by Julia Derek
I turn my face away and gaze out the car window, stare at the many cars that drive by on the freeway. We’re almost there now. If the traffic stays the same, we should arrive at the cemetery in less than ten minutes. Even though I have only been to this particular cemetery once, I can determine the distance because I remember the yellow house at the side of the freeway. The cemetery is very close to that house.
When Jason drives off the freeway and onto the side road that leads to the cemetery, I turn back so that I face him. It takes all I have not to let out the gasp that wants to come out of me when I see how pale he has become, pale like a ghost, and that several beads of sweat have formed around his hairline. One trickles down the side of his cheek and lands on his arm. He doesn’t seem to notice.
Okay, this just can’t be a display of mourning for our son, I think. Nor can it be because he worries about me crying uncontrollably in his arms. He has simply had too much practice to fear something like that. It must be something else. Is he not feeling well?
I shake my head at myself. So ask him then, silly! Ask him if he’s feeling sick or something. With just another moment of hesitation, I do exactly this.
Putting a hand on his lower arm, I ask, “What’s wrong, Jason? Do you feel sick?”
He throws me a quick glance. “I’ve felt better.”
“You don’t look good.”
He puts a hand over mine. “I’ll be all right. You sure you still want to go visit the grave?”
“Yes. Of course I am. I need to see it. And I’m going to be all right afterward. I promise.”
He nods curtly and drives onto the cemetery’s parking lot. Together, we leave the car, me carrying all the flowers in my arms.
“Do you want help with those?” Jason asks.
“No, I’m fine carrying them,” I respond as we walk on the gravel path that leads up to the black wrought iron fence that wraps around the huge cemetery. Jason loops a protective arm around my shoulders. I smile up at him and he returns my smile, but there is still that weird tension in his face and his skin looks clammy pale, wax-like.
“How are you doing?” I ask him. “Still feeling sick?” I like that I’m the one who is more in control of their emotions at the moment. Usually, it’s the other way around, especially since after the birth.
He gives my shoulders a squeeze. “I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
We continue through the main path that parts the cemetery in two until we get to the second half, then we take a right. Matt’s grave is there, close to the corner of the cemetery. There are so many gravestones there that I’m surprised we find our way to our son’s grave so easily having been there only once. Jason feels stiff as he walks beside me with his arm around my shoulders still. He’s staring with empty eyes before him, I notice as I steal a quick glance at him. We walk past other people who are sitting or standing in front of grave sites, some crying openly.
I know exactly how they feel.
Then we are suddenly standing in front of Matt’s gray marble gravestone. Shaped like a wide square, it says In Memory of Matthew John George Woods, 2014-2014. Our Precious Baby Boy.
I don’t say anything and neither does Jason. We just stand there for some time and look at the stone. There are lots of flowers around Matt’s gravestone already, in various stages of decomposition. We have many friends and family members who’ve come by and still do to visit his grave and pay their respects. My mother has told me she comes here every Sunday to put flowers here.
I squat in front of the stone and am pleased that I have yet to fall apart at the sight of the stone with Matthew’s name on it. Yes, I’m crying a little, but not nearly to the point that I have been doing most days lately. Maybe I don’t have that many tears left in my body.
I place the flowers right beneath his name and then I stand back up. I nod and turn to Jason, whose eyes have become glossy and red. I know he’s trying to keep it together because we’re outside and other people are around—the only time he does allow himself to cry is when he is with me and only me. He claims he never cries if he is alone. I guess I have to take his word for it.
“We can leave now,” I say calmly, wiping at my eyes with the heel of my hand.
Jason looks surprised. “That fast? You don’t need more time?”
“No, I just wanted to make sure the gravesite looked nice. And leave the flowers. There should always be fresh flowers here and there is. Are you okay to leave?”
“Yes. We can go.” Jason suddenly twists his face, looking like he is in deep pain. But the moment passes so quickly that I’m not sure if I didn’t actually imagine him grimacing. I decide that it’s best not to ask him about it; either way the answer is not going to be something that I want to deal with right then. It might even be the trigger that makes me fall apart all over again.
We take one more look at Matthew’s gravesite and then I force myself to turn away from it. Jason takes my hand and together we make our way back to the cemetery entrance. When we have left the cemetery and are inside our car, color has returned to Jason’s cheeks and he is no longer sweating.
An hour later we’re back in our apartment and I have still not fallen apart. Instead, I’m feeling calm, calmer than I have felt in a long time. I don’t ask him, but even Jason must agree that taking me to see our son’s grave was just what I needed to be able to start living again.
I hope it’s not merely a temporary relief.
Chapter 7
“It’s great to see you back, Lexi!” Angie, my boss, says after giving me a big embrace that takes my breath away it’s so fierce with affection.
I have always been one of Angie’s favorite employees and it seems I still am. We haven’t seen each other for several months, but she looks the same as always. She is wearing lots of perfume and makeup and her red hair is a shock of tight curls. Her tall, curvy frame is dressed in a conservative suit and, unlike me, she wears comfortable loafers instead of heels on her feet.
