Sometime, Somewhere

by Kalyn Fogarty

  “Are they even home?” Karen asks, gesturing at the quiet house. The bedroom light is off.

  I shrug. The nursery hasn’t been the only sad place in the house lately. Wren walks the halls like a ghost herself, so pale and small, her loss hanging over her like a dark cloud. “I think Jimmy’s on the couch. He was last night, anyway.”

  “So sad,” Karen whispers. “It’s so sad their marriage has come to this.” She shakes her head in disgust. “I don’t get it. I had plenty of unfinished business in my own life. I mean, I killed myself. I chose to leave it all undone. I left my parents and friends, knowing they would be upset. I told myself no one cared about me, but that was a lie I used to justify my own selfish actions. In reality, I was so wrapped up in my own misery I didn’t give a shit what I left behind.”

  “That doesn’t make you a bad person,” I say. I reach my hand across the table and place it over hers, then watch in amazement as the snow falls to either side, never touching us.

  “Yes, it does. It makes me a terrible person,” she argues. “Yet here I am, haunting this life where some version of me has a great marriage and a loving support system but I’m still sad and selfish. At first I thought I was meant to learn something or be punished by watching what could have been, but Wren isn’t teaching me anything.” She stares up at the starry night, the snow parting before it reaches her face. She sticks out her tongue to catch a snowflake, but it flutters to the side. “It seems like I’m a universally shitty person, only out for myself in all the times and places.”

  “That’s not true. Wren isn’t out for herself. She wants a baby for Jimmy too,” I say.

  Karen lets out a harsh laugh and lifts a brow. “You would stick up for her,” she says, only half teasing. I catch a note of jealously, and I soften.

  “Wren isn’t a bad person, and neither were you. I think we need to forget all about good versus bad. Maybe we’re here now so we can figure out who we’re supposed to be. Jimmy and Wren aren’t the important ones in this existence—not to us, anyway. Me and you, we’re what matters. I think Jimmy and Wren are a glimpse of a different life so we know that change is possible. Our paths weren’t set in stone, and they aren’t finished yet. We are the unfinished business.”

  “I don’t believe that people can change,” she says matter-of-factly, daring me to argue.

  “Fine,” I start, trying to rephrase my theory. “We’ve both always been inherently good people. We just made bad decisions. So we aren’t changing who we are on the inside, only the way we move through the world.” Maybe this can explain away why I lived my life like such an asshole.

  “You actually believe that?” She looks at me skeptically.

  “Yes, I do,” I say, with more assurance than I feel.

  “What would you have changed about your life? Your life before?” she asks.

  If you’d asked me this when I was alive, I would’ve arrogantly said nothing. I thought I loved my life. My friends always told me I was living the dream—a different woman every week, high-paying job, more money than I could spend. Now I see things for what they were. The facade of my life was pretty great, but it lacked substance. There’s only one thing I can think to change that might have turned the course of my life.

  “I would have saved June,” I say. “If she’d lived, everything would have been different. When she died, it shifted the dynamics in my family. My parents were so absorbed with her loss, I felt like they forgot they had a son. No matter what I did, I could never fill the hole she left behind.”

  Karen moves closer to me so that our shoulders touch. She leans her head on my shoulder. “You couldn’t have saved her, James. In my life, June died too. There was nothing you could have done. She was in the car alone, and a drunk driver broadsided her. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I could have stopped her from going to the party,” I mutter. “Or picked her up.” But neither of these would have been possible. June loved to party, and there was no reason for me to suspect such a terrible accident might happen. The image of her car, an early graduation present, comes to mind. In it, the driver's side is irreparably mangled, glass and red metal crumpled together like a tin can. I close my eyes, willing it away.

  “Stop. You didn’t even have your license. June died, and it had nothing to do with you.”

  “Do you think in some life she’s still alive?” I ask. The idea of her alive somewhere, married, with her two kids and white picket fence, fills me with equal amounts sadness and hope.

