms, pulling her stiff body toward him, burying his head in her chest. His body is shaking, and I know he’s crying too. She tries to draw away, but his grasp is too tight. She gives in and lets out a deep breath, sobbing so deeply my heart breaks into a million pieces. I am overcome with emotion, more emotion than I’ve ever felt in my living life. I haven’t a clue what to do with this feeling and my head and heart scream out. I open my mouth and don’t expect any sound to emerge, but I hope to deafen myself to the sobs and sadness that already fill this room.

  The vase filled with daffodils on the changing table falls and shatters. Jimmy and Wren look up, startled. Silence fills the room as they both hold their breath. The moment passes.

  I am an intruder. I hurry from the room, but there’s no escape from this house. Not for me. I want desperately to disappear—which is ironic, since I spend so much of my time wanting to be seen. I broke the vase. I know I did. I cried out and it broke. My pain was so great, it made something happen. I am real. I exist. I’m not sure if this comforts me or fills me with dread.

  Wren and Jimmy are still upstairs. I don’t know how the argument ended, but it can’t be that bad. I hear the bed creak, and a light moan echoes down the hall. I stay downstairs.

  ***

  They don’t come down tonight. I’d watch them sleep if I didn’t feel like such a creep. Even worse, I’m jealous and ashamed of my jealousy. It’s ridiculous that I’m envious of Jimmy, but I am. He gets to comfort her, touch her. I can only watch her pain and do nothing about it. I should probably be relieved that in some world I’m a good man capable of such devotion. Mostly I just feel like shit.

  Something moves in the coat closet. The front door is bolted and the chain is secure. The windows are all closed. I know, since I’ve checked them all twice. I have taken it upon myself to protect the house. Not that I can disarm an intruder, but I might manage to break something and wake Jimmy. I search the room, but Prissy is lying on the couch, sleeping soundly. I hear rustling, then more silence. Prissy doesn’t stir. It’s like she heard nothing.

  31

  Wren

  Age 32

  May 2004

  The moon shines like a disco ball in the sky, the stars glittering and dancing around it on this perfect spring night. I wish I could enjoy the beauty of it all. Instead I turn my gaze from the window, stare at the blank wall. Toeing the carpet with my slipper, I push, sending myself rocking a little faster and harder in the wooden chair meant for nursing and lulling a baby to sleep.

  I wonder if he regrets it all. I wonder if he wishes he had an escape route. He’s too good a man to leave now, even if he wants to. No, Jimmy is not the leaving type. He’s the staying-through-thick-and-thin type. Oh how I wish I could hurtle back through time and change it all. Change his fate so it wasn’t tied to mine. Chained to mine. I push the rocker even harder as memories of the past come flooding back, the past and present melting together. So many moments have led up to the one I’m in now, where I’m crying alone in a silent nursery.

  I blink back more tears, willing myself to think of something happy. Anything to distract me from the fact that tonight is my last night with both my ovaries. Tomorrow my chances of a baby will be automatically halved, and the odds were definitely not great to start with. I bite my cheek. Think happy thoughts . . . think happy thoughts . . . Like Wendy trying to make her way to Neverland, I glance out the window and imagine I’m sometime else, somewhere else. A line from my favorite Disney film comes to mind: Second star to the right and straight on till morning . . .

  May 1994

  Something is weird with Jimmy tonight.

  Scratch that. Something has been weird with Jimmy since we graduated. At first I figured it was all the stress and excitement and would pass. However, Jimmy seemed completely focused on law school even before the celebrations were finished. So I can’t blame stress about the future. He’s actually amazingly calm concerning that. He’s only weird around me. Of course, this makes me doubly worried.

  Despite the hectic week, the Eagles baseball team has one more game. Whoever thought up that schedule is clearly a genius (rolling my eyes, obviously). As if graduation and packing up the dorms weren’t enough, let’s throw a major baseball game into the mix. Jimmy has pitched for the Eagles for the past three years. He played freshman year as well but spent most of his time on the bench. Since then I’ve attended every baseball game, home and away. He somehow makes it to all my gymnastic meets. It’s something we’ve always done for each other, so today won’t be any different.

  Except it already is. He’s all jittery and nervous, talking too fast and making no sense. I can’t tell if it’s just nostalgia over his last game or something worse. Whatever it is, I’m worried for the team. I just can’t see him pitching well at the rate he’s going now.

