Things You Won't Say

by Sarah Pekkanen

  “The doctor . . . said . . . another few months,” Ritchie said, his cadence much slower than usual, as if he were speaking a foreign language and first needed to translate the words in his head.

  Another few months, Jamie thought. But then there would be outpatient physical and speech therapy. And after that? Nothing was clear. Brain injuries were notoriously complicated, and it was hard to predict if Ritchie would ever be able to return to the force. Sandy had talked about it at the pool, and Jamie had been glad she couldn’t see her friend’s eyes behind her dark sunglasses. She knew they’d look shattered.

  “Yeah, but you like a challenge,” Mike was saying. “I’ll give you two weeks before they’re kicking you out.”

  Ritchie smiled but didn’t say anything.

  There was a small silence.

  “I saw Sandy and the kids the other day,” Jamie said, her voice too bright. “We all went to the pool. Daisy is such a terrific swimmer! She’s a little fish.”

  “Yeah,” Ritchie said. He frowned. “I was working with her . . . Last month? No, maybe last summer . . . I can’t remember . . .”

  “Well, we need you to give our kids swimming lessons!” Jamie said quickly. “Eloise is still afraid to put her face in the water.”

  “You need anything?” Mike asked. “Kale chips, maybe?”

  Ritchie smiled and started to shake his head, but he immediately stilled the motion. Jamie wondered if the slight movement hurt.

  “Did they give you . . . a new partner yet?” Ritchie asked.

  “First of all, he isn’t my partner,” Mike said. “He’s a stand-in until the real thing comes back. And he’s a moron. My standards aren’t all that high, given what I put up with for the past decade, but even I can’t deal with the guy.”

  “You’re used . . . to per-perfection,” Ritchie said.

  Jamie turned as an orderly came into the room, carrying a food tray. He set it on the edge of Ritchie’s bed, checked the level of water in the giant plastic cup on Ritchie’s nightstand, and exited quietly.

  “Want some . . . pudding?” Ritchie asked Mike. “It’s awful. That’s why . . . I offered.”

  “Sounds tempting,” Mike said. He reached for one of the containers, peeled back the foil lid, and used his fingers to scoop up a taste. “Christ. They’re trying to kill you, aren’t they? They give life, then they take it away.”

  Ritchie’s laugh was weaker than usual, but it was one of the most wonderful things Jamie had ever heard.

  “Go ahead and eat,” Jamie said. “Get strong!”

  “Gotta use this, ah . . .” Ritchie said, holding up a strange-looking fork. The handle was thick and there were two wide prongs instead of four.

  “A spork?” Mike asked, quickly filling in the word when Ritchie stumbled over it.

  In a moment, it became clear why he needed the special utensil: Ritchie’s movements were similar to those of a young child learning to eat on his own. He dropped more penne noodles than he managed to ferry to his mouth on his first bite.

  “Crap,” he said, looking down at the mess he’d created. Luckily all of the noodles had landed on the extra-large tray; they must’ve made them big for a reason.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it,” Mike said. “What the hell kind of hospital serves noodles to someone who just got shot and is getting his reflexes back?”

  Mike was furious, Jamie saw. Or not exactly furious—his rage was on the surface, covering something fragile and turbulent underneath.

  “Forget this,” Mike said. He pulled the tray away from Ritchie in a jerky movement. “I’m going to get you one of those cardboard veggie burgers you love, okay? Extra pickles and tomato. I’ll be right back.”

  Jamie wondered if the pasta wasn’t precisely the point—if Ritchie were being given challenging foods so he could practice fine-motor control—but she remained silent. This wasn’t about Ritchie’s dinner.

  “Do you want me to go pick it up?” Jamie asked.

  Mike shook his head. “I’ll be fast.”

