The End of Her

by Shari Lapena

  “Not great,” Stephanie admits, giving a wobbly smile. She can feel her eyes immediately welling up. Shit. Why is it that the slightest bit of sympathy can bring her to tears these days? It’s sleep deprivation, that’s what it is, pure and simple. If she doesn’t start getting more sleep soon, she’s going to lose it.

  She glances away from the doctor to her babies.

  Dr. Prashad looks at her with concern. “Colic is really tough,” she says. “I can’t imagine what it must be like with two at once.”

  “It’s hell,” Stephanie admits with a weak smile. “They’re both awake crying from about seven p.m. until one or two in the morning. Every. Single. Day. Patrick and I have to put them in the swings and listen to them crying just to bolt down some supper. And then we carry them in circles around the living room for hours.” She rubs her eyes with her hands. “I’ve read all the parenting books, we’ve tried everything, but nothing works.” She hesitates. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong with them? I mean . . . could we have missed something?” She doesn’t want to accuse the doctor, but . . .

  The doctor sighs and says, “They’re healthy babies. They’ve been fully checked. I know it doesn’t make it any easier that we don’t know much about colic, but I promise it will pass.”

  Stephanie steels herself and asks, “But when? How much longer is this going to go on?” She can hear the exhaustion—even despair—in her voice and hates herself for it. She sounds so whiny, like she can’t cope. She can’t stand women like that. She has always been someone who copes, and copes well.

  The doctor shakes her head. “There’s no way to know, I’m afraid. It usually stops pretty suddenly. They’ll outgrow it. Like I told you before, most babies get over it at around three months, but it can last up to around nine months. I’ve never heard of a two-year-old with colic.”

  Stephanie can’t bring herself to tell the doctor what prompted this sudden visit. She’d almost burned the house down while her husband was at work. Patrick had been beside himself when she told him. She can’t even remember putting the pan on the stove. What if Dr. Prashad thinks she’s an unfit mother?

  She doesn’t know why she bothered coming. Of course the doctor wouldn’t be able to help—Dr. Prashad gave her the same spiel the last time she visited. “Am I doing something wrong?” Stephanie asks, rather hopelessly.

  “No. Not by the sound of it. You’ve told me what your routines are. You’re doing everything right. You’re just unlucky, that’s all.” Dr. Prashad’s voice softens. “This will pass.” Stephanie nods wearily. “The important thing is that you take care of yourself during this time. Is there anyone who can help out? Can you get a sitter or a family member to watch the babies for a night—or even for a few hours—so you can get some sleep?”

  “We tried that. But I couldn’t sleep through the noise.” The sound of her babies wailing in distress creates a visceral reaction in her that she simply can’t ignore. She glances at them now. The twins are fidgeting less in their stroller, starting to look drowsy. She has to leave soon so she can get them home and have a nap herself. The two or three hours she gets in the afternoon and the four hours between 2:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. are all she can count on. Most nights she sends her protesting, sheepish husband to bed by midnight and tries to handle the girls on her own so that he is able to go to work and function the next day.

  After the appointment, she pushes the stroller out the door of the clinic to where she’s parked on the street. She settles the twins into their infant car seats, wondering if it’s safe for her to be driving—her reflexes have been dangerously slow these days. She’s so tired that after she fastens the babies into their seats and closes the two back doors, she almost drives away without collapsing the double stroller and stowing it in the trunk. Jesus, she thinks, noticing the stroller at the last minute, sitting alone on the sidewalk. That would be a thousand bucks wasted. It’s not like it would still be here by the time she realized her mistake and came back for it. Get a grip, she tells herself.

  With extra care, she drives the ten minutes from downtown Aylesford to the comfortable suburb where they live. She turns onto their street, then pulls into the driveway and stops the car. She glances in the rearview mirror and sees that both babies are asleep. Thank God.

