Authors: Ilsa J. Bick
Mitch and David watched them go. Mitch‘s face was a stone. David looked like he wanted to cry. After a couple seconds, Mitch put an arm around David‘s shoulders the way a coach does to comfort a kid who‘s dropped the winning touchdown. Or as a dad might for the son whose suffering he can‘t bear.
Of course, my parents hadn‘t bothered to come for me. Actually, that‘s not fair; that‘s a lie. I‘m sure they would have, considering I was banged up and all. But since I couldn‘t drive with the concussion, Mitch told them my car would be safe in the school lot and he‘d drive me home, which was the best news I‘d gotten all day. We could keep driving to Canada, as far as I was concerned. We could drive forever.
The snow was really coming down now, slanted ribbons slashing through Mitch‘s headlights. He took it slow, his eyes fixed on the road. I found a Louis Armstrong CD and slipped it into the player. After a couple minutes, Mitch said, roughly, ―How you doing?‖
―I‘m okay. My head hurts a little.‖
―You should sleep.‖
―No. Mitch . . . I‘m so sorry.‖ Maybe it was the concussion, but I got all weepy. I bit my lip. ―I really wanted to win for you.‖
―Hey, hey, it‘s okay. There‘ll be other races. No big deal. We‘ve got the spring track season and then two whole years after that. We‘ll make it.‖
He meant to make me feel better, but I went cold inside. This was the first time he‘d ever mentioned that our time together was limited. The only future I had imagined was amorphous and fuzzy, something
out there
and so far away it was forever. Two years is a long time and no time at all. Matt had been gone for longer. But, in two years, high school would end. I would go to college somewhere and become . . . something. Mitch already had a life. In two years, I would be sleeping in a strange bed and Mitch would be delivering the same lectures on saponification and free radicals. There would be new faces on the track team, but he would run the same route from his house to the park. When he wanted peace, he could tend his fire and drink tea and listen to Mozart and find shelter in his cabin. I would duck from my dorm to class, with my collar turned up and shoulders hunched around my ears as a chill rain needled my face.
Mitch sensed the change. ―What?‖
―I was just thinking how I wish nothing had to end. I wish we could live in a little cabin in the woods, and I‘d make soup and you‘d chop wood and we could be together. I would never have to leave for college and no one would—‖ I clamped down on the rest. I‘d said too much. I didn‘t want to become a shrew, a nag, a person with morning breath. This was the way it went down in books and movies. The lovers were always Romeo and Juliet: happy to spin out idyllic futures for about two seconds before the real world shattered their glass bubble and killed them. Or one of them—usually the girl, stupid, stupid, stupid—got demanding or went all hysterical and whiny, and the guy did something equally dumb.
For a long time—God, it felt like forever—I listened to the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the wipers. The snow came in billowing curtains and spun into whirling funnel clouds in the truck‘s headlights. The night beyond was complete and dense and black.
Finally, I said, ―I shouldn‘t have said that.‖
―Why not?‖ He never took his eyes from the road. ―I feel the same way. I think about you all the time. I sit down to do a lesson plan, and then an hour‘s gone by and I‘ve been daydreaming about you. I think about how I don‘t have to work. I have enough money to go anywhere,
do
anything I want— but the next day comes and I‘m teaching about the chemical rearrangement of disordered solids. Jenna, being older doesn‘t mean I have all the answers. The world has rules. We aren‘t powerful enough to make our own.‖
―But we‘ve broken some. Who‘s to stop us from breaking them all?‖
―You‘re young,‖ he said. ―I know you don‘t want to hear that, but I‘ve been around a lot longer. There‘s no way we can break every single rule, not yet. You have to be patient.
You‘ll be eighteen in two years and then—‖
―And then I‘ll be gone. I‘ll go to college and then maybe grad school. Even if I went to Madison, we wouldn‘t be together. You won‘t quit your job and follow me wherever I go.‖ I didn‘t make it a question because I knew the answer. ―So we‘ll be apart. You‘ll still be married.‖ This was as close as I‘d come to asking about his wife. She was out there, a blur, a potentiality that might, at any second, press her face against the glass of our little bubble. Or shatter it altogether.
―But maybe not,‖ he said.
―No? Then why are you still married now?‖ I tried to keep the desperation, the despair out of my voice, and failed. ―She‘s been gone for months. She doesn‘t visit, does she?‖ I was on a roll now, unable to keep the questions from tumbling out—and honestly, not wanting to. ―Do you even talk to her? Do you still love her?‖
―Jenna, it‘s not as simple as that.‖
―Then tell me what it is, and I‘ll try to understand. I‘m not a child. I‘m sixteen. I‘m old enough to . . .‖
―Drive,‖ he said. ―You are old enough to drive. You are old enough to see a doctor in private, but your parents still have to sign a consent for any procedure. You are old enough to hold a job. You are old enough to get an abortion in Illinois without parental consent or notification, but not in Wisconsin or Minnesota or Michigan. You are just old enough—‖
―To sleep with you,‖ I said.
39: a
Silence.
I wasn‘t angry. I was mainly afraid that I‘d blown it. And, yeah, okay, maybe I was a little bitter. But I figured we‘d come to my dark moment, the real turning point where either Mitch dumped me or we went on to live happily ever after.
Because wasn‘t that the way these stories went? Meryl said they teach this kind of thing to romance writer-wannabes: the setup, the meet, the dark moment, blah, blah, blah.
Like, at school, Dewerman said
Jane Eyre
was a romance, but I always thought it was kind of tragic. The disaster isn‘t driven by external events but something living inside Rochester and Jane—the dark hand of some old disappointment or pain that makes things go from bad to worse. Think of it as always being darkest at the dawn before it goes pitch-black, Bob.