  Jamie watched Mike exit the room and thought about Lou’s suggestion that Mike needed some more time off. Maybe her sister was right. She didn’t know anymore; she’d lost the ability to read her husband. She and Mike had had their ups and downs—what couple didn’t?—and during some periods, especially in the bone-wearying, endless stretch of time when Eloise was a baby and Sam and Emily were careening through toddlerhood, she’d felt a distance wedging itself between her and Mike. She’d been consumed with constant, draining caretaking, with feeding little mouths and cleaning hands and bottoms and settling squabbles and soothing boo-boos and running endless loads of laundry and dishes. She knew Mike’s job was stressful, but she couldn’t help feeling resentful when he came home after sharing a pizza and a pitcher of beer with the guys from his shift when she couldn’t even manage to drink a cup of coffee while it was hot.

  Just last year they’d gone three days without speaking after a ridiculous fight sparked by whether Emily was old enough for a sleepover. They’d bickered over countless small things, and once Jamie had thrown one of her sneakers at Mike, incensed that he hadn’t discouraged Christie from flirting with him. Mike had slept on the couch that night before climbing back into their bed the next morning as she showered. He’d still been wearing the Homer Simpson boxer shorts Henry had given him for Christmas, a memory that always made her smile.

  So yes, they’d weathered anger and pain. But an invisible, powerful connection had always linked them. This time things felt different. It was as if a wall had sprouted up in front of Mike, too wide and tall for her to reach around and touch him.

  In the six weeks since the shooting, she’d learned what it meant to miss her husband, Jamie thought as she sat down next to Ritchie and smiled to cover her sadness. She missed rolling over in the middle of the night and pressing up against Mike’s warm body. She missed having him walk through the front door and effortlessly scoop up a kid in one arm and reach the other around her waist as he dropped a kiss on the back of her neck. She missed the way they’d try to stay up together to watch reruns of Modern Family, and she’d invariably fall asleep against his shoulder, and he’d tease her about her snoring.

  “Sir? Can I help you?” Jamie heard someone ask loudly.

  Jamie became aware of a rhythmic, thudding sound coming from the hallway. She felt a cold tingle work its way down her spine as she stood up and walked to the door and looked down the hall, toward the noise. Mike was still standing there, waiting for the elevator. His head was down, and his hands were clenched by his sides. He was ignoring the nurse frowning at him.

  As she watched, Mike’s foot drew back, then kicked the closed doors of the elevator again.

  •••

  “So,” Lou said, looking at Donny.

  “So,” he repeated, looking back at her.

  They were seated on the couch, a healthy distance separating them, like sitcom actors depicting a strained relationship.

  “Did you want anything to eat or drink?” Donny asked, as if she was a guest. It made her think her instincts about the contents of this conversation were right. He was going to ask her to move out.

  “No thanks,” Lou said. “I’m good.”

  This was one of the problems in their relationship: they both hated conflict. So they never discussed problems. Lou hadn’t even known that Donny was unhappy with their relationship until he suggested a break. She hadn’t even known that she was unhappy until she felt relief at his suggestion.

  Lou wondered if he’d ever really loved her, or if she’d loved him. Donny didn’t even like animals! Whenever he came with her to Jamie’s, he’d pet Sadie once or twice, then discreetly sniff his hands and hurry away to wash them.

  “Mary Alice and I . . .” Donny cleared his throat.

  “It’s okay,” Lou said. She might as well make this easier on b
oth of them; Jamie probably wouldn’t mind her being blunt in this case. “Is she moving in? Do you want me to move out?”

  “We’re getting married,” Donny said.

  “Oh!” Lou said. Now, that she wasn’t expecting. What did you say to your ex-boyfriend and current roommate upon learning that he was engaged? Luckily she settled on the right word: “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Donny said.

  Back when they’d first met, after Lou had handed him a latte and he’d asked for her number, she’d been flattered. Guys weren’t exactly lining up to sleep with her. She’d been with only two in her entire life. And Donny looked a little bit like the late actor Robin Williams, whom Lou had always liked. Now Lou waited for whatever feelings might come—regret, loss, relief—and realized she didn’t feel much of anything.

  “There’s this woman who works in my office, Kelsey,” Donny was saying. “She’s looking for a roommate.”

