Things You Won't Say

by Sarah Pekkanen

  She waited, wondering if he even had the same number. Maybe he’d joined the Peace Corps, or had decided to stay in California for the summer. Maybe he knew about the shooting and didn’t want to return her message. But a moment later, a reply pinged back: No prob. Be there in 10.

  Okay, she thought, feeling the clamp in her chest ease a tiny bit. She went upstairs and changed into a clean shirt, then loosened her hair from its ponytail and brushed it out around her shoulders. Her heart was pounding and her throat felt thick and dry. She cupped water from the sink in her hand and sipped at it greedily despite the metallic taste.

  She went back downstairs and waited by the open front door until she saw Rob approaching, his stride loping and his shaggy hair falling into his eyes, whistling a tune she didn’t recognize. She suddenly felt as if she’d never been that young and carefree; Rob existed in a different universe, one Jamie had departed so long ago she couldn’t even remember its contours.

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” she said. “You can hang out and watch TV or whatever. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Just call me on my cell if one of the kids wakes up, but they should be good.”

  “No worries,” he said.

  I wish, she thought.

  She waited until he shut and locked the door, then she hurried down the front path and got into her minivan and turned on the ignition. She pulled into Christie’s apartment complex fifteen minutes later with no memory of driving there. She parked in a guest spot near the entrance and got out, staring up at the squares of light streaming from windows in the brick structure, wondering which one Mike was behind.

  Now that she’d arrived, she felt unsure of her plan. She’d have to be buzzed into the building, unless she waited for a resident to enter and slipped in behind them, which seemed like the better choice. Then she’d knock on the door and wait for one of them to open it . . . and then what?

  A feeling of déjà vu washed over her, heavy and foreboding: For the second time this evening, Jamie was standing outside an apartment building, unsure of her welcome, desperate to salvage something vitally important.

  She sat down on a decorative rock wall, wondering if there was a chance Mike could sense she was here. She’d always felt as if an invisible current was binding them together. When they were in conversation with other people, she knew without even looking at him the precise moment when he became bored or impatient (the room mother for Sam’s class usually inspired those feelings in him within thirty seconds; if the conversation revolved around football, that moment would never occur). And sometimes, when she was waiting for him to come home from work, she’d be drawn to the window seconds before his car turned into their driveway. She’d always wondered whether there was an extrasensory element that grew in happy marriages over time, similar to the phenomenon that caused longtime couples to resemble each other.

  But Mike didn’t come out. Maybe the current had finally snapped.

  It was a warm night, and soon her T-shirt grew wilted and damp, and her hair felt sticky against the back of her neck. She was tired now, and more scared than angry. What would she say when she saw Mike? Come home, maybe. But those words might not be enough. He could shut the door in her face, as Ms. Torres had done.

  She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting on the rock wall before a couple finally approached the building. Jamie blended in behind them as they entered. They were young and wrapped up in each other and barely noticed her as she followed them onto the elevator and pushed the button for Christie’s floor.

  She exited and walked down the hallway, treading the familiar path to Christie’s apartment. She’d brought Henry here countless times, but she hadn’t been inside in at least a year.

  She stood before the door, staring at it as she gathered her courage and rapped twice. After a moment it opened to reveal Christie wearing a short, silky bathrobe. Jamie felt as if she’d been rammed in the stomach with something sharp and hard.

  “Oh,” Christie said in a flat voice. “It’s you.”

  “I’d like to see my husband,” Jamie said.

  Christie opened the door wider and stepped back. Jamie walked in, her eyes glancing off Mike’s flip-flops by the front door. She couldn’t help picturing him kicking them off, just like he did at home. When did he become so comfortable here?

  Christie led Jamie down the hallway toward the bedrooms and hesitated at the one with the closed door. She pushed it open and gave a little wave with her hand that Jamie took to mean she should look inside. Jamie sucked in a breath as she walked across the threshold. The light was dim, but she could see Mike sleeping in Henry’s queen-size bed. For a moment her eyes blurred, which was why she didn’t immediately notice the lump beside him in the bed.

