Shrugging, she said, “Whatever.”
Benjamin stood, knees cracking, and threw the tape dispenser into the box. “Fine.”
He brought the box to the kitchen and opened what they both had been calling “the baby cabinet,” a skinny door in the upper corner, next to the canned-vegetable turntable. “Where are the bibs? In the baby cabinet. I can’t find the diaper balm. Look in the baby cabinet . . .” He swept everything from the shelves into the waiting cardboard box and sealed it, piled it atop the other ones, back in the bedroom. Abbi hadn’t moved from the doorway.
“You can’t erase her like that,” she said.
“She’s gone, Abbi. Gone. And we’re right back to where we were before she came.” Silvia’s presence had been only a Band-Aid. The growth in their relationship, the changes for the better, the effort—it all had been nothing but a mirage, brought on by sleepless nights and the empty promises of the family Benjamin had always hoped for. The past weeks had been nothing short of torturous. He went to work. He poked at his food and avoided his wife. She did the same.
“We don’t have to be,” Abbi said.
He wanted to wrap himself around her, be comforted by her and to comfort her, and he wanted to scream and shake her until the loss emptied out of both of them. He wanted to beg her forgiveness for deserting her when she needed him, and he wanted to ignore her until she gave up on him, gave him the easy way out. “Don’t put this all on me. You’re not doing anything to change it, either.”
“I know,” Abbi said, then mumbled something else.
“What?” he said, the strip of tape he held folding over on itself. He couldn’t peel it apart, crumpled it in his hand. It stuck to his fingers, and he shook his arm.
“I think I’m going to go stay with Genelise for a while.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I’m can’t sit around and watch you slip away again.”
“You are leaving.” And, suddenly, the things he’d feared most in the world collided with reality, and Benjamin felt . . . What? Shock? Relief ? No, more like an odd satisfaction that he had brought this about, and had been right all along. “I knew you would.”
“Don’t you get it?” Abbi said, elbows at her sides, arms out like she wanted to strangle someone. She dug her finger into her face instead, bending at the waist and groaning, “Burgh. All I want is for you to make an attempt.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot. Everyone else is so completely well adjusted after they lose a child. Thank you for that reminder.”
She moved to him, close enough that he smelled her breath, heard the thickened saliva in her mouth. Ketosis breath, acrid and sticky from lack of food. She crammed her hands into her back pockets. “I lost her, too, you know.”
He blew a puff of air through his nose. “You didn’t even want her.”
“Fine. You’re absolutely right. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with this bull anymore.”
“Don’t get all high-and-mighty. You’re walking out on me.”
“You’re choosing that baby over me, Ben. Not even a baby. The memory of a child we knew might not ever be ours. What do you expect me to do?”
“Understand,” he shouted. “No, just forget it. You stay here. I’ll leave.”
He took the Durango, and simply drove. Turning left, turning right, he didn’t think about it. He’d left his wallet in the house, so he couldn’t stay at a motel. It was too cold to spend all night in the truck. And anyone he could stay with—well, they’d take Abbi’s side over his. And they should. He knew she was right.
He didn’t want to lose her, too. But he didn’t want to fight for her, either. The pain had made him lazy.
The gravel crackled beneath his tires, and he noticed the road ended. He parked, punched out the headlights, green steps disappearing in the night beyond his windshield. He closed the truck door quietly, pushing it until it was nearly shut, leaned against it until the inside dome light flickered out.
He was at the Methodist church, where it ended. Or began. He hoped the door was locked but knew it wouldn’t be. It swung open and he went in, the back pew creaking as he dropped into it. He wouldn’t pray. He refused.
Victor Hugo’s words came to his head. “There are thoughts which are prayers. There are moments when, whatever the posture of the body, the soul is on its knees.”
I’m not on my knees.