  “Have I met her?” Lou asked. Donny was an actuary, someone who specialized in analyzing the financial risks of business decisions. She sometimes wondered if he did the same with emotional decisions.

  “I don’t think so,” Donny said. “She’s new.”

  “Okay,” Lou said. “I’ll call her.”

  Donny looked relieved. He stood up and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “You can probably see the room tonight, if you want,” he said.

  “In a hurry to get rid of me, huh?” Lou joked.

  “No, no,” Donny protested, a bit too fervently.

  Lou swallowed hard. “I’ll move out as soon as I can.”

  “So what are you thinking?” Donny asked. “A couple weeks?”

  She blinked. “Um, yeah,” she said. “A couple weeks probably.”

  Donny sighed, and his whole body seemed to deflate. He was a good man, Lou thought. But she already knew she wouldn’t miss him. When she spent the weekend with Donny, she missed the elephants.

  “You could call her now,” Donny said.

  “Who?”

  “Kelsey. The woman with the apartment.”

  “Oh, right,” Lou said.

  Donny was looking at her expectantly, so Lou reached for the phone and dialed the number. It rang twice, then someone answered.

  “Hi. I’m trying to reach Kelsey. This is Lou. I’m a . . . a friend of Donny’s?”

  “Oh, yes. Did you want to see the apartment tonight?”

  “Um, sure,” Lou said. Had Donny told Kelsey how desperate he was for Lou to move out? She felt a little hurt by the thought.

  “You can come now.”

  “Now?” Lou said. She looked at Donny. “Okay.”

  She scribbled down the address, then hung up.

  “So I’m going to check out the apartment,” she said, unnecessarily. She looked down at the piece of paper in her hand. She recognized the name of the street and could visualize the route. “It’s just a mile or so away.”

  “Great!” Donny said.

  She stood up and put on her clogs, then headed out the door. What she’d like, ideally, would be a sunny little studio close to the zoo. She’d have a teakettle and toaster and microwave, and the apartment would allow pets (Donny’s didn’t). She’d get two cats, so they’d keep each other company while she was out. But D.C. real estate was exorbitant, and zoo­keepers didn’t make much money. A place of her own would have to remain a distant dream.

  She strolled through the streets, passing a bakery and Thai and Ethiopian restaurants, enjoying the sounds and smells. She bought a veggie burrito and a bottle of water from a food truck and ate while she walked. A few minutes later, she reached Kelsey’s building and stood looking up at it. The building was old but seemed well maintained, with wide, gray stone steps curving to the main door. She climbed them and buzzed the number for the apartment.

  A voice came over the intercom: “Who is it?”

  “It’s me. Lou,” she said.

  There was a pause. “I’m here to see about the room?” Lou added.

  A buzzer sounded and she pulled the door open and took the stairs up to the third floor. She knocked and waited for what seemed like an abnormally long time before the apartment’s door was opened by a short, wiry woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. The woman’s waist-length black hair was so straight that Lou wondered if she ironed it, like Jamie had once tried to do back in junior high school. The smell of singed hair had stunk up the house for days.

  “Hi,” Lou said.

  “Sorry, I was just straightening up,” Kelsey said.

  “Well, I hope you didn’t do that on my account,” Lou said. “A little mess doesn’t bother me.”

  “It doesn’t?” Kelsey frowned, then opened the door wider, the expression on her face indicating it might be against her better judgment. “Come in.”

  Lou stepped into the narrow hallway. It was empty except for a wooden table with skinny legs that looked like an antique.

  Kelsey was staring at her oddly. “Can you take off your shoes?” she asked. “I’d rather you didn’t track dirt and germs in here.”

  “Oh, sure,” Lou said. She slipped out of them and followed Kelsey into the living area. Immediately she wondered what Kelsey could’ve been cleaning; the place was spotless. There was a gray couch with angles so sharp it looked as if it might cut the behind of anyone who sat on it, and a glass coffee table, and a little cube that could’ve been a chair but also could’ve been a footrest. Exactly two magazines were placed on the coffee table, so crisp and glossy they appeared untouched.

