The Stuff That Never Happened

by Maddie Dawson

  My mind has been taken over by fire ants, I tell her, so she goes on the Internet and looks up pregnancy bleeding, and then reads me what I am sure are only the least upsetting parts. Oh, it could be placenta previa, she says, as if this is good news. That’s when the placenta is just in the wrong place but not so, so dangerous. She says she will wish for that, and reminds me that she’s a very effective wisher; that’s how she’s gotten all her lovers, her jobs, her apartments, and her red Saab convertible. And sure enough, the phone rings an hour and twenty-two minutes later, and it’s Sophie at the hospital saying in a brave, controlled voice that she and the baby are both okay. The bleeding has stopped, and an ultrasound has shown that she has placenta previa but everything looks okay for now.

  The doctor gets on the phone and explains that placenta previa looks far more upsetting than it is. “Mrs. McKay,” she says, “I’m sure you were scared to death, but everything’s really just fine. Sophie’s doing very well now, and the baby’s okay, like nothing happened.”

  “But there was so much blood …”

  “I know. It’s a very scary thing, but chances are, with proper precautions, things are going to go well for the rest of the pregnancy. Sophie is going to have to go on bed rest until delivery, because we can’t take any chances that the placenta will separate from the uterine wall. Now, I understand that her husband isn’t in the country—”

  “Tell her I can come,” I say quickly. “I’m on my way.”

  The doctor laughs. “That’s just what I was going to ask you,” she says. “Okay, I’m going to give the phone back to Sophie now. We’ll be doing weekly monitoring ultrasounds from now on, but otherwise, I want her to stay in bed except to go to the bathroom.”

  “Oh, darling,” I say when Sophie takes the phone. “Oh, honey! What a thing to have happen! Are you just exhausted with relief?”

  “Yes,” she says in a tiny voice. “You really don’t mind coming to take care of me?”

  “Oh, no! No! Of course I will. I’ll wait on you hand and foot.” I walk with the phone into my room and start pulling suitcases from underneath the bed.

  “I know you’re busy, and this is not okay, but I don’t think Whit can leave—he won’t leave the project now, but maybe in a few weeks he can get away, so it won’t be for very long …”

  She thinks I’m busy? Has she missed out on the news that I’m currently greatly underutilized? “I’ll stay as long as you need me. Don’t worry about that.” I can bring the Bobo illustrations along with me and finish them there. I tell Sophie I’ll pack up and get on the road as soon as possible. I look at my watch. It’s about a five-hour drive to New York, and it’s already noon. Let’s see, I have to talk to Grant, and I should figure out something for him about meals and all. He doesn’t cook anything but eggs and grilled cheese, and his cholesterol is already high. I’ll call my editor from New York, maybe even find a time to go see her while I’m in the city. I can hand-deliver the illustrations. But then my brain gets all caught up with what I need to do at the moment: where is the main suitcase, the one I always use? Is it in the attic?

  “Are you going to be all right until I get there?” I ask her. “Can someone come and stay with you?”

  “My friend Lori is off on Thursdays, so maybe she can come,” she says. Her voice catches.

  “Are you really, really okay?” I say to her.

  “I guess so. I … will be. I don’t know. I’m scared, Mommy.” It’s this Mommy that just about kills me. Makes me want to call for a Life Star helicopter to come and whisk me there in minutes. She never should have stayed in New York alone and pregnant. I should have insisted that she come here while Whit was away, where I could watch her and help her.

  “Shhh, shhh,” I say. “Don’t think about it all right now. One thing at a time. We’re going to take this one step-by-step. The thing to do now is to have the hospital call a cab and get yourself home, and then call Lori to come and look after you, and I’ll be there just as soon as I can.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  In the background, I hear voices indicating that they’re moving her out of the examination room—or wherever she is—and readying her to go home in a cab.

  “Can’t I just stay here until my mom comes?” I hear her say, and I close my eyes.