“Come with me so I can show you your new office,” she says and loops her arm through mine. She is as Italian in spirit as she is in the way she looks, loud and maternal with a don’t-mess-with-me attitude that has the power to make grown men tremble with fear.
We walk through the meandering corridors that crisscross through the large firm. I wave to people I haven’t seen in a while, smile and mouth hellos.
After having been gone so long from work, I realize that I won’t be doing the same kind of job that I was doing before, not have nearly as much responsibility and influence at the firm. In a way it’s almost like having to start over, but I’m okay with that. I know that I’m lucky to even have a job still at a place as high-powered and attractive as Ernst & Young as bad as the economy is. But that’s what makes this company so great—they truly care and take care of their employees. I’m living proof of that.
I’m not surprised to see that my new office contains no window like the one I used to inhabit even when I went down to part-time during the pregnancy. It is also much smaller. It makes me think of a very bright and empty storage room.
“I wish we could offer you a better office,” Angie says in an exculpatory voice as she motions for me to step into the box-like space.
“That’s totally okay,” I say and smile at her. “You’ve done so much for me already. At least it’s my own space and not a cubicle out on the floor.”
I walk into the small room and run my hand over the glossy black desk there. “This is great.”
We spend some more time talking about events and changes at the office, and then Angie tells me she needs to go to a meeting. I’m left to go over a stack of tax documents on the computer that Angie has already emailed me. As boring as some might consider this work to be, not to mention compared to what I’m used to do, I’m actually looking forward to doing it. It will occupy my mind, but not stress it too much. Dealing with clients would be too much. After what I have been through, I need to get back to things slowly. My mi
nd is out of practice after all.
It is not until hours later, after Jason has had time to check in with me and several of my old coworkers have swung by to say hi, that I get to a document in which I spot a name that makes me pause.
Celeste Jenkins.
Celeste was the name I read in Jason’s diary, the name of his imaginary mistress, the one he supposedly killed. It is an unusual name and I can’t help but wonder now what made him pick that name for his character. Does it have a special meaning? Something that’s related to heaven maybe? Later, when I get home, I will ask him about it. No sooner has that thought entered my mind when I decide against it. It’s better that I don’t mention that I have already read some of his writing until he decides he is ready to show me on his own. I don’t want him to think that I’m snooping through his stuff while he is at work, invading his privacy.
It’s dark when I leave work, the moon full and a sharp white against the inky sky. Thick clouds that look like gigantic pieces of cotton hover around it. Fall is my favorite time of the year, and this early evening is the perfect fall night. Not too cold, not too warm, the air just a touch moist as I inhale it. There are no icy winds seeping through your clothes that chill you to the bone when you least expect it. It’s been a while since I’ve worked out and since it’s so nice out, I decide to walk all the way home, even though I’m fifty blocks from the Upper West Side where we live. It will be a long walk, but I can definitely use the exercise. I have changed into the flats I brought with me in case my feet would start to ache from wearing heels an entire day.
I take my time as I walk, slip into some stores on the way to check out clothes and pick up some things for the house. I buy a tie for Jason that I fall in love with the second my eyes land on it. It’s dark red and the silk is so smooth I can’t stop touching it.
Dark red is a great color for my husband. I can already see in my mind how he will look when he wears it together with a crisp, white dress shirt. My husband, such a sexy, sexy man. I smile as I pay for it and the pretty, willowy girl behind the counter packs it up. She looks just like the modelesque girls in college whom I used to envy but no longer do. There is no need for me to do so, to be that insecure. Not when I’m married to a man as special as Jason, a man women still stare at whenever we go out, lust after. But he is with me and only me. The smile is still on my face as I leave the store.
When I return home it’s way past nine o’clock and Jason is livid as he comes out into the hallway. He runs up to me and takes me in his arms. Slowly, my own arms go around his back and I return the soulful embrace he gives me.
“There you are,” he whispers into my hair. “Why didn’t you respond to any of my calls or texts? I was so worried that something might have happened to you.”
I unwrap my arms from around him and gaze up at his concerned face. “Really, you texted and called me? I didn’t hear anything. I must have turned off the sound of my phone by mistake.”
“Yeah, I texted you several times and called you twice. Please make sure you keep your phone on at all times. I was going crazy with worry.”
I scowl at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you, but there’s really no reason for you to be that worried about me. Last time we were in touch was at four from what I can remember and that’s only like”—I look around in search of a clock somewhere—“what time is it now?”
“Nine twenty-three.”
“Okay, so it’s only about five hours ago. I know I’ve been fragile lately, but I’m not a child you know. Why would you be so incredibly worried about me?”
“I know you’re not a child, but you know what Dr. Meyer said. You need to return back to regular life with care. Take—-”
Luckily, he stops himself before he can use one of his favorite expressions that would be so very wrong in this instance. Besides, I am taking baby steps already, so there’s no point for him to emphasize this as though I’m not. I sigh. His extreme concern for me is starting to become really annoying.
He coughs lightly, then clears his throat. “I was just worried, that’s all.”