Years ago, in Sunday school, his fourth grade teacher had told the class there were two types of prayer—ones for help, and ones of praise. Benjamin took this to heart, and every time he approached the Lord, he first thanked Him for who He was and what He’d done, then he moved on to his list of petitions, each one chronicled in his prayer notebook with date, time, and response, if possible.
After Stephen, he found he wanted no help, and had no praise. He didn’t know how to fill the spaces with anything else. He’d been taught never to shake his fist at God. So he said nothing at all.
Don’t fool yourself. You’ve been praying all along.
“No.”
“In the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.”
Oh, he’d groaned. All those sighs and fears and trepidations he clung to in protest of God’s promises, what he considered the antithesis of prayer was prayer itself. Benjamin had challenged God to a game of Who Can Keep Quiet the Longest—like he and Stephen used to play on rainy days and long car rides that felt like eternities—and both had lost. The Lord hadn’t stopped speaking to him at all, and for all Benjamin’s bravado, his soul had continued to seek God even as his flesh rebelled in confusion.
He soaked in the silence for some time, and when it felt like it would overwhelm him, he shifted in the seat so the old wood creaked and buckled. He folded his hands, resting his forearms on the pew in front of him, leaned forward so his knuckles pressed against his forehead.
Now that he wanted to say something, he didn’t know how to begin. Lack of practice. Lack of faith. He believed God would hear, but not answer. He didn’t deserve an answer. But for the sake of Christ, maybe He would.
“Why have you forsaken me?” The words leaked out. He didn’t want to be in darkness anymore. He opened the pew Bible to Psalm 22, read the words aloud. Prayed them. “ ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night, and am not silent.’ ”
And he continued, feeling each word as his own. The roaring lions tore at him; his strength was dry as dust, his heart melted inside his chest like wax. But the song didn’t stay in the depths of David’s anguish. And, by the end, Benjamin had been lifted from there, too. He read on. “ ‘The poor will eat and be satisfied; they who seek the Lord will praise him—may your hearts live forever! All the ends of the earth will remember and turn to the Lord, and all the families of the nations will bow down before him, for dominion belongs to the Lord and he rules over the nations. All the rich of the earth will feast and worship; all who go down to the dust will kneel before him— those who cannot keep themselves alive. Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord. They will proclaim his righteousness to a people yet unborn—for he has done it.’
“Amen, and amen. I believe, Lord. Help my unbelief.”
Forgive me.
He sped home. Abbi’s car wasn’t in the driveway. He rushed inside, flung open the closet, his belts clattering to the floor. Her clothes hung straight and silent. It meant nothing. She’d leave without them.
He found Genelise’s number in the phone book, dialed. No one answered. He left a message. Called Lauren.
“She’s not here, Ben. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. But if she shows up, have her call me.”
He paced. Prayed. Pleaded with God for his marriage. Finally, he decided he couldn’t wait for her. He’d drive up to Pierre and bring h
er home. He collected his wallet from the nightstand, and when he returned to the living room, Abbi stood there, coat open, army green knit hat fighting to stay over her hair, a small paper bag folded in her hand. “I went to the grocery,” she said, unrolling the bag.
She took out a green and white box, no bigger than a deck of cards. Fleet, it read. She rubbed the cardboard flat between her thumb and fingers. Empty.
“I couldn’t . . . I threw them out the window when I was driving home. I pulled over and thought about looking for them in the street. I didn’t, though. I’m trusting He’s enough, even without Silvia.” She started to cry. “Even without you.”
“What about with me?”
“Don’t, Ben. Don’t do this unless you mean it.”
“I do. I swear. I will do whatever you ask of me, whatever it takes to keep you here. I don’t want to be without you.”
She charged into him, sobbing, and they fell back on the couch, holding each other without speaking. Finally, Abbi said, “I hate to be unromantic, but I have to pee,” and when she returned, she pressed a small kraft-paper box into his hand. “Happy birthday.”
“It’s not until Tuesday.”
“I know.”