  Someone says something in an overly cheerful voice, and then Sophie says to me, “Okay, Mom, I’ll see you at my apartment when you get here.” And the phone clicks shut.

  I call Grant with the intention of crying and being comforted, but all he says is that he’ll assign a writing project to his late class and come on home, and that we can figure out whatever needs to be figured out. This is code for: I am not going to use any words that might let my office mate know what is really going on.

  God forbid anyone should know our business.

  When he gets home, he does not run over and take me in his arms the way a normal husband would. Instead, he stands there in the bedroom with his hands in his pockets, and does three typical Grant things in a row: clears his throat, blinks rapidly, and paces. Then he says, “Well, it’s good you’re going,” and puts his briefcase down on our bed and picks it up again and sighs while he watches me pack. “I guess that’s the right thing to do. I mean, I know it is. It’s the answer.” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down.

  “You’re upset, I know,” I say, and he says quickly, “No, I’m not. I trust the doctors. And Sophie’s young. She’ll be just fine. It’s good you’re going.”

  “Yes,” I say. “It is. She can’t manage by herself, and she’s not sure when Whit can come home and take care of her. Not for a while, at least.”

  “That’s the part that gets me. Damn it. Why did that idiot marry her in the first place if he had no intention of being a real husband?” he says. “Who goes to an orphanage in Brazil when he’s got his own kid to think of?”

  “I know, I know,” I say. “He should come home. And for all we know, he’s working it out right now.”

  “There’s no working it out to be done,” says Grant. “The way you work it out is you go get on the fucking plane. Or—oh, I know—you don’t go in the first place when you find out your wife is pregnant. How would that be?”

  Grant has been livid about this from the beginning, but I have surprised myself by actually seeing Whit’s point, or glimpses of it at least: this film will be crucial to his career in a field crowded with talented journalists; besides which, he’ll be home in time for the birth itself, and, with Sophie insisting loudly and often that she was not bothered by his going, why wouldn’t he go?

  What I had secretly hoped, though, was that Sophie would come and spend her pregnancy with us, back at home where we could watch over her. I had it all planned out in my mind, how we’d buy baby things together and talk about pregnancy and motherhood, how it would be a wonderful, joyous, womanly time that we’d always look back on fondly. I’d be there for every little kick and Braxton Hicks, and even more important, I’d get to know her better as the adult woman she is, and she could see me without all that adolescent angst hazing her mind. But no. She decided to remain in the city working through the pregnancy, and I had to hide my disappointment. Grant didn’t seem fazed in the least by that part. “Why would she want to come here?” he said. “Her husband is the person she wants right now, not her parents.”

  You see? There is no point on which we agree lately. It’s like yelling to somebody across a big divide.

  “So how long do you think you’ll stay?” he says. “Assuming that husband of hers decides that orphans are his top priority and I have to go kill him.”

  “Well, who knows? The baby is due in three months, and the doctor told me she had to stay in bed until delivery …”

  He blinks behind his glasses. “Three months? You’re going to be gone three months?”

  “Yes. Three months.”

  “Jesus. And we didn’t have Wednesday today, did we?”

  “No, and we didn’t even have it yesterday,
when it really was Wednesday. Either in the morning or at night, when you passed up a fabulous opportunity.”

  He makes a face at me. “I like to keep to a schedule. We should have kept to our schedule.”

  “Well,” I say. “You certainly have a romantic way of putting things.”

  “That’s always been my specialty. And I gotta say, it’s worked for me so far. It won me your heart, after all.”

  “Yeah, well. Luckily you had other charms.” I pour my underwear drawer into my suitcase. “Also, you need to be careful with what you eat while I’m gone, okay? You can’t just live on grilled cheese sandwiches and potato chips, you know.”

  He rubs his eyes and says, in a weary, put-upon voice, “I can make other things besides grilled cheese. Eggs, for instance.”