“Well, you can stop worrying from now on because I’m going to be fine. Everything is going to be okay. We’ve gotten through this.” I don’t want to fight with him, so I give him a little smile. “I have a surprise for you.”
His face lights up a little. “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
I turn my head and nod at the shopping bag I dropped on the floor when I entered the apartment and he threw himself over me. “It’s in there.”
His eyes find the glossy, white bag that contains his tie. I turn around and reach for it, then hand it to him. He takes it and plucks out the tie. I can tell by the way his eyes start to glow that he likes what he sees. Running his fingers over the exquisite silk, he smiles at me.
“It’s a great tie, babe,” he says and leans down to land a soft kiss on my lips. “I’ll wear it tomorrow when I go to work. It’ll look great with my black Armani suit. How was your first day back at work?”
“Even better than I expected, actually. Angie put me to work right away, sending me a bunch of tax documents to go through. It’s boring and repetitive, but it’s a good start.”
“Was it weird to see all the people at work again?” A shadow falls over Jason’s gorgeous features. “Were they… difficult?”
I tilt my head as I consider the word he has chosen to describe their potential behavior. It seems a bit too strong. Why would they ever be difficult?
“No,” I say finally. “I can’t say that they were. Everyone was nice and relaxed, didn’t ask any intrusive questions, thank God. How was your day?”
“Well, I finished early because a couple of meetings with clients were postponed for a later date. So I went to the gym and then I was back here by five.” He lowers his gaze suddenly, as if embarrassed. “I went into our office and tried to write on my novel.”
I grasp his chin and lift it back up so our eyes meet. “Why do you sound like that’s a bad thing to have done? I’m so happy to hear that you’re working on your book, Jason. Truly. And I can’t wait to read about Celeste and everything else.” I grin at him. “I’m sure it’s a great story!”
He stares at me for a moment with an unreadable expression on his face, then opens his mouth but closes it before any words can come out.
Fury at my mistake streams through me. Oh, God, why did I say something? Why did I have to reveal that I know what his story is about?
But I pull myself together quickly. I grab his hand and say, “I’m starving. Come on, let’s go make dinner!”
He follows me along our long hallway until we reach the kitchen. There, I kick off my shoes that, flat or not, have now made my feet ache and then I remove my coat. As I hang it over one of the kitchen chairs, I can hear the nearest pantry open behind me. Turning around, I see that Jason has a bottle of red in his hands. It’s only half full. He pulls out the cork and pours himself a big glass of the dark red wine. I realize that the glass must have been on the counter already. He rarely drinks more than a glass or two weeknights at home, and it seems this must be his third glass. I decide not to mention it, though.
We grill chicken and cut up vegetables to make a big salad, and for some time it feels like it always used to feel between us, our lives carefree and full of possibilities. Possibilities that would likely end on a positive note, unlike the birth of our son.
By the time the table is set and the food ready, Jason has finished the bottle of wine. When he reaches for another bottle inside the pantry, I can’t ignore it any longer. So I put a hand on his arm. “Don’t you have to get up early tomorrow?”
Jason is a fairly big man, but, strangely, he has never been one to carry his alcohol well, unlike me, who is much smaller. This is why he tends to stay away from drinking too much, not wanting to get a hangover. But tonight he seems determined to drink more than he should.
“It’s okay, babe,” he says and takes out the bottle anyway. “I can handle it.”
> “Fine. But remember that I warned you when you complain about headaches later.”
He laughs at me. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to complain about headaches.”
We sit down at the kitchen table and start our dinner.
“Mmmm,” Jason says, his blue eyes glinting with humor. “This chicken is incredible. I wonder who cooked it.”
“Me too, ’cause it can’t be you,” I say and wink at him. He has always been good at grilling any kind of meat and this night is no different. The chicken breasts we’re eating are truly delicious, moist and tender.
“All the wine I’ve had must have given me special culinary powers then,” he replies and grins.
“Definitely,” I reply and stick a piece of chicken into my mouth, followed by some salad. Smiling at him, we chew our food in silence for a few seconds, then I say, “So when do you think your novel might be ready?”
Jason exhales. “I’m not sure. Maybe sometime in the late spring?”
I know I probably shouldn’t push it, but I can’t help myself. “Late spring? You mean I’m gonna have to wait that long before I get to find out what happened to Celeste?”
No sooner is the name out of my mouth before I want to slap myself for having spat it out yet again. And it’s not like I don’t know what happened to Celeste. What the hell is the matter with me? I wonder if maybe I drank some of Jason’s wine by mistake.
I’m expecting Jason to look irritated now that he understands that I’m going through his things while he is out of the house. But, to my surprise, he doesn’t look irritated at all. Instead he just looks at me tenderly, and then he reaches out a hand and cups my cheek.
Did he not hear what I just said? I wonder. No, of course he did. He realizes what I have done but is choosing to ignore it. Probably because he worries that if he scolds me, I won’t be able to handle it. Which is annoying, but there’s not much I can do about that, so I pretend like nothing awkward has happened right now.
“Do you think you can handle it?” he asks me, his voice neutral.