  “Living room,” Kelsey said unnecessarily. She gave a little wave of her hand. “Kitchen.”

  Lou peered into the galley kitchen. A lone gerbera daisy stood in a slender glass vase on one of the shining granite counters, and the fruit bowl held one orange and one red apple.

  “Your room would be here,” Kelsey said, walking down a short hallway and pointing into a doorway. She seemed to be checking Lou out in quick, sidelong glances. Lou wondered if her burrito breath was soiling the sanctity of the apartment. “I’m using it as a guest room now, but I don’t have a lot of guests.”

  Lou followed Kelsey to the small, rectangular space. A four-poster bed dominated the room, and there was a matching bureau opposite. Lou opened a door and found a tiny bathroom, then she looked into the closet. It was probably a good thing she didn’t have a lot of clothes.

  “It’s nice,” she said.

  “It’s seven hundred a month plus utilities,” Kelsey said. She handed Lou a piece of paper. “Here are some ground rules.”

  Lou began to read the typewritten words: Rent will be paid on the first of the month. Quiet time will commence at 10:30 P.M. and continue until 5:45 A.M. All guests must be approved in advance. No sleepovers will be permitted. Food in the refrigerator should be clearly labeled and renter will only eat and drink his/her groceries. No dishes will be left in the sink; they must be immediately washed and put away in the appropriate space in the cupboard . . .

  Lou looked up. “Sleepovers?”

  “Guests of the opposite sex,” Kelsey said, then quickly clarified, “or the same sex. I don’t have a problem with that. Actually, I do—not the same-sex part. The sleepover part.”

  She leaned closer and peered at Lou. “You’ve got a . . .” She made a brushing gesture against her own cheek.

  Lou reached up and felt something slimy. “Guacamole,” she said, wiping her fingers off on her cargo pants. Kelsey looked ready to gag. She reached over and plucked a tissue from a box atop the dresser and let it flutter into Lou’s outstretched hand.

  Lou could envision what her life would look like if she lived here. She’d have to tiptoe in after late shifts at the coffee shop, and wash her clothes before Kelsey caught the scent of the zoo. If she took an unauthorized swig of orange juice, she’d probably be Tasered.

  But
what other choice did she have? The apartment was reasonably priced—at least by D.C. standards—convenient, and available. She thought of heading back home and seeing Donny’s eager face as he asked how it went.

  “Okay,” she said, handing back the list of rules. “When can I move in?”

  “The first of next month. I’ll need a security deposit, too,” Kelsey said. “And I want to give your room a deep cleaning first.”

  Lou said good-bye and trudged toward home, feeling her shoulders slump. She’d just avoid Kelsey as much as possible, and start looking for a new place after a few months. This would be temporary, she consoled herself.

  On impulse, she turned down a side street. It was almost dusk now, but if she hurried, she’d arrive before closing. As she got closer to the zoo, she found herself running, her stress peeling away and being replaced by a sense of exuberance.

  “Weren’t you here all day?” one of the volunteers asked as he drove by in one of the golf carts used by employees. Lou just gave him a wave and ran faster.

  She reached the elephant enclosure area in time to see Tabitha enjoying her dinner. As if the elephant sensed her presence, Tabitha looked up and caught her eye. Lou waved to her but didn’t call her over. She didn’t want to interrupt Tabby’s meal. She was eating for two, after all.

  The sinking sun suffused the sky with rose and violet streaks. Martha and Bailey ambled through the yard, their slow, steady gaits echoing Lou’s heartbeats. When Lou looked at the creatures, she experienced the same overpowering sense of peace and awe that some people reported feeling when they viewed the ocean for the first time, or the Grand Canyon. Lou wasn’t religious, but being around the elephants elevated her to a near-spiritual experience. The presence of their dignity and wisdom felt healing.

  Tabitha wasn’t finished eating, but she abandoned her dinner and walked closer to Lou. Lou felt tears form in her eyes.

  “Good girl,” she said softly, but loud enough for the elephant to hear. Tabby understood more than two dozen words, and these were the ones Lou made sure she heard the most.