He shook the gift, held it to his ear. “Is it a composter?”
“I wish.”
“A million dollars?”
“You’ll have to open it and see.”
He tugged the end of the raffia ribbon, wiggled off the cover. In the cotton sat a glazed pottery circle, a tiny footprint in the center. Silvia’s footprint. He squeezed it, turned it over. Abbi had glued a translucent frame to the back, and in it a piece of yellow paper on which she had written, The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
“We didn’t have to have her at all,” she said.
“I know.” He embraced her again, kissing her ear, the side of her head. Finally he let go and said, “Isn’t this little frame plastic?”
“Shut up,” she said. “Jerk.”
“I couldn’t resist.”
“Oh, there’s one more.” She took another brown box from her coat pocket, identical to the first.
“Is this one a million dollars?” he asked, something rattling within.
“I’m not telling,” she said, “but maybe you’d better open it in the bedroom.”
In his half sleep, his arm snaked across the bed and touched something soft. He thought, Abbi, and he was right. She was there when he opened his eyes, sheet pulled into her armpit, hands bent under her chin like a child. She was facing him.
He shifted, leaned toward her. Kissed her bare upper arm. She brushed it away, mistaking it for an insect, it seemed, an annoyance. He smiled, kissed her again, on the shoulder this time.
She’s beautiful, he thought, had thought hundreds of times.
Gingerly, he left the bed, dressed, and snuck into the backyard. The sun wasn’t up yet, though the early golden glow on the dead fields stretched until they butted against the sky. He sat on the damp grass with his back to the sunrise, legs straight out in front of him, arms locked behind him, and watched the stars melt away into the morning.
A shadow grew behind him, as if a man stood off to his right, long and lanky, like Stephen.
Looks like someone got lucky last night, the shadow man said.
Don’t be an idiot, Benjamin thought.
The shadow quivered, laughing. I’m gonna take off now.
I’m sorry I left you.
Man, it’s all good. Where I am now, can’t say I mind being there—know what I mean? Anyway, what kind of God lets a man decide who lives and who dies? Not any God I serve.
You’re right, for once.
For once? Who told you to marry that girl of yours?
Not you.
I thought it.
Right. Benjamin’s elbows hurt. He stretched the joints and lay back, overgrown grass prickling behind his ears. Guess I should stop talking to myself.
Sounds like a plan to me.
Yeah, me too.
Well then, I’ll be heading out. See you someday.
“See you someday,” Benjamin said.
He kinked his neck up and around so he would see the hackberry tree casting the shadow, reddish fruit peeking through the leaves.
Just a tree.
“Hey, you,” Abbi said. She crossed the lawn, barefoot. “What are you doing out here?”
“Thinking.”
“Want company?”
“I could handle some,” he said, and Abbi snuggled against his side, head on his collarbone. Her hair smelled like almonds. He breathed deep.
“You need to mow,” she said.
“I was spoiled by Matt.”
“Ben, we—”
“I know.” He sighed. “But in a few days. I need time to decompress.”
“Do you think he’s okay?”
“Better than us, probably.”
Abbi coughed. “That’s not too hard.”
“Let’s go in,” Benjamin said, standing, yanking Abbi to her feet. He looked back at the tree—still only a tree—and at the sun falling through the branches in separate shafts of light. He ran his hand through the closest beam, thanking God his dark night had ended.
Chapter THIRTY-NINE
She baked two pies, both with apples and cranberries, wrapped one and put it in the refrigerator for Benjamin and carried the other to the McGees with the vase that Janet had admired the day of the pit fire. Knocked. Janet opened the door.
“I have pie,” Abbi said. “It’s apple. I guess, sometimes when you don’t know what else to do, you should just bring food. And some clay and paint.”
Janet smiled a little, invited Abbi inside. The storm door shut behind her in three stilted hisses, and she carried the plate into the kitchen. Janet held the vase, hugging it, pressing her index finger into the point of each sculpted leaf. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“Well, it was just sitting there in the shed.”