  “I don’t know. I hope so,” she says. “There’s a chance she’s alive in some other time, and there’s a chance I don’t have cancer in some other where. I have no idea how much of our existence is predetermined versus choice, and I’ve no idea how much we’re linked to our other version. Somehow I feel like cancer was my fate and the way I respond to the diagnosis is what’s changeable, but that’s just my gut. I hope June’s accident didn’t happen in every life. Maybe she got sick and stayed home from that party in some version—one simple little change. But I don’t know.”

  So much we don’t know. Each question leads to ten more. “As a kid, I always loved the snow, but I hated the cold,” she murmurs, watching the snow fall heavier, the flakes smaller. “I always wished I’d be able to stand outside in a snowstorm and stay warm and dry.” The wind picks up as she speaks. The white clouds swirl around the yard in dizzying patterns. “Looks like my wish finally came true.”

  45

  Jimmy

  Age 35

  December 2006

  Christmas is usually a joyous time of year in our house. Once Thanksgiving has passed, we look forward to our seasonal rituals. First we buy our tree from the local Boy Scout troop, who set up in the parking lot of the fire department and overcharge us for the seven-foot spruce. Next, Wren decks our halls with garlands and hangs mistletoe in every doorway. Santa figurines are placed on every surface, and I wonder where she’s collected so many; it’s as if they repopulate each December. I’m in charge of stringing the lights outside, and after a lot of cursing and quite a few beers, I get the perimeter of the roof and the windows surrounded by soft white bulbs. We love Christmas.

  But not this year. This year our house is dark, the only one in the neighborhood without lights or even a wreath on the door. There’s no tree in the corner of the living room and the mantel is naked, not a stocking or Santa in sight.

  On our first Christmas as a married couple, Wren desperately wanted to string lights around our front porch. We’d moved into the house only a month or two earlier. Although we were finally settled, there were still some boxes waiting to be unpacked. Of course, I had no idea where any of the Christmas decorations were, and our supply was embarrassingly small, since we’d had only an apartment to worry about. Two weeks before the holiday, we went on a shopping spree at Walmart and spent way too much money on sparkling white lights, garlands, and a garish, giant wreath with a big red bow. Driving to our new house with our bags of goodies, we felt like grown-ups.

  When we got home, we laid everything out on the porch, only to realize we had no plan. We didn’t have a ladder or extension cords or anything to fasten the monstrous wreath onto the door. In no time at all, the lights were a tangled mess and we had no clue how to turn anything on.

  Eventually we figured out how to hang the wreath and garlands. With a little brainstorming, we fashioned some strings and hooks onto the backs, but they held only until New Year.

  The lights were more difficult. Wren sweet-talked our new neighbor into lending us a ladder. Up that ladder I went, but it was too short. I reached as high as I could but still couldn’t get to the gutters. Wren started screaming up at me to “just stick it anywhere!” Of course, I knew she meant for me to anchor the string anywhere, but I still found it so funny that I started laughing and almost fell off the ladder. She began giggling right along with me and dragged me into the house for some hot cocoa, leaving those lights hanging haphazardly from the roof. Thank goodness we never foun
d any outlets, because our house probably would’ve caught on fire.

  It was an amazing Christmas. Sitcom worthy, the type you see only on cheesy prime-time television. I always smile thinking back to those silly lights. We’ve figured it out since that first season; it takes me only an hour or two to string up the whole house, corner to corner. But this year the memory of our first Christmas isn’t bringing a smile to Wren’s face. She’s beyond depressed. I’m sad, but I can still find the strength to smile, even laugh. Although I feel terrible doing either in Wren’s presence. It’s like I’m cheating on her when I dare to think a happy thought or spitting on the grave of our unborn child each time I dare to hope.