  “Eggs are also filled with cholesterol. You might have to eat those frozen healthy dinners. Lean Cuisine or something like that. Or—what am I even worried about? I suppose people will invite you over to eat with them once they hear you’re all alone.”

  “Please. Would you stop this? Just stop. I’m not going to go eat at anybody else’s house,” he says. “God, what a nightmare that would be. Why would you even think I’d do that?”

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. You might be expected to talk, heaven forbid. But you know they’re going to invite you.”

  “I’ve got to finish my book,” he says. “I’m not likely to go looking for company when it’s been bad enough with you always needing—”

  I stop putting things in the suitcase and stare at him.

  “No, forget it. I didn’t mean that,” he says, and laughs. “Oh my God, did I say that aloud?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, you did. Quite aloud, as a matter of fact.”

  “Look, Annabelle.” He pretends to be beseeching me. “Honey, darling wife. I need this time. I’ll miss you, but I’m not going to lie to you and say that it’s an unmitigated disaster that you’re going. It will give me a chance to get this book done, and I won’t have to worry constantly that you’ve gotten your feelings hurt because I’m not noticing that you are the unhappiest person in the whole world or that you’re not doing the art you want to be doing, so you’re miserable.”

  “Fuck you, Grant,” I say, brushing past him into the bathroom to collect my toiletries.

  When I come out, he’s back in his office with the door closed. He does not fight. It would violate some sense of propriety that is vital to whatever the hell is at the core of that man. Long-suffering endurance, that’s his gig. Waiting things out while the crazy-ass people around him go through their little scenes and dramas.

  When I’ve packed everything I can think of, shoving things into suitcases and slamming drawers, I go to his office door and say, “I’m leaving. You might as well come out and see me off.”

  He comes out and takes my hands and looks guilty. “We shouldn’t be mad when we say good-bye,” he says.

  I just want to be out of there. I look down at my shoes.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let’s put all this aside and let our last few minutes be pleasant. Do you need me to say I’m sorry? Because I am sorry.”

  I sigh.

  “Maybe you need me to get down on my knees and beg you for forgiveness. Is that what it’s going to take?” He sees my expression and gets down on his knees on the carpet and takes my hands and closes his eyes. “Oh, please baby please, please baby please, don’t go away mad.”

  “Just get up,” I say. “You’re not taking anything seriously.”

  “I am. I swear I am. Just tell me my crimes. I’m guilty as hell. I’ll sign anything you got. It was a terrible thing to say. I don’t want you to go. I really and truly don’t.” He takes me into his arms, mashing my face against his sweater. Then he laughs and squeezes me tighter. “I just want to write my book. Oh God, I just want to write this book. So much I want to write this book.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Will you help me take my suitcases out to the car?”

  “Anything! Just stop giving me the stink eye.”

  I go upstairs and get the illustrations out of my study to take along. Then I gather my coat and scarf and gloves while he hauls the suitcases out of the bedroom. When we get down to the car, the wind kicks up, and we don’t seem to be able to think of how to say good-bye.

  “So,” he says. “I guess this is it for a while. Drive carefully, and call me when—”

  “Grant, stop it. Look at me. Just look. Don’t you even know that everything is wrong?”

  He rolls his eyes. “What? Why, Annabelle? Why does everything have to be wrong?”

  “Because you don’t really even see me anymore, and it makes me sad. You just don’t.”

  Now with the loud sigh. “For God’s sake, Annabelle. How can you say that? I see you. I love you.”

  “But you don’t love me passionately.”

  He gives another sigh, even more weary, this one meant as a warning. “Why do you need to do this right now? Of course I love you. What do you want? We’ve been married for twenty-eight years. Wait. Is this because we didn’t have our usual Wednesday? It is, isn’t it?”

  “No!” I hit him in the arm. “God damn it, how can you think that? That usual Wednesday is all part of the problem!”

  He looks blank.

