by Amy Saia
He opened his mouth to speak, but I interrupted. “Back in Springvale, my main goal was to help you live again. After that, it was to be with you. But I never wanted you to be unhappy.”
“Unhappy?”
“I know you’ve been spending a lot of time with Ms. Jacomber. Max, I mean, Mr. Hershel, said that she—”
He seemed relieved. “Oh. Well, that’s all related to school, Emma, honest.”
“Listen, Will, if you don’t love me anymore, just say it. And if you’d rather be with her, I understand.”
“I don’t want her, I want you.” He kept looking at me in the darkness. “What is it, Emma? What are you really trying to say?”
Pain clung to my words like the frosty air. “I’m saying that maybe we got married too soon. And maybe . . . maybe I am too young—and stupid.” A pair of students walked behind the car with arms around each other, laughing and sounding happy. I waited until their voices faded until speaking again. “I’m having trouble accepting certain things. I’ve tried, but I just can’t forget.”
“Jesse.” William’s word lingered in the air, and I wished it could be erased.
Voice cracking, I continued on. “So, maybe I should stay in a dorm for a few weeks, perhaps more.”
William reached across the seat to grab hold of one of my hands. “Do you love him? Is that what you’re telling me?”
I couldn’t answer. Did I love Jesse?
Or was I so filled with grief that it only felt like love? I couldn’t think, that was the problem. There was so much in my head, and none of it made sense. All I wanted was to erase time and go back so I could fix things.
I caught my reflection in the car’s rearview mirror. You sound just like Will.
“A little time,” I heard myself go on, “to figure things out. That’s all. You do understand, right?”
I’d never felt his palms so sweaty before, with such trembling. I’d never seen him appear so tortured, so scared. “Don’t leave me, please, please.” His eyes became wide and intense with fear. “I swear I’ll change. You’re all I have. Show me what to do—anything. I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring you so much. Just please don’t leave me. I’ll be lost in this world without you!”
William pulled me into his arms and held me tight, like it was twenty below and we were caught in a blizzard. So tight I could barely breathe.
Chapter 5
The next morning I woke up in bed alone. A strange sound came from downstairs: a coffeemaker percolating by itself, dishes and silverware clinking together, a sink turning on and off. I stretched for a moment before getting up to grab my robe. William greeted me from the stove when I entered the kitchen. “Sit down at the table,” he said, iron skillet in hand.
“Sunny-side up?”
“You’re cooking breakfast?”
He asked again. “Sunny-side up?”
“Yes,” I said, dumbstruck, and took a chair. In front of me lay the Penn Peak Sentinel, all fresh and ready to read. Next to it was a coffee cup waiting to be filled.
“Toast?”
“Sure, yeah, toast.”
“Strawberry jam?”
I giggled. “Yes, of course, strawberry jam.” This was gonna be good. I sat back to enjoy the William cooking show. I’d never seen it before.
He fumbled with the coffee pot, hot liquid dripping from the top spout. It was a new unit, bought on discount at a local department store. It filled cups way faster than the old one, and the coffee tasted a lot better, too. When the pot was halfway filled, William poured a mug for me and brought it over to the table.
“And now, the eggs.” He had to dig around the drawers to find a spatula, and I laughed at the sight of his tall, Superman-like frame holding the little instrument after he’d found it.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just, you could be a model for stove companies. They’d sell out in weeks.”
“Nice job for someone who’s trying to be a serious writer.”
“True.”
William reached over to turn on the countertop radio, allowing a 1950s tune to waft through the kitchen. After thinking, he turned it off. A few minutes later he handed me the plate of eggs and toast, bending over to kiss me on the nose before moving back to the mess of shells on the counter.
I glanced down. One overcooked egg, very rubbery. One undercooked egg, very runny. Two pieces of burnt toast with strawberry jam globbed in the middle. I stifled another giggle.
“What?”
It took me awhile to answer; I was having trouble swallowing a big chunk of dry toast. “When you were sitting in the Springvale Library all those years, didn’t you ever read any cookbooks?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“No reason. Just curious.”
He caught my eye, and both of us started laughing. He took the chair opposite me and sat down, face in his hands. “I’ll make you breakfast every morning for the rest of your life, if I have to. And I’ll clean and do the laundry, too.”
I stretched my arms, then leaned forward on my elbows so our faces almost touched. “I’d like that. But, you don’t have to.”
“I do have to,” he murmured, meeting my lips with a kiss.
He saw my trouble in finishing the eggs and tried to take the plate away, but I threw my arms around it in protection.
“Don’t you dare.” Taking a bite of rubbery egg, I pulled the plate closer. “You made it, and I’m eatin’ it. Mmm.”
After breakfast, Will washed dishes. He came to help me out of my chair with a gentle hand, then pulled me close. “I’ll be the best husband ever, Emma. You wait and see.”
¤ ¤ ¤
Behind me, the TRS-80 beeped a steady stream of complaints. I stood at the library counter, checking out a pile of books for a student. I watched William slam a fist down on the computer desk, but I ignored it. The student did not; his attention perked up and he grew amused at the sight of a big guy like William losing his temper against modern technology in all its plastic, floppy disc glory.