  She brings them inside and settles them in their cribs. Both are down soundly. Why can’t they do this at night? If she bundles them into the car late at night crying, and drives around town until they’re asleep, they wake up when they’re brought back inside. It’s the most frustrating thing. She’s never felt as powerless as she does in the face of a crying baby—or rather, two—who won’t be soothed.

  Relieved, she grabs the baby monitor and makes her way to her own bedroom, ignoring the pile of unwashed clothes in the basket just inside the laundry room, and the rank smell of the diaper pail that fills up too quickly. She only wants sleep. She’s heard that people can lose their minds if they go long enough without it—they can start imagining things.

  As her head hits the pillow, she wonders again why the smoke alarm in the kitchen didn’t go off the other day—Patrick had found nothing wrong with it—and then she is asleep.

  3

  Patrick Kilgour returns to his office after an unsatisfactory meeting with a new client. He’d expected it to go better. But he seems to have lost some of his polish, his shine. Patrick had felt his business partner’s eyes on him during the presentation. Niall had given him a hard look afterward. “Get it together,” he said and walked away.

  Patrick slumps in his desk chair and swivels around to stare out the window, blearily taking in the view: the two arched bridges spanning the Hudson River, and beyond them the Catskills, smudged in the distance. His eyes are burning with tiredness and his body feels stiff. Too many weeks of not getting enough sleep, and it’s taking its toll. Maybe he can call the client back when he’s got more energy, more focus.

  It’s four in the afternoon and his lids already feel heavy. He swivels back to face his desk, looks longingly at the leather sofa along the opposite wall of his office for a moment, but then turns his attention to his computer, loosening his tie and opening the top button of his shirt. He’s got work to do before he goes home, where work is impossible.

  He needs caffeine. He gets up and goes out to the reception area to make himself a coffee from the machine. There’s a woman waiting there, her head down, reading a magazine. He catches her out of the corner of his eye—her profile, that blond hair—and does a double take. Fortunately, Kerri, the receptionist with the keen eyes, is not at her desk, and not there to notice. He’s reached the coffee machine, and now his back is to the woman. She doesn’t seem to be aware of him.

  Erica Voss. He would recognize her anywhere. The sight of her has sent a spasm of disbelief through him. What is she doing here? It’s been more than nine years since he last saw her. The past suddenly crowds in on him.

  He’s not sleepy now; he’s shot through with adrenaline. He wonders what will happen when she looks up from her magazine and recognizes him.

  He hears Niall coming into the waiting area. Patrick will have to face her to make his way back to his office. He turns around slowly. She lifts her head, glances at him—not a flicker of recognition—and stands up, turning toward Niall. Niall is reaching his hand out to greet her.

  “I’m sorry—have you been waiting long? Kerri seems to be away from her desk,” Niall says. He notices Patrick then, standing near the coffee machine. “I’m Niall Foote, and this is my partner, Patrick Kilgour,” he says, gesturing toward Patrick.

  Patrick’s throat is so dry that he can’t speak. He remains where he is, not stepping forward to shake her hand. He gives a brief, frozen smile. She still shows no signs of recognizing him, but he’s not fooled. She’s better at hiding her surprise than he is. He’d always admired her poise.

  “Ms. Voss is interviewing for the temporary administrative ass
istant position,” Niall says, and escorts her down the hall to his own office, oblivious to Patrick’s hidden distress.

  Patrick hears the office door close and Niall’s voice become muffled. He turns back to the coffee machine, goes through the motions of adding milk and sugar to his cup, and notices that his hands are trembling.

  What is Erica Voss doing in Aylesford? Last he knew, she was living in Denver.

  He decides to go home early. He leaves the coffee on the table, grabs his briefcase from his office, and leaves.

  * * *

  • • •

  STEPHANIE WAKES FROM a profound sleep to the sound of the front door opening. For a moment she’s disoriented. She looks at the clock on the bedside table: it’s not even 4:30 p.m. She sits up quickly, listening. The room is dark, the curtains pulled across the window. She can hear someone moving around downstairs. She glances at the baby monitor; the lights aren’t flashing, and the babies are still asleep.

