by Wade, Ellie
Whitewater rafting in this part of the Upper Pigeon River is our favorite. It’s class III and IV—plenty of excitement, but not too dangerous for my girl up there.
After we’re out of the choppy rapids, we take a detour to a scenic alcove where there’s flat, shallow water. I help the guide pull the raft onto shore. Later in the summer, this would be a perfect spot to take a swim. But the water in May is still a little too cold for swimming, so instead, we all break off to a nice sitting spot next to the river to take in the beautiful view of the mountains around us.
We take a seat in a small grassy area in front of a large boulder.
London hands me a protein bar and a water from her backpack. “Did you see that waterfall back there?” Her voice is full of astonishment. “I can’t believe I was able to stay on!”
I grin wide. “Yeah, you were pretty awesome.”
Her cheeks are flushed red from the wind and sprays of the river. Small pieces of hair have come out of her high ponytail. She wears no makeup, and I don’t think she’s ever been more beautiful.
I listen as she retells the story of her courageous journey down the rapids. She’s so excited, and she’s so damn cute. Seeing her like this makes me incredibly happy, considering the news we received a few days ago. Recent events were what prompted me to schedule this outing, and I’m relieved that I got the outcome I desired.
The past year has been rough, but nothing has been more devastating than receiving the news that none of the eggs implanted into London took. This round of in vitro fertilization didn’t work. I think London and I’d both thought that this process would guarantee us at least one baby, maybe two. It didn’t though. Instead, it left London with an empty uterus and a broken heart. My soul aches because I can’t fix it. I can’t make it right.
London continues, “And then, when we had to go around that giant rock really quickly so that we wouldn’t hit it, I totally slipped. I thought I was going in for sure that time.”
“Yeah, you were fierce out there,” I agree.
“I was, right?” She grins, and my heart swells with love for her.
I know that she’s thinking about the baby that isn’t growing inside her. She knows that I’m thinking about the baby that isn’t growing inside her. But we each pretend for the other that we’re not. Instead, we smile and laugh and talk of the rapids. We eat our snacks and sneak small kisses in between our conversation until the rafting instructor tells us it’s time to go. Sometimes, the only thing to do when one’s heart is completely shattered is to simply pretend it’s not.
“No!” I wave my hand out to stop London. “Don’t put in the shrimp yet. They take two minutes to cook. We haven’t even put the noodles into the water yet. By the time everything else is done, the shrimp will be overcooked and chewy,” I explain.
“But the butter is boiling.” She motions toward the pan.
“Well, turn it down.” I chuckle.
“Cooking the shrimp is my job. If I can’t cook shrimp, what am I supposed to do?”
“You could help me slice these red peppers,” I offer.
“With a knife?”
“No, London, with your Jedi mind power. Yes, with a knife.” I shake my head with a grin.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Why do you think I gave you the job with the shrimp?”
“Well, what should I do?” she asks.
“You could pour our beverages, load the dishwasher, or just stand there and look beautiful.” I shoot her a wink.
She presses her lips together in mock contemplation before lifting herself onto the island. “I’ll take the latter.” She smiles, her legs dangling off the edge of the marble island top.
“Good choice.” I lean in and give her a kiss. “You’ve perfected the act of being beautiful.”
We talk about her latest articles and my work at the VA while I finish up the meal.
After a while, we sit at the table, plates full of shrimp pasta in front of us.
“This looks fantastic, especially those shrimp,” she says.
“Definitely,” I agree, shooting her a wink.
“So, I have something to talk to you about,” she says.
I urge her on as I chew a mouthful of pasta.
“Well, I was offered a really awesome job a few months back. Jovana, my editor, knows someone who knows someone with National Geographic. Right? So, she recommended me to write this piece. Well, it requires traveling, and we were doing all of the fertility stuff, so I turned it down. Well, I just got a call last night. Turns out, the writer who was going to cover the story backed out for some family emergency, and they were wondering if I’d reconsider.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool. And I was thinking that it might be nice to take a break from all the baby stuff for a while.”
I nod in agreement. “Definitely. I think it’d be great for you to go out on assignment and focus on writing for a bit. We can try in vitro again at some point.”
“Exactly, and it doesn’t have to be now. We have time, right?” Her voices rises with fake enthusiasm that I know she isn’t feeling.
“Right. So, what’s the story about? Where are you heading?”
London releases a sigh. “That’s the part I wanted to talk to you about.”
My guard goes up at the sound of her voice. I put down my fork to expectantly look at her.
“It’s in Africa, and I’d be gone a little more than a month.”
“What?” I say for lack of anything better as I process her words.
“Yeah. It’s a wonderful opportunity. It’s kind of off-grid, so it’ll take a bit to get there. Then, when we arrive, there will be lots of investigating to do. This isn’t going to be a quick interview, and then I’m done kind of thing. I’ll have to get to know these people so that they’ll trust me with their stories.”