  I’ve never been broken up with. It’s a strange thing to worry about as we drive to the field, but it’s what I’m thinking. I’ve dated Jimmy since high school, so we’re going on almost nine years together. Nine. It’s been amazing, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a long time. Sometimes I wonder about all the things I’ve missed, including being dumped. Normal girls my age have ex-boyfriends; they know the pain of losing someone they love and moving on. I don’t have that. I’m a breakup virgin.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” I ask again. I hate that question: Are you okay? You wouldn’t ask if everything really was okay, yet once the question is out there, no one ever admits they’re not okay. It’s a question that never gets answered. Not
truthfully, anyway.

  “Wren, I’m fine, I told you. I’m just a little sad this is my last game,” he says, squeezing my knee. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, so I can’t tell what he’s really thinking. He’s a terrible liar. His eyes always give him away.

  “I know. You’re going to be great. Don’t worry.” I try to be reassuring, but I don’t feel all that reassured myself.

  “You’re going to be sitting in your spot, right?” he asks, pulling his hand from my leg and putting it back on the wheel.

  Weird. I don’t know why he’s even asking this. I always sit in the same exact spot. I sit behind the catcher, one aisle to the right and four rows back. It’s my spot. My name should be engraved there.

  “No, I was thinking of switching it up tonight, sitting back near outfield,” I say, rolling my eyes. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel and he isn’t laughing. “Jeez, Jim, of course I’m sitting there. Seriously, are you okay?”

  “Just making sure you’re going to be in your spot.” He loosens his grip on the wheel, but only a little.

  ***

  The Eagles are crushing Northeastern. The crowd is eating it up, especially since the last time these guys played, the tables were turned. It’s the top of the ninth, but the Huskies are on the mound and already down by three and at the top of the count. It’s not looking good for them, and the fans know it.

  Jimmy is the closer tonight. The other senior pitcher started the game but played only four innings. Since it’s the last game for both the boys, coach let them split it. They’ve been on fire, only one run in the first half and one run by Jimmy. The game will be over in a matter of minutes.

  A hush falls over the Eagles’ pit. I doubt anyone else would notice this, but I’ve been to so many games that I know their sound, and they are definitely too quiet. Maybe it’s a moment of silence for what might very well be Jimmy’s last pitch.

  He looks at his catcher. I swear to god the catcher gives him two thumbs-up and winks. Not your typical sign, but I guess they’re excited. Jimmy steps back, lifts his knee, and winds up. Instead of looking to the batter, he turns and looks into the stands. He finds me in the crowd and smiles. Instead of throwing the ball, he drops to one knee.

  “Wren?” he yells, still down on one knee on the mound. I feel like I’m in a dream. People are murmuring all around me, all eyes on me. I can’t believe this is happening. “Wren, come here!”

  I stand up. Everything around me sounds like white noise. “Where do you want me to go?” I’m so embarrassed, but at the same time it all makes sense. I start climbing over people’s legs, trying to get to the end of the aisle.

  “Come down here,” he yells. Why the umpire hasn’t called some sort of foul, or whatever it’s called, is beyond me. I suspect a conspiracy.

  “James Knight, I could kill you right now,” I mutter under my breath, finally coming to the entrance to the field.

  I step onto the field, hesitantly at first, but with more confidence when I see his face. His eyes are wet, but he’s smiling at me. I’m about to run into his arms when I see him gently toss the ball in my direction. I stop in my tracks and catch it in both hands. Written across the baseball are the words Marry Me.

  I nod my head and feel my legs moving faster, running toward the mound. He stands up, holding a box in his hand.

  “Wren, will you marry me?”

  I can’t pin down all the thoughts running through my head. It’s crazy, it’s wonderful, it’s too soon, it’s just right, it's us.

  “Of course I will.”

  He slips the ring on my finger and pulls me into a magical kiss.

  All around us the crowd goes wild.

  Oh, and the Eagles win the game.

  May 2004

  “Wren,” Jimmy says, rushing to my side. “Baby, what’s wrong?” he whispers, eager to take me in his arms, hold me, fix me.

  I should have said no, I think, but I don’t say it aloud. Instead I hiss, “Everything is wrong, Jimmy.” Everything. Then. Now. Tomorrow. Nothing is turning out the way it should, and I don’t have the slightest clue as to where it all went wrong.

  32

  James

  Age 33

  December 2004

  “Eggnog! And cinnamon,” my mom adds as I pick up my keys. I’ve offered to run to the grocery store to pick up a few last-minute items for our Christmas Eve dinner. Really I just needed a break from the holiday festivities, and an hour wandering the crowded market aisles sounds like heaven.

  “Got it. Be back in a jiffy,” I say. I am trying. Trying so hard to be cheerful, to be pleasant. My poor mom has been running interference between me and my dad all morning, chatting and exuding Christmas joy. The least I can do is be pleasant.