  She gets out of bed, a bit dizzy at rising so quickly, a combination of fatigue and low blood pressure. She walks quietly down the hall to the top of the stairs. She sees Patrick at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her. She can’t tell what it is exactly, but something about him seems different. Maybe it’s just that he’s home uncharacteristically early.

  “Did I wake you? I was hoping I wouldn’t,” he says softly.

  “What happened?” she asks as she walks down the stairs.

  “Nothing happened,” he answers. “I just left early today, that’s all. I’m beat.”

  “Tell me about it,” she says, reaching him and giving him a warm hug and a kiss. “How did the meeting go?” He frowns, shrugs, and she feels a twinge of sympathy.

  “Not great,” he admits.

  She knows that he’s been struggling lately. He hasn’t kept that from her. He’s always told her what’s going on at work. She doesn’t like to be kept in the dark; she wants to know everything.

  She’s concerned for him—for an architect, mistakes can be costly. He has so many details to stay on top of, and with so little sleep. . . . She tells herself that they just have to ride this out. The babies will start to sleep, and they will both sleep, too, and be able to cope better.

  She looks at him more closely. Now she can see what’s different about him; he’s clenching his jaw as if he’s worried about something. He looks exhausted, like her, but there’s a nervous energy running along underneath that isn’t usually there. “What is it? You seem a bit tense,” she says lightly.

  “Do I?” he says. “No, I’m not tense. Just—I was a bit off in the meeting today. Didn’t bring my usual energy to it. I don’t think they were too impressed.” He shrugs. “Maybe I should have told them I’ve got colicky twins at home.” Now there’s an edge to his voice and she feels her back go up a bit. It sounds almost like he’s blaming her. She tries not to react. Takes a deep breath.

  “Look,” she says after a moment, “neither of us is functioning at our best right now. We’re exhausted. That’s just the way it is. But we’ll get through it.” She puts her hands up and rests them on his shoulders, looks right into his tired eyes. “Things will get better.” She remembers how, a couple of nights ago, he’d had to say much the same thing to her. They have to help each other, prop each other up. That’s what they’ve been doing through these long, difficult weeks of colic. He nods back at her, gives her that smile she loves.

  Then he kisses her and says, “I know.”

  “Why don’t you lie down on the sofa and close your eyes for a bit? I’m going to get started on supper before they wake up.”

  She goes into the kitchen, working quickly, because the babies will be up soon. When she glances into the living room a few minutes later, expecting to find her husband fast asleep, she sees that he’s wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Then she hears a cry, and steels herself for the long, grueling night ahead.

  4

  The next morning when he gets to the office, Patrick opens his email, runs his eyes down his messages, and stops cold. There’s one from Erica Voss. His finger hovers over the mouse. He considers deleting the email unread, but that might be unwise. He clicks it open.

  Hi Patrick,

  I imagine it was a surprise, seeing me again. I was wondering if we could get together and talk, for old times’ sake? Maybe for a drink?

  Best, Erica

  It seems harmless, but he feels uneasy. He would rather let sleeping dogs lie, doesn’t want to nudge this one awake. But he can’t simply ignore her. He hesitates and then types a reply.

  Hi Erica,

  I could meet for a quick drink. Small world.

  Patrick

  He stares at what he’s written for a long moment, wondering if he’s making a mistake. Then he hits send. He watches his computer anxiously for a few minutes, waiting for her to respond. It doesn’t take long.

  Great! I’m actually living nearby, in Newburgh. I could meet you for a drink after work today in Aylesford, if that works for you?

  Erica

  His stomach drops. She’s supposed to be in Denver. What is she up to? Why was she in his office? Why does she want to see him? His feelings of uneasiness intensify.

  * * *

  • • •

  ERICA SITS IN the living room of her apartment in Newburgh and stares at her laptop screen, waiting for a response. She imagines Patrick at his computer in his office on Bleeker Street, his handsome face taken aback. Wondering this very minute how to respond.