A plethora of emotions invades my mind, some selfish because I’ve never been away from London for that long since we got back together. But the loudest ones are fear and an innate desire to protect her. I’ve been to Africa with the military. It’s a beautiful country, but many parts are unstable, unsafe—run by the corrupt military and threatened by the rebels.
I feel sick to my stomach, thinking of London overseas, in danger. I can’t.
“London, it’s not safe over there. Please find another story,” I plead.
I’m all for her getting some time away, but an ocean away in a volatile country isn’t what I have in mind for her. I’m certain I’m being unreasonable, but when it comes to London, I don’t care. I don’t just want her safe. I need her to be safe. She’s my entire world.
“I know you’re worried, but you don’t have to be. People go to Africa all the time. This story means something. I can feel it. It’s as if I need to go. I need to get away and do something important. I can’t write about politics or corruption within the soybean companies or anything else right now. I have to write about something significant. You know? I need a purpose. I’ve been so lost and sad. This is exactly what I’ve been looking for.”
“You need an escape?” My chest tightens.
“Yes, I need an escape.”
“So, you think that traveling over eight thousand miles away—far from me and your family—is what you need?” I attempt to keep my voice steady, completely aware of the huge argument that this could turn into.
Realization dawns in London’s eyes, and she places her hand on mine. “I don’t need to get away from you. I just need this. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Loïc. I don’t want to leave you, but I have to leave, just for a while.”
“You can’t leave and not leave me, London. The two go hand in hand.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” She squeezes my hand before withdrawing her touch.
“You’re not the only one who’s hurting, London. I am, too. This is a difficult time in our lives, but we’ll get through it—together. The answer isn’t running away to a place where
I’ll worry about you every second.” I lean back in my chair and pull my fingers through my hair.
“I was worried about you every second when you were in Afghanistan,” she argues.
“Really?” I huff out, stunned. “We’re bringing my deployment into this? That wasn’t a choice, London. And you know it. I didn’t choose to leave you. I had to. It was my job. No one is making you do this. You can find another story here, in this country, with me.”
She nervously bites her bottom lip. “I don’t think this is a choice for me either.” She shakes her head. “I have to do this, Loïc. Please understand. I need your support in this, but I’m going regardless.”
The air leaves my lungs, as if she just punched me in the gut. “So, this isn’t a discussion? You’re going regardless? Just great,” I scoff, pushing back from the table. “Funny. I thought we were married. You know, one of those relationships where you talk things out with your spouse before making idiotic decisions. My bad.” I fall into a complete and totally irrational state. I storm out of the house, making sure to slam the door as I leave.
I’ve fought for me, for London, for our not-yet-conceived child for a year now while fighting for every soldier in this area who’s returned broken. I’m just so goddamn tired of fighting. I need to breathe.
Deep down, I know I should stop and talk this through with London. But the only sentiment that registers is rage. So much of it occupies my mind that I have to get out into the open air to process it all.
I head out through the trees that surround our house and keep walking. With each step through the pine needle–covered ground, I get farther away from the source of my anger, yet no relief comes. My heart pounds within my chest, bursting with pressure.
I finally stop at an old oak and sit at its base, overlooking the hills before me. It’s a perfect late-spring night. I sit amid the warm air of twilight. The rolling mountains, alive with foliage, are lit by the colors of the sunset. It’s heaven on earth, breathtakingly beautiful, yet the serenity doesn’t reach me.
Fucking happily ever after, I say under my breath. Who knew it’d be so hard? How fair is this?
I rake my hands through my hair. I had to trudge through the epic shitstorm of my life to finally find my eternal happiness—my London. And I’ve had to fight for happiness every day since. There’s no such thing as happily ever after. There’s only happy for now until the next pile of crap is dropped in your lap.
I know my current thoughts are being run by self-pity. Let’s face it…I’m upset about a lot of things, but the hardest pill to swallow at the moment is the fact that London needs to leave me. I don’t know how or why that could possibly make things better for us.
I can conquer any obstacle thrown at me as long as I have London by my side. But, now, she’s leaving. Chances are, she’ll be fine and come back, unharmed. It’s the small chance that she won’t that I can’t take. How can I protect her when she’s so far away from me?
The longer I sit here, the more I realize that, the one thing I do have control over—my ability to love London the way she needs—I’ve utterly failed at. For reasons beyond my understanding, she needs this. I need to man up, get ahold of my own insecurities, and support her.
I’ve been in some pretty dark places in my life, and London has loved me through them. Even when I didn’t let her, she never stopped loving me. She didn’t understand my inner demons, but she made it clear that she didn’t have to. I might not fully grasp what’s going on inside of London right now, but it’s my privilege to love her through it.
Fuck, I’m an idiot.
I sigh, standing.
I take a deep breath of mountain air, and then I walk back toward the house.
Marriage is difficult.
Then again, so is life.
Why would I expect a life full of love to be void of struggles? Of course there will be hard times. It’s the love that makes the fight worth it.
When I get back to the house, I find London waiting on the porch for me. At the sight of her, I pull the warm night air into my lungs.