Another whole week of teaching him how to use a computer was all I could take. If he didn’t get it, he didn’t get it. So what? I’d told him I could enter the data myself, but he was determined to prove he could learn, to show me he wasn’t all Philco televisions and transistor radios.
He had even started to wear Wranglers and cool T-shirts—today’s had a picture of J. R. Ewing from Dallas.
I would have been happy about this sudden display of love, but it felt wrong, like I’d broken him, the same way a cowboy goes out and steals a stallion off a mountain and turns it into a show horse. Sure, he could change, and then what? Who would he be? And what kind of person was I for making someone so beautiful and pure change into another corrupted, messed-up, modern human? I chewed my lip all the time thinking about it.
In art class, Max told me to tell William he couldn’t come around again or he’d call security. I said not to worry, William was a changed man. Everything would be fine. I started another drawing, and he sat at his desk making dreams.
Jesse was all rolled up and ready for the show. I was happy for him. I didn’t expect to win the contest, but people would see him, and something about it made everything a little easier to bear. He would never be alive again. That part couldn’t be made better. But it helped. Maybe I could finally move on. Accept. Grow.
Since I had faced my fear, set my husband on a new path, and given my teacher hope, there was one final problem to deal with. It was as faceless as Jesse before I’d had the courage to fill in the last line. It made me get up early to brush my teeth, because even my own saliva tasted sour. It made me pick at my food, and at other times, chow down on anything in sight. It was probably the real reason for my headaches, the dizziness, the mood swings, the f
atigue.
And I had made a secret appointment at the Penn Peak Health Clinic to find out if my suspicion was correct.
¤ ¤ ¤
Cold hands slid my patient gown back in place. Dr. Atwood told me to sit up. The tall, balding man with faded blue eyes wheeled over to a counter with glass jars of sterile instruments, cotton balls, and wooden tongue depressors. “You say you’ve been having a lot of headaches these last few months?” he asked, his back facing me.
“Yes. But I did have an injury from a car accident last year. It hasn’t bothered me until now though, so . . .” I watched in nervous anticipation as he jotted down notes on his clipboard.
“Headaches are a symptom of pregnancy. As are dizziness, nausea—all the things you listed on this form.”
Telling William I had to skip work because of a stomach virus wasn’t the easiest thing to do. He said he’d skip, too, so he could stay home and take care of me. I’d told him not to and prayed he wouldn’t take off early to stop by the house and check on things.
Dr. Atwood wheeled over to my side. I began to think those stools were like toys for doctors. He patted me on the knee. “I see you’re wearing a ring, so I assume you’re married and ready to bring a child into this world.”
“Yes, I’m married.” My breath came quick. Was he really going to tell me my suspicions were true? But I knew, and he didn’t have to say it. I could sense the life inside of me now. A real life. Beautiful and innocent. And so damn frightening I was about to shake out of my hospital gown. Real knee-knocking.
“Your urine sample indicates a positive result. Congratulations, Mrs. Bennett.”
I nodded and let out the breath I’d been holding forever. “Oh, God.”
“If you’d like some literature on the stages of pregnancy, or how to go about terminating—”
“I won’t need the latter. Thank you.”
He squeezed my knee and told me to get dressed, and then he left. It was so cold in his office. Sterile and cold. To be told a new life was coming in a room like this was like being kissed for the first time with a bottle of Lysol. And I felt so alone, because I knew William should have been there with me. I started to worry about how he would take the news. Happy? Angry? What about his writing career? What about school?
I checked out my face in the door-length mirror. I was so pale, especially with my backdrop of black sweatshirt and faded jeans. My long hair hung down over my shoulders in yellow strands. I turned to examine my stomach, and saw it was slightly rounded, the way it was after eating a huge meal. My hand covered it and rubbed a slow circle. “Hello, baby.”
¤ ¤ ¤
William did not come home early. He didn’t come home at all. When evening rolled around, I put his dinner into the oven to keep warm, and then sat on the couch with a paperback of Jane Eyre. The TV was on low, flashing a news report. An impending ice storm would hit Penn Peak any minute. Cold rain had already begun to spit against the windows and front door.
At eight, I left the couch to gaze out at the darkened porch: wet streets, overburdened tree branches with glassy leaves, and no car. No William.
My stomach growled to say it was hungry again, so I walked into the kitchen to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a tall glass of milk. I checked on his food and saw it was drying out. The meatloaf had turned into a brick, the potatoes and gravy had separated and turned greasy. The front door opened and closed with a loud shake. A cold breeze washed in.
William stood on the front mat, stomping ice from his boots and slipping out of his coat.
“Hey,” I said, sitting down.
He turned to me, alarmed. “That is some weather out there.” His eyes swept over me with a slowness I wasn’t used to, and I tried to register why his words would sound so slurry after a night at school.
I picked up the paperback. “Did you get caught up in it or something? It’s past eight.”
William struggled with his boots. He lowered down on his haunches and tried to yank, but ended up falling backward. Then he lay there and laughed, deep chuckles coming straight from the chest. “Oh, I’m sorry, Emma. I’m a little bit drunk.”