  Dad has been his normal self, silent and cold. We had an icy breakfast, save for Mom’s incessant gossip and questions about my job and girlfriends. Dad nodded here and there to show Mom he was paying attention, but mostly his nose was buried in the Post. How he can read such drivel, I have no idea. I told Mom I was busy and doing well at work and there was no one special yet. She expressed disappointment in having no grandchildren.

  This seemed to get Dad’s attention: When are you going to give us some grandkids? You’re our only shot at them. Mom didn’t mean for it to come out the way it sounded. But, like most things in the Knight household, it reminded us all of the big hole still left by June. You’re our only shot because your sister died. I could see him picturing June. She would be married with three kids, a golden retriever, and a nice house in the suburbs by now. The light of her daddy’s life.

  Afterward, Dad retreated back to his study and I hung out in the kitchen with Mom, sprinkling green and red sugar on cookies shaped like wreaths and Santa Claus.

  Sliding behind the wheel of my Range Rover, I think how easy it would be to just keep driving back to the city. To call Mom and tell her there had been some work emergency I needed to deal with. She could explain it to Dad. Turn the tables on him for once.

  The parking lot around Shaw’s is packed, and I have to circle three times before stalking a woman with enough groceries to feed an army unloading her cart into the trunk of a Suburban. I wave and smile to her as she backs out of the space so slowly I want to get out and move the car for her. Really, not a single person here would survive a day in New York City.

  The inside is no better. The checkout line wraps around the produce section, and I am sure not a patron in the express lane has less than fifteen items. I have no idea where to get either cinnamon or eggnog, but I came here to waste some time, so I’m not disappointed.

  If I ran the grocery story, I would dedicate an entire aisle to Christmas dinner necessities. Instead, I can find an aisle of green and red candy, enough M&M’s here to fill a billion stockings, next to an aisle filled with wrapping paper and bows. I wander down them both, throwing some chocolate into the cart along with candy canes. Not what I needed or wanted, but why not?

  “Jimmy?” a voice calls from behind me. I almost don’t turn around, so long it’s been since someone besides Mom called me by my old nickname.

  “Jimmy Knight?” she says again, and this time I turn.

  Standing in front of the Hershey’s Kisses is Karen Martin. She’s smaller than I remembered, but then again, I’ve filled out a lot since I was in high school. She looks up with me with a lopsided smile and I feel something inside me snap. I haven’t spoken to Karen in years, although I did send her flowers a little while back. I blush with guilt, for not calling, for being a dick.

  “Karen, how are you?” I ask.

  Walking toward her, I bend to kiss her cheek. It leaves an imprint.

  “I’ve been good. How about you?” she says. She draws away and looks up at me from beneath her long lashes.

  “Can’t complain,” I say, shaking my head like an idiot. It’s so nice to see her, but there’s too much to catch up on. A lifetime, really. “Just looking for some cinnamon.” Stupid.

  Karen
chuckles. “All right, I’ll take you to the spices. Follow me,” she says, and walks down the candy aisle. I follow, jogging to catch up.

  She can’t weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet. Even with her parka on, I can tell she is barely a whisper. Yet she still walks faster than any New Yorker I have ever encountered. We weave through traffic, past the poultry and beef, up the canned-goods aisle, and down the baking aisle.

  “Here we go, cinnamon. You can have ground cinnamon or sticks, your choice,” she says.

  Her eyes twinkle. She is mocking me. I want to laugh, to thank her for not hating me. For taking me to the spice aisle even though I didn’t call her.

  “Thanks. Guess I’ll get both,” I say, grabbing one of each.

  “Always indecisive,” she chides.

  We stand there looking across the years. She looks tired. I wonder what I look like to her.

  “Do you want to grab dinner sometime this week? I’m here for a few days,” I say. I want to make up for everything. For breaking up, for not calling, for her having cancer.

  She seems surprised, and her gaze sharpens on me. She doesn’t trust me. Not that I can blame her.

  “All right, that would be nice,” she says, shaking her head once.

  “All right then. Good,” I say. “Could I bother you to lead me to the eggnog?”

  “Oh Jimmy, how have you survived all these years?” she says, rolling her eyes just like she did as a girl.

  “Luck, I guess,” I reply. I wonder if our detour through the floral department is a coincidence or some sort of passive-aggressive mockery. I wonder how I have survived all these years. Luck gets you only so far.

  ***

  No matter how old I get, I still can’t sleep on Christmas Eve. As a boy, I would listen for sleigh bells ringing and hoofprints on the roof. June and I would often sleep in the same bed, hidden under the covers with a flashlight, eating stolen Christmas candy and discussing what presents Santa must surely have in his sack.