Janet opened a drawer, took out a knife and server. “Would you like a slice? Coffee or tea, maybe?”
“I’m good, really. I only wanted to come and apologize for being so cruel.”
“I owe you an apology.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes,” Janet said. “I’ve been so jealous of you, I could hardly see straight. Because they gave you Silvia.”
“Janet, I don’t—”
“We can’t have children, Silas and I. No, not Silas. Me. I can’t.” She chopped at the pie, dropped the sticky knife on the pink Formica counter. “I thought if I did everything right, God would bless us. And I tried and tried, and still no baby. But you come along—you and your tattoos and your protests and your unique perspective and, well, you got her.”
“She’s gone now.”
“And I was glad. I didn’t want to be, but I was.”
Abbi chuckled wryly, masked her face in her hands and shook her head. “It’s no big deal. Trust me. I’ve thought a lot worse about you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You can’t be sorry for my self-righteousness.”
“I’m sorry I acted in a way that made you think badly of me.”
“Enough of the apologies already. You’re sorry. I’m sorry. Done. All right?”
Janet nodded. “Are you sure you don’t want some pie?”
“Well . . . since you twisted my arm.”
They sat and talked between forkfuls of too-dry crust and too-sweet filling—Janet telling of growing up with nine siblings, and small crumbs of her faith journey Abbi hadn’t heard before. Abbi recounted a few of the struggles between her and Benjamin, a few of the graces the Lord had shown her. And when Abbi went to leave, she felt a tapping in her spirit, like an annoyingly persistent woodpecker outside her window, hunting for grubs when she wanted to nap. Tell her, the knocking said. Tell her.
But that’s mine, Abbi thought. It’s not for anyone else.
“Thank you for coming over,” Jan
et said.
“No biggie. Oh, if you didn’t notice, I baked the pie in your pan, so you don’t have to worry about returning it.”
“My nana always did that. ‘Don’t ever send it back empty,’ she used to say to all us girls.”
Tell her.
“Well, I’ll see you, then,” Abbi said, and she stood on the flagstone path as Janet closed the door, the tapping now more of a poke, stronger with each step she took toward home. “Okay, fine. I get the point.”
She rang Janet’s doorbell, and the woman looked out with concern. “Did you forget something?”
“No. Well, yes. I just . . . I wanted to tell you I understand. I can’t have children, either. I know, it’s not exactly the kind of thing people discuss at parties around the punch bowl, but if you ever want to talk, well, you know where I am.”
“Thanks,” Janet said, swiping her thumb under one eye. “Not yet. But sometime.”
And Abbi nodded, inhaled, filling like a balloon, an unexpected buoyancy overtaking her, and on her way back to the house she played hopscotch on the umber stones, her toes nimbly avoiding the cracks.
They were getting ready for worship, running late as usual, though they couldn’t use Silvia as an excuse anymore. How hard is it for two adults to get out of the house on time? That was the issue, both of them underestimating the time it took to ready themselves, and then snipping and shoving each other as the minutes ticked down—half of Benjamin’s face smeared with Barbasol, Abbi still undressed and, with no time to iron, trying to find something unwrinkled to wear after leaving her laundry half folded in the basket all week.
“We need to remember to do all this Saturday night,” he said, and they both snorted, knowing neither of them would. “I need coffee.”
“Sorry. Didn’t make any.”
Abbi did remember it was Communion Sunday, but she refused to fast. She wouldn’t again, not until she could do so without thinking of her weight. Or at least control those thoughts. Right now, food still held too much power over her. Without the laxatives to fall back on, she did battle with every bite—Do I need it? Why do I want it? How much will I gain from it?—sometimes thinking of nothing else but the two pear muffins on the counter for hours at a time, until she either ate them and felt miserable about her lack of self-discipline, or threw them out and berated herself for wasting food.
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