I sat there, mouth open, unable to accept what lay there before me. William? Drunk? “Why?” I asked, throwing down the paperback and sliding off the couch. I ran to his side, doing my best to yank him to an upright position. “Was there a party at school or something?”
“No, no, no . . .” he slurred. “At Betty’s house. A party. With little sausages and expensive cheese. A whole,” and he showed me how much by holding his arms in a big outward stretch, “bunch of writers were there. It was amazing . . . the kind of thing Fitzgerald would write about. She wore a dress that was soooo,” William swept a hand all the way down his chest, “pretty. She has nice champagne glasses.”
I held back what I thought of her glasses and worked on getting him off the floor. “Come on. Over to the couch. That’s right.” With a groan, I dropped him down where I’d been sitting, moving my book two seconds before his sleet-drenched butt squashed its front cover.
He pulled me into his lap, but I struggled out. I was more than a little perturbed. “So, she invites you to some party and you go, you don’t phone or anything. Not to mention you just drove home completely wasted. I mean, didn’t you think of any of that?”
“I’m sorry.” His words immediately lost their effect when he tried to kiss me. I turned my face, repulsed at the sour smell of alcohol. He saw my sandwich and grabbed it from my plate. His teeth sank into the bread with a huge, ravenous bite. “God, I’m hungry. That food was so little. Tiny!”
I struggled off the couch. His weight really pushed the cushions in, or maybe I was already getting so fat that I was the one creating the effect. I felt at my middle, but decided against telling him the happy news until he was sober. And when he didn’t have a mouth stuffed with peanut butter and bread.
I headed into the kitchen and pulled his food out of the oven. I placed it on the table, shouting, “Your dinner’s in here, if you’re that hungry!”
No reply. I found him still chewing and watching television. “There’s a storm coming.”
“Yeah, I think it followed you home.” I brushed pellets of ice off his hair and beard before sitting down. He lay his head down on my lap. “Okay, so tell me all about this party,” I said. “I mean, what happened to school, and studying, and all that? And by the way, did you ever think maybe I’d want to go, too?”
William glanced up at me, worried. “Oh, I’m sorry, Emma. I should have asked. The party was okay. Would you really have wanted to go?”
I let out a breath and shook my head. “No, not really. But you still should’ve considered me. Or called to let me know when you’d come home. I was getting worried.”
His attention drifted to the TV again, a laugh-a-minute sitcom interrupted by a million stupid commercials about paper towels and denture cream and instant glue. William muttered, “This is a crazy world, Emma.”
“Hmm, it’s not too crazy. Maybe a little bit. It’s the only world we got.” I ran a hand along his wet hair and came back greasy.
“I mean, where are our values?” he continued. “It’s all about money and sex and greedy corporations doing business.”
I took my time answering. “Well, we do have our problems, but it could be worse.” I nudged him a little. “Right?”
He made a weird sound. “It scares me to think we might have to raise a child in this kind of world.”
My body stiffened. Were doctors allowed to tell spouses without the other spouse’s permission? I swallowed hard before saying, “What do you mean, Will?”
He glanced up at me. “I mean, if we ever decide to have a child, I wouldn’t want the world to be like it is now. It’s so violent, so greedy.”
I had to regulate m
y breathing. With his head in my lap, though, he must have felt my pulse quicken, my whole body go from relaxed and calm to cool as the ice still melting in his hair. “What if we don’t have that choice? What if the world doesn’t change?”
William didn’t answer. I nudged again, but before long I heard the sound of slow even breaths and soft snoring. He was asleep.
I slid out from underneath his head and covered him with a crocheted afghan, a gift from Grandmother Carrie—still back in Springvale. We talked to each other on the phone every once in awhile. Not often enough. Black hair fell over in dark waves, and Will’s hands, so strong and lithe, clung to the couch cushions. His lips were pouty; they turned up in a pleasant smile. Still beautiful, even when drunk.
But not as beautiful.
I wouldn’t tell him yet. He wasn’t ready. I’d give him clues so he could warm to the idea, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad when he finally figured the whole thing out.
And maybe the world would have changed by then.
The sound of ice pellets smacked a gritty rhythm against the front door.
¤ ¤ ¤
A week passed, and I still hadn’t told William about the baby. He was always so absorbed with writing those stories and getting everything organized for the school journal that I decided to leave the news for later. It would be my early Christmas present to him. For now, it felt as if the news would be lost in the flurry of his work. Anyway, I needed to concentrate on finishing the drawings before the contest. Each one needed to be mounted and ready for hanging before December fifth.
I decided not to tell Max about the pregnancy, as well. He, still jittery from having quit smoking, moved around like a lit bomb. Standing behind my desk with hands clenched together, he’d comment on each line I made, and what motivation I’d chosen for making said line, and when was I going to finish said line. I was like a mule with a whip over its head. I would have never thought it possible to work under such pressure, but now I had this secret life in me, and everything seemed possible. There was a new calm, a new reason to work hard and do my best.