  She moved closer and saw a second thatch of dark hair against the light pillowcase. Why was Henry here instead of at camp?

  Jamie reached out to shake Mike’s shoulder, but seeing him sleeping so peacefully, his right arm flung over his head, his son by his side, made her hesitate. Instead she pulled the covers higher over them both, then bent down and kissed Mike on the cheek. She straightened up and walked out of the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

  “You’re not going to wake him?” Christie asked.

  Jamie shook her head. The anguish had drained out of her at the sight of Mike, and now she felt only a deep exhaustion, her stress and sleepless nights piling up and crashing into her. She took a step forward and stumbled, regaining her balance just before she fell.

  “He should rest,” Jamie said. That was what she needed, too. She closed her eyes and rubbed a hand against her forehead as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She hadn’t eaten anything today, and the intense emotions roiling through her had left her feeling gutted. She wasn’t even angry with Christie any longer. Maybe Mike had come to see Henry, not Christie.

  “You don’t look so good,” Christie said.

  Jamie’s throat felt parched again. “Could I have some water?” she asked, her tongue thick and heavy. “Then I’ll go.”

  Christie shrugged and led the way to the kitchen. She filled a glass from the tap and handed it to Jamie.

  Jamie started to lift the glass to her mouth, but it slipped through her hand and smashed against the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She crouched down and began to pick up the bigger shards. “Shit!” She’d knelt on a piece of glass, and it had bitten into her skin.

  “It’s just a stupid glass,” Christie said, misunderstanding the reason for Jamie’s curse.

  Jamie stood up, grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser by the sink, and pressed it against her knee. “Do you have a broom?”

  “Forget it,” Christie said.

  “No, I can’t let you clean it up,” Jamie said.

  “It’s fine,” Christie said. “I’ll— Are you crying?”

  “No,” Jamie sobbed.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Christie said.

  “I’m sorry,” Jamie repeated. She couldn’t stem the tears flowing down her face. She was gulping air and making weird, squeaking sounds. Ugly crying, that’s what it was called. She bent over and wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Do you want a Valium?” Christie offered.

  Jamie began to laugh through her tears, despite herself. “You mean you’ve had Valium all this time and I’m only now finding out about it?” She gripped the counter and pulled herself to a standing position.

  “I need to go,” she said.

  Christie squinted at Jamie. “Have you been drinking? I don’t think you should drive. I’ll take you.”

  Christie walked to the hall closet and pulled on a trench coat.

  “Are you coming?” She was already at the door. “I’m rethinking my offer.”

  Jamie looked at Christie and nodded. “I’m coming,” she said.

 
She forced herself not to look at Mike’s shoes as she left.

  •••

  It was happening. Lou ran to the fence and watched as Tabby stood motionless except for a slight flicking of her tail. Her sudden stillness was the giveaway.

  “Good girl,” Lou said, just loudly enough for Tabby to hear. Her heart pounded but her voice stayed calm.

  Tabby’s body began to quiver. Lou shot a warning glare at the videographer, then turned her entire focus back to Tabby.

  “It’s okay,” Lou whispered, wishing more than anything that she could be with Tabitha, stroking her and providing comfort. She was tempted to do it, to ignore the rules and scale the fence and leap down onto the soft earth on the other side, but she’d probably lose her job. She was more scared of that than of being accidentally injured by the elephant.

  Tabitha didn’t make a sound, but she shifted from side to side a few times and then squatted slightly. Lou held her breath and gripped the fence so tightly her hands ached.

  The calf’s rear legs, encased in the milky-looking embryonic sac, appeared first, sliding out of Tabby’s body agonizingly slowly. Lou’s eyes flitted from the emerging baby to Tabby, whose trunk was now curled around a fence post, as if for balance.