  The therapist diagnosed Wren with postpartum depression. We agreed to couple counseling after our blowout fight that night in the hospital. I used to assume we could survive anything together. Now we need a therapist in the room telling us who gets to speak next. She dictates whose feelings we need to consider and when, a relationship referee. I still believe we could’ve weathered this storm alone, but Wren needs more than just us. I’m worried enough to do whatever it takes. But this irritates her too. Everything I do pisses her off. She screamed at me the other day to stop fucking worrying about me before slamming the bathroom door in my face. Like angry words and locks could keep me from worrying.

  We need a break. She’s been through more than any woman deserves to endure, and I’ve been at her side the whole time. I dream about what it would be like to get away. To put some distance between myself and all this pain. Maybe I’d be able to sleep more than a few hours straight without waking up in a cold sweat and straining to hear whether my wife is still breathing beside me. Maybe I’d get some work done. Although my dad and the partners have been understanding, I can’t stay on sick leave forever. I’m sure I’ve used up all my time off by now, but I guess I have my own set of people worrying over me.

  The word separation was thrown out fairly early on by our therapist. One step down from divorce, it’s the new trend in a try-it-before-you-buy-it culture. A nice trial run before taking the final plunge. But I see it as the easy way out. Wren and I could separate, but what would that really fix? Our problems would still be here when we got back, even if we lived apart for a while and gave each other some space. Wren’s crazy if she thinks I’m going anywhere without a fight. It’s hard enough for me to leave her at home for one day while I go to work; I’d never last a week or a month or any amount of indefinite time agreed on in an ambiguous separation. The therapist thinks spending time away from each other might give us time to reflect on what we want for ourselves and for our relationship. I already know the answer to those questions: I want Wren for both.

  When I proposed having a vasectomy, she threatened to leave me, but that’s all it was. A threat. Leaving isn’t that simple. Neither of us can walk away after all we’ve been through as a couple. But I do know that she doesn’t forgive easily and never forgets. Had I walked out of that hospital room and made the appointment, I don’t think she’d actually have left me, but she certainly would never have forgiven me. She might not forgive me for even saying the word. No, she won’t leave, because she loves me and needs me too much, but if I went through with the procedure, we’d have an irreparable break that might never heal. I worry the crack in our marriage is already there and that not even a baby can fix it completely.

  I’ve stayed, and so has she. Some days she lashes out at me, calling me every name in the book, cursing me for staying and ordering me to leave. Every day she doesn’t have a baby she unleashes her anger and grief at me, accusing me of keeping her from finding her happy ending, the baby that will miraculously fix all our problems. I don’t fight back, but I don’t give her what she wants. I know she wants to try again, and that dance requires two to tango. One minute she’ll be screaming and crying at me, the next batting her eyelashes and attempting to seduce me. If I didn’t know her so well, I’d have whiplash from her mood swings. But who else can she unload her pain on besides me? No one else was in the hospital room that fateful night we lost our baby, so no one else understands the anguish she experiences all the time. Sometimes I can tell she feels guilty for the abuse I endure out of love for her, but I know apologies aren’t her strong suit. In time, we will find our way back together. So I stay and I wait.

  ***

  “Do you blame Jim?” Dr. Boden asks, looking at Wren intently. We sit next to each other on a chic brown leather couch that isn’t nearly as comfortable as it looks. Our thighs touch, but the space between us feels more like an ocean.

  Dr. Boden has instructed us not to look at each other before answering, and Wren does as she’s been told. Apparently we will feel more comfortable speaking our truths if we can’t see our spouse giving us emotional cues with their eyes and body language. The good doctor has also told us to address her if we have difficulty talking to each other so that she can start a dialogue between us.

  “No, of course not,” Wren starts, biting her thumbnail, which is already bitten down to the quick. A few cracks of yellow nail polish are all that remain. “It’s not his fault that I miscarried.” She pauses, refusing to meet my eyes, even though I’m desperate to see her face. “But I don’t think he ever wanted the baby in the first place, so I do think I’m more upset about the loss than he is.” Her jaw clenches and unclenches as she grinds her back teeth, trying to keep herself from crying.