  It was fun, seeing him in his office yesterday, his reaction. He’s a partner in his own small architectural firm, with offices on the fourth floor of a shiny new building downtown. It looks like he’s doing well for himself. She isn’t surprised. He always was ambitious. He’d obviously been shocked to see her.

  It’s been more than nine years since she’s spoken to Patrick. She turns away from the computer for a minute and glances around her sparsely furnished apartment. She’s only just moved in, and it shows. She hears a ping and looks back at her computer. She smiles.

  How about the Pilot, at 5 o’clock? It’s on Bristow Street.

  Patrick

  Sounds perfect. See you there.

  Erica

  She didn’t think he’d refuse to see her. They have too much history. She wonders what he’s like now, whether he’s changed. Somehow she doesn’t think so.

  * * *

  • • •

  SHORTLY BEFORE 5:00 P.M., Patrick leaves his office and walks to the bar on a small side street in the downtown center. He doesn’t expect to run into anyone who knows him; the Pilot is just this side of a dive—not one of his usual upscale haunts. He straightens his tie nervously as he walks into the bar. He’s five minutes late on purpose. His gaze darts around in the semidark, looking for her.

  He spots her in a corner, sitting alone, drinking a beer out of the bottle. She looks much the same, although not quite as whip slender as she used to be. In her early twenties she was a knockout, a natural blond with fine features and beautiful skin. For a moment he stares at her, and then she turns and sees him and seems to go still.

  He swallows and walks toward her. “Erica,” he says, as he reaches her table. He catches the faint scent of her perfume—exotic and seductive—the same perfume she wore all those years ago. It’s disconcerting. For a moment, he’s back in Colorado, and they’re all sitting in their favorite bar, laughing and drinking beer, so young, all their lives ahead of them. Lindsey beside him with her hand resting placidly on her pregnant belly, Erica watching him from across the table.

  “Patrick,” she says now, as he sits across from her, “you’re looking well.”

  He wishes he’d thought to grab a beer at the bar on his way over, rather than waiting for someone to come by so he can order. He smiles tentatively at Erica through his discomfort. He’s normally so good with people, but he can�
��t seem to read the situation. There’s an awkward silence. A server sees him and approaches. Patrick changes his mind about the beer and says, “Scotch, please.” His tastes have changed; he wonders if hers have as well, and she simply doesn’t trust the cleanliness of the glasses in this place. Can she tell he’s nervous? “So . . . you live in Newburgh now?”

  “Yes, I moved recently, from Denver. I felt it was time for a change.”

  He nods, tries to seem nonchalant about it.

  “A short drive from here,” she says, “only half an hour.”

  He waits, but she doesn’t volunteer anything else. “What a coincidence,” he says, “you showing up at my firm.”

  There’s another awkward pause. His drink arrives and he gulps it greedily. Patrick can’t think of anything else to say. He’s thinking, Of all the places she could have relocated to, why here?

  She leans in a bit closer, elegant hands around her beer, peeling at the label. He remembers this from before. “I knew you were here somewhere, so I looked you up. When I realized you were so close, I thought, why not?”

  He stares back at her. “You’re not interested in the job at my firm, are you?”

  She smiles. “No. I already have a job.”

  He takes another big swallow of his drink, his unease growing. What is she playing at? “So why did you apply?”

  “I wanted to see if it was really you.”

  “You could have tried to get in touch with me in the ordinary way.”

  “I’m not sure you would have responded,” she says. He doesn’t answer that. “When you left Colorado, all I knew was that you had talked to Greg about returning to New York.”

  And there it is. He’d left Colorado rather quickly, after Lindsey’s funeral, with no forwarding address. He’d wanted to run away from everything. And he’d thought no one there—Erica included—wanted to stay in touch with him. It was all just too hard. Better for everyone if he left. Erica had been his first wife’s closest friend. Perhaps she’s here to apologize for the way she treated him afterward, at the funeral. She’s had time to get her head on straight. They were all a bit out of their minds. It was a terrible time.