  Tabby wasn’t looking back at her any longer. She seemed lost in a world of her own. Lou wanted to speak words of encouragement but worried it would distract the elephant. Tabby squatted lower and opened her mouth wide, as if in a silent scream, but she didn’t make a sound.

  Suddenly, the baby slid completely out of Tabby, still in its opaque embryonic sac. It crashed to the ground, and the sac burst, releasing a torrent of fluids.

  Lou glanced quickly at her watch to mark the time, then looked back at Tabby because she already sensed something was wrong. The calf wasn’t moving. It was curled on its side, looking impossibly small next to its mother. Lou could make out the chunky outlines of the baby’s toenails, and the fuzzy hair on its head. It was perfect.

  “It’s not breathing!” a zoo volunteer cried, her voice high and frightened.

  Tabby walked in a circle around her baby, her trunk reaching out to explore it. Then she lifted her front leg and kicked it—hard.

  Lou heard someone gasp.

  Tabby kicked her calf again and again, jerking it along the ground. The baby’s body flopped helplessly with each blow.

  “Oh no!” the same volunteer cried.

  Tabby reached down with her trunk, scooping up the baby’s head and letting it bang back down. Lou glanced at her watch. Forty-five seconds. The little elephant remained still.

  Tabby stepped over her baby—for a moment Lou worried she would step on it—and struck it with her front foot again, this time even harder.

  “Lou, shouldn’t you call Tabby over here?” someone asked. “We need to get in there!”

  Another kick rocked the calf’s limp body back and forth. One minute.

  The volunteer ran over and tugged on Lou’s arm. “Make her stop!” she said. “She’s killing it!”

  “No.” Lou shook her head. “She’s saving it.”

  Tabby was in great distress now, circling her baby, pawing at it, trying to lift it with her trunk, trumpeting loudly near its ear.

  “Come on,” Lou said urgently.

  And then the calf’s mouth opened, and it took its first breath.

  Tabby’s foot had been poised for another kick, but she stilled the motion and stepped back.

  “Oh, Tabs,” Lou said, her voice trembling. “You got your baby to breathe. Good girl. You’re such a good girl. You did it.”

  Tabby gently explored her calf with her trunk while it lay on its side, its mouth opening and closing as it gasped in air. Its wide, inky black eyes were finally visible. The volunteer who had been so panicked squeezed Lou’s arm, and she could hear murmurs of relief from the other workers.

  After a moment, Tabby reached down with her trunk and encircled her baby’s head again, trying to lift it up. The calf seemed too weak to move, but Tabby was determined. Again and again she used her trunk and foreleg to jab at it, trying to get it on its feet. Lou knew why: In the wild, an animal might be attacked if it looked helpless. Its survival would depend on it being upright. Tabby was still trying to save her baby.

  The little elephant protested mightily, releasing a kind of yelp that Lou thought sounded not unlike that of a human kid who didn’t want to wake up for school.

  Tabby kept at it, relentlessly, and with her help, the baby finally found its way to its feet. It wobbled a bit, then fell back down when it tried to take a step. But Tabby was there by its side, helping it stand up again, more gently this time, and soon the small elephant found its footing. Lou’s eyes roved over its wrinkly gray body, its gently curved back and fuzzy forehead and wide feet. She’d never seen anything so beautiful.

  Tabby took a step forward, and her calf followed, struggling to move its front and hind legs in synchronicity. With every passing minute, it seemed to grow more confident.

  Lou slid back to the ground, her legs as weak as the baby elephant’s had been. Someone pressed a paper cup into her hand, and she took a sip of something dry and fizzy. Champagne. She didn’t usually drink alcohol, but if ever an exception was called for, this was it.

  She lifted her cup toward Tabby in a silent salute. “Congratulations, Mama,” she said.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” the young videographer said. “Usually I do weddings.”

  His voice was still a bit louder than she would’ve liked, but Lou let it go. “I’ve never seen anything like it, either,” she said.