I look at her now, a shadow of an angel lit by the glowing lights from the house windows. Still so beautiful yet…so very sad. My chest tightens painfully. I’ve known, but I’ve failed to fully recognize just how much of her strength has drifted away. It’s subtle but completely obvious all at once. She stands a little less tall, her smile smaller, her eyes dimmer, her soul wearier.
So, she needs to go to Africa to find herself, to relight the fierce fire that I know lives within her. Then, so be it. Being without London for a month, worrying about her every second of the day, and missing her deeply won’t be the end of the world. It will suck, but I will get through it. Loving a London who has lost her zest, her ferocious spirit for life, would be devastating.
I just want her to be happy. Who am I to say how she gets back to that place? It’s not my job to judge her. It’s my duty to love her.
“I’m sorry,” I say as soon as I step onto the porch.
“I’m sorry, too,” she says against my chest as we pull one another into an embrace. “I know it’s not fair to you, Loïc. I know it’s not.” She pulls back to look me in the eyes.
“It’s okay,” I answer truthfully because I realize that it is.
Whatever it takes for London to feel whole again is what she should do.
“It’s not,” she whispers with a sad shake of her head. “I know that you’re hurting, too. I know that this year has been rough on you, too. But I don’t know what else to do. This job is scary and exciting. It will take me far away from doctors and medicines and babies that never come. I just need a reset, Loïc. I need to go somewhere far away and do something important. I have to get back to being me. Then, I can come back to you as the person you fell in love with.”
“You are the person I fell in love with.”
“I’m not the same version of her.”
I pull London in tight, kissing her forehead. “I loved you then. I love you now. I’ll love you always. I love every single version of you.”
“I know.” She squeezes me back.
We walk inside.
“So, we’re okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, we’re okay.”
“And Africa?” she questions hopefully.
“I’ll hate every minute that you’re gone, but if you want to go, I think you should.” The words taste bitter as they leave my mouth, but I know they’re the right ones.
London
“It all feels so hopeless, and I feel so empty.”
—London Berkeley
After a quick flight to DC with Loïc where I leave him to spend the weekend with Dixon, Sarah, Evan, and baby Emma, who is already three months old, I board a flight for London. I have a fourteen-hour delay in this gorgeous city, so I get out of the airport to take it in. I send Loïc a selfie of me in front of Big Ben. There’s a similar selfie—with Loïc in it as well during our first trip here—framed and sitting on our mantel at home.
God, that was an eternity ago.
My layover in London flies by, and before I know it, I’m back on the plane. I have a four-hour layover in Rwanda before boarding my final flight to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.
I step off the plane at my final destination, feeling both excited and nervous. After going through customs, I make my way to baggage claim. I immediately spot an African man holding up a piece of paper with London Berkeley written on it.
I make my way over to him. “Hi, I’m London.” I hold out my hand to shake his.
“Oh, Miss Berkeley, welcome. I’m Abdu. I will be your guide and translator.”
I love Abdu immediately. His voice is kind, and his smile is bright.
“Please, call me London.”
“London, miss.” He nods with a wide grin. “Shall we retrieve your bag?”
We find my luggage, and I don’t fail to notice the small chuckle when Abdu sees that I brought three suitcases. I know it’s silly, and I look foolish. But I’ve neve
r been to Africa, and I didn’t know what I’d need. Loïc urged me to consolidate before we left home, but I refused.
“Your partner is waiting outside, Miss London.”
“My partner?” I inquire.
“Yes, the photographer, miss.”
“Oh, right. Great.”
I follow Abdu outside. The temperature is similar to what it was at home when I left. I’m guessing eighty degrees, maybe a little more. But the humidity is suffocating.
“It’s so humid here,” I say to Abdu. “So much moisture in the air, it’s sticky.”
“Oh, yes.” He looks to me as he pulls two of my suitcases. “Every day this week, there’s rain. And there’s always moisture from the ocean.”
Yuck.
Abdu stops at a vehicle that I’m assuming is his. “Mr. Oliver, this is Miss London,” he says by way of introduction.
A tall, blond, and very tan man leans against the car, smoking. He stands to meet me. “Hello there. You must be the writer. I’m the one who’ll be taking the pictures.”
“Wonderful. London.” I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oliver.” He takes my hand in his and blows out a plume of smoke. “The pleasure’s all mine, love.”
His hand is hot and sticky. As soon as he releases my hand, I wipe off the wetness against my skirt as casually as I can.
“Do I hear an Australian accent?” I ask.
“Yep. Born and raised Aussie. Nowadays though, I spend most of my time elsewhere.”
I can’t help but smile. “I know another Australian guy named Oliver. We’re actually quite close.”
“Oh, yeah?” Oliver drops his cigarette butt on the ground.
“Yes, he’s my male Siri.” I smile, thinking of my love-hate relationship with the voice that comes from my phone.
Oliver nods, as if he understands, but I’m positive he has no idea what I’m talking about and doesn’t want to be rude.