That‘s why
Romeo and Juliet
isn‘t a romance, even though it‘s all about love and obsession and family rivalries, but a tragedy. Despite what Shakespeare says at the beginning—I mean, he tells you right off the bat the end‘s not going to be pretty—you keep waiting for those two crazy, desperate kids to realize that there are alternatives, that they‘ll grow up eventually.
I would grow up. I would have to leave, eventually, and that would kill us because Mitch and I would grow apart. For me, there was an end point, something real and tangible, far enough away to ignore but so close I could taste the end.
So what
could
I control? I couldn‘t stop time. The difference in our ages wouldn‘t go away, and neither would his marriage. Those were out of my control. I could keep after him, of course. Nag, complain, moan, bitch, whine. Turn into someone like Danielle, actually. Looking back, maybe I should‘ve. We‘d have ended in that truck, right there and then, and I wouldn‘t have met you again, Bob. I wouldn‘t be sitting here, half-frozen and filling the memory of a digital recorder with my sorry-ass story, and you could be at home with the missus and your faithful dog, Shep, and your kids.
Anyway. It was like that instant before I‘d followed Mitch into that old darkroom, my personal Rubicon Point where I was poised over the abyss. There were choices only I could make, questions that were mine to pose.
So I said, not meekly, trying to be as grown-up about it as I could: ―Can I ask you a question?‖
―Always.‖ Was there relief in his voice? Had he been afraid to say anything more?
I took a deep breath. My lips were dry and my tongue didn‘t want to unknot, but I
had
to know. ―Did you sleep with Danielle?‖
Okay, I got a news flash for you, Bob. I am not brain-dead and never have been.
Did it occur to me that Danielle‘s, well, jealousy wasn‘t only because I‘d gotten the TA position and she hadn‘t? Duh.
But there were things I kept coming back to, David Melman being the primary reason why I didn‘t think Mitch and Danielle had ever been together. Danielle and David had been a couple for over a year, since David was a sophomore and Danielle was a freshman.
Now, was it true that Mitch was friendly to everyone? Yes. Were people always coming to him with their problems? Ditto. Could Danielle have a huge problem she might‘ve spilled, hoping Mitch could help? Well, maybe so. After a psych ward, not only can one crazy pick out another in a crowd, but the broken ones can, too. Honestly, Mitch and I were so careful, there was no way anyone knew. But Danielle had sensed something, and I thought that could only happen if she was a lot closer to Mitch than I knew.
Here‘s what kept flashing before my eyes: the image of Mr. Connolly jamming his finger into Mitch‘s chest; Mr. Connolly shoving Mitch—and the way Mitch stood there and took it.
Like, maybe, he deserved it.
Mitch said, ―Is that what you think?‖
―I don‘t want it to be true,‖ I said. ―But I want you to tell me the truth. I‘m old enough for that, too.‖
―I know that.‖ He darted a glance my way. His skin was gray-green in the lights from the dash and his eyes were glittery black, like polished obsidian. ―No, I didn‘t, Jenna.
I was never even tempted. You‘re . . . you‘re the only one, ever.‖
―But there‘s something.‖
―Yes. But . . . damn it. Jenna, honey, I can‘t tell you what that is.‖
―Why not?‖
―Would you want me telling other kids about you, your mom, your father? What you‘ve told me, you‘ve said in confidence. Even if we weren‘t lovers, you trust me. It‘s the same for Danielle, sweetheart. She‘s dealing with a lot. I haven‘t been there for her the way I used to, and she‘s hurt and that‘s really my problem, not yours.‖
Lovers
. I wasn‘t prepared for how that little word made me feel. Breathless, I guess, and a little afraid, too. Like the word was almost a promise. I was Mitch‘s lover; I was someone no one else had ever been. ―Can you at least tell me what her father said?‖
He hesitated for only a moment. ―He told me to mind my own business,‖ he said, then added ruefully, ―and that she‘s too young to know what she wants.‖
The CD clicked off. The wipers thumped. The snow was falling fast, sheeting like a heavy rain through which the truck‘s headlights cored a cold, bright tunnel. Maybe the snow was a good thing, though, because it gave Mitch someplace else to look and, I think, made it easier for him to do what he did next.
Mitch said, so softly I almost didn‘t catch it, ―I haven‘t told you everything, though.
About Kathy and me.‖
My insides went still. I wanted to say that he hadn‘t really told me anything because I had been so careful not to ask. Kathy was a black hole whose event horizon would kill us.
But, somehow, I found the words. ―It‘s about the baby, isn‘t it?‖
He said nothing for a moment, but I felt his surprise. ―I‘d forgotten about that picture,‖ he said.
―Is her dad really sick?‖
―With cancer? Yes. I wouldn‘t lie about that. It would be too awful. But he‘s not so sick that she needs to stay.‖
―So why is she? Is it because of the baby?‖
―Yes and no.‖ He went quiet for so long I thought he might not say anything else.
Then he sighed. ―The first time Kathy got pregnant, she also got very . . . depressed. I missed it. I chalked up her moodiness and all that to, you know, what happens when you‘re pregnant. I just didn‘t understand what I was looking at. I didn‘t even find out until a lot later that she had a history of depression. Been in a hospital, suicide attempts with pills, the whole nine yards. Anyway, she relapsed. Pills again, and she slit her wrists. Insurance, I guess. She‘s alive only because all the blood scared her and she called her mother.‖
―Where were you?‖
―Away.‖ He gave a bleak laugh. ―Diving. I told you I gave that up when my dad yanked me out of Stanford, but that‘s not entirely true. Kathy and I argued about it a lot.
We‘re . . . opposites, but sometimes you only really find out things like that when it‘s too late. I was mad at my family, and I got married too fast, too young, on the rebound, and for spite when you get right down to it. Anyway, I wanted to move, take our