  She rested her head against the fence. Tomorrow—or actually, later today—Lou would open the gate to let the little elephant explore miles of trails with Tabby. She’d hide extra sweet potatoes and greens and apples along the way. She’d give Tabby a thorough examination, then she and the vet would carefully look over the calf, although Lou already knew it was healthy. They’d learn the gender, too. The other elephants were being kept away for now, but elephant herds were famously protective and nurturing of their young. Soon they’d get to meet little Masego—whose name meant blessing in Setswana.

  Lou smiled as she watched the baby unfurl his or her trunk, then curl it back up, like a kid with a paper blower at a party. The tiny elephant’s gray coat was saggy, as if he or she was wearing a too-big suit.

  I can’t wait to watch you grow up, Lou thought.

  She took another sip of champagne as Masego gave a trumpet, testing out its voice. Lou’s limbs felt as loose and heavy as honey and she didn’t think she could get up even if she wanted to.

  Tabby walked over to her water supply and took a long drink, but she kept her eyes on her baby the whole time.

  “You’re a natural,” Lou told her. “I always knew you would be.”

  Lou could see the videographer beginning to pack up, and the volunteers and veterinarian doing the same. She was going to stay straight through for another day or two, to keep watch. She welcomed the sweet solitude, not just so she could enjoy the new elephant but because she was holding close a remembrance that had been buried deeply for decades and had loosened only with Tabby’s pacing. She wanted time to replay it again and again, to imprint every word and inflection on her memory, so she’d never lose it.

  On the eve of Lou’s birthday, her mother had always told her the story of her birth. It was their tradition. The story had always begun the same way: Pacing was the only thing that helped . . .

  Lou sipped champagne and watched Tabby and her baby make slow progress around the enclosure and felt her cheeks grow wet as she remembered.

  I thought I’d have plenty of time to get to the hospital, but I barely made it there before you decided to come out! her mother had said. They had a resident deliver you because my doctor couldn’t get there fast enough—I swear, the resident looked about twelve�
�but you didn’t make things difficult. Out you came, with just three pushes. And then they put you into my arms and you gave this little bleat, like a sheep, and fell fast asleep. You had ­Daddy’s eyes and my chin. I held you for hours.

  Lou could hear the voice so clearly now, the memory as true as the summer-blue sky of her mother’s eyes.

  “Thank you,” Lou whispered to her beloved elephant.

  •••

  “Isn’t Henry supposed to be at camp?” Jamie asked. She was sitting in the passenger’s seat of Christie’s Mercedes as they drove through darkened streets.

  “He got in a fight,” Christie said. “Mike and I had to go pick him up.”

  “What?” Jamie didn’t seem as surprised as Christie had expected.

  “Yeah, he punched some other kid in the dining hall. Mike talked to him about it. He’s okay now, I think,” Christie said. “Henry, I mean. I hope the other kid has a broken nose.”

  Jamie shook her head, then turned to stare out the window. They rode in silence for another few minutes, with Christie sneaking glances at Jamie. Was this how a nervous breakdown began? Jamie seemed completely unaware that blood from her knee was running down her leg, but at least she wasn’t crying any longer. It was unlike her not to ask more questions about the incident at camp, though. Jamie always wanted “open lines of communication”—a reference that Christie used to think sounded annoyingly New Agey. But the absence of Jamie’s chatter made Christie realize she missed it.

  “This other kid was being a jerk to a smaller boy,” Christie said. “Henry was trying to protect the littler kid . . . Well, there’s more to it than that.”

  Jamie just rubbed her eyes, leaving Christie unsure if she’d even heard. Jamie’s hair was slightly matted and her shirt wrinkled, but that wasn’t what made Christie nervous. She’d glimpsed something when Jamie was kneeling on the kitchen floor, looking small and vulnerable, surrounded by shattered glass. There had been this awful expression in Jamie’s eyes—or maybe it was an absence of expression. Her eyes were so . . . bleak.