  “Good job, Wren. Thank you for sharing that. It’s important that Jim knows how you’re feeling,” Dr. Boden says, her melodic voice calm and soothing and exceptionally irritating. She turns to face me, and her smile disappears. Obviously she thinks I’m a bad husband. Couple’s counseling is supposed to be impartial, but I could tell the therapist took Wren’s side on our first meeting. Dr. Boden might be a professional, but she’s a woman, and she’s only human. I can’t blame her for siding with the woman who just lost a pregnancy. “Do you have a response to Wren’s feelings, Jim?” She holds her notebook poised on her knee and her pen in her right hand, ready to take diligent notes on our impending breakthrough.

  Screw procedure. Turning to face Wren, I beg for her to look me in the eye, to actually see me, the man she’s loved for over half her life. She refuses and stares forward. I push forward, undeterred. “Wren,” I plead. A flicker of recognition in her eyes. “I’m devastated, I promise you.” I study her profile, her perfect little nose and high cheekbones, the lower lip slightly fuller than the top. “I won’t deny this has been harder on you. You carried our baby inside of you. But it’s been hard on me too. I’ve been beside you every step of the way.” I pause, swallowing back the lump in my throat. “I lost our baby too. Everything has been so hard these past years. First, getting pregnant was tough, and it turned out it was actually cancer. Then all I wanted was for you to get healthy. It’s not that I didn’t want a baby, but I wanted you more. I won’t apologize for that.” I watch as she drops her chin and stares at her hands in her lap; they tremble slightly. “Look at me,” I whisper. Finally, she turns her wet blue eyes on me. “If another baby is what it takes to bring you back to me and make you smile again, we can start trying right now,” I say, surprised that it’s the truth. All this time I wanted her healthy and alive, but what good is that if she’s not happy? For the last month she’s been dead inside, and it’s killing me right along with her.

  “You mean it?” she asks, her eyes glimmering with hope.

  Without hesitation, I nod. “Yes. We’re in this together. If this is what you truly want, then I’m in,” I say, taking her hand in mine. I try to ignore the lingering fear creeping back into the corners of my mind and let my heart take over.

  Dr. Boden smiles widely and takes notes. “Very good,” she murmurs, proud of herself and her brilliant therapy. Let her think what she wants. I know it’s our love for each other—which has been here all along—that has brought us back together. If we had stuck to all Dr. Boden’s rules, it might have taken us months to come to this conclusion. “You’ve co
me a long way this session,” she says, quickly glancing at the clock. Our hour is nearly up.

  “Thank you,” Wren says, brushing a tear from her eye and smudging her mascara. I reach over and wipe it off with my finger.

  “Yes, thanks,” I repeat. Wren stands, and I help her into her big puffy jacket.

  “Same time next week?” Dr. Boden asks as she checks the calendar on her desk.

  Wren and I glance at each other. A smile spreads across her face, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. When she giggles, it’s like music to my ears. “We’ll call you,” she says, winking at me.

  Together we walk from the room. We both smile as we walk to my truck. For the first time in a long time, I feel at ease, and I let the small seed of doubt give me pause for only a moment before casting it aside and choosing happiness, whatever the cost.

  46

  James

  After

  March 2007

  March has always been my least favorite month. Nothing good ever happens in March. My dislike began in elementary school. All the other months had a holiday that offered a nice long weekend or two off from class. Not March. We didn’t even get St. Patrick’s Day. It rarely snowed hard enough for an official snow day, just enough to make waiting for the bus miserable and ensure that your shoes were muddy and wet for the rest of the day. March stank when I was a kid and still stank when I became an adult.

  Mother Nature teases March with the promise of spring. A lone daffodil might pop up in anticipation of the warmer weather to come and is then crushed by a cold-front frost. It’s unlucky for the flowers and unlucky for us all. The Ides of March loom, and strange things happen in March. Lions lie with lambs, friends betray friends, and the world is stir-crazy. It’s a recipe for disaster.