  “Nobody has to schedule passion!” I fold my arms. “Did you even know that? Nobody but you would even think of that. You’re so bound up, so tied to your work that you don’t even see me! You don’t care about my feelings!”

  He closes his eyes. “Why are you doing this? Why can’t you let things sort themselves out before you make all these sweeping statements? Why do you have to see things so globally? That’s the trouble here. You—”

  “What evidence is there that you love me passionately, Grant McKay?” I say. I can’t stop myself. “Come on. What evidence is there? And don’t you dare say our Wednesday morning appointment for sex. Don’t you dare.”

  “Good God. What is this? What’s with you?”

  “Tell me one other piece of evidence. Before I go away for three months, tell me one other piece of evidence.”

  “What? Are you sixteen or something? This is ridiculous.”

  I just keep staring at him. I adjust my purse to my other arm, signaling that I’m here for the long haul. He has to think of something.

  “Well, I want you to drive carefully,” he says after a while. He smiles at me. “And also I won’t eat butter while you’re gone.”

  “Great. You don’t want me to die. And you don’t want to die of a stroke. That’s good. That’s real evidence. Thank you so much for that.”

  “Look, Annabelle. I do love you, and you know it,” he says. “But I don’t like to be pushed this way. This isn’t ever a good way, you know that. We know each other too well for this.”

  He gives me one of his ominous, meaningful looks over the top of his glasses, and suddenly I have an almost uncontrollable urge to just fling Jeremiah’s name into the air. I can picture how it would happen, this unthinkable thing. I would lean toward him. “Jeremiah,” I would say in a whisper, feeling the name roll around on my tongue, filling my mouth. “Jeremiah.” I might say it again, for effect. Then how would I stop myself? Jeremiah, Jeremiah, Jeremiah, Jeremiah. I’d fill up the whole winter afternoon with it. The whole world would reverberate with the sound of it.

  But then what would happen? I have this moment to weigh it carefully. Would Grant turn pale, tighten his mouth, and then swallow whatever anger he felt—or would he blow up at me, hurling all the suppressed anger of twenty-eight years? And would that really be it, the end of everything, the way he once said it would be? The day we agreed. We won’t speak of him. It didn’t happen.

  We stand there, looking at each other. I am trembling with the feeling of the name rising up in the back of my throat. It’s almost like nausea, this name … but then, what the hell am I thinking, even contemplating setting this fire when I am going away for three months? I finally say, “I
have to go.”

  “Well,” he says, and he licks his lips and looks right at me, and there’s a glimmer of the old Grant behind his eyes. He puts his hands in his pockets. “Listen. Drive carefully,” he says. “You’ve got to get on the road, and nothing is going to get solved between us today. I’ll call you later.”

  And that’s it. He just turns away and goes back into the house without looking back. Without looking back! How can you not look back when your wife has just accused you of not loving her enough? I get into our old Volvo station wagon—the symbol of our family life and everything that’s gone—and slam the door as hard as I can, and then I can’t resist burning a little rubber on my way out of the driveway, which is not so easy to do when there’s a little bit of snow on the ground. You have to really work at it, but I’m up for the challenge.

  [six]

  1977

  The first good thing about getting engaged was that I discovered I still had the power to shock my mother, who seemed to be making it her life’s goal to go around shocking everybody else. We were back in the Orgasm Diner when I told her, and at first she just stared at me, and then she started fanning herself with the large maroon menu and laughing and clutching her chest and rolling her eyes. I waited. Then she leaned forward, narrowed her eyes, and said, “So tell me: are you just trying to act out some latent teenage rebellion against me? Why would you ever do this to yourself?”

  “I happen to be in love,” I told her.

  She stirred her coffee without looking at me. Then she said, “May I offer an alternative plan for your consideration?”

  I sighed and scratched at a scab on my elbow, which she took to mean, “Oh yes, Mother, please tell me an alternative plan to getting married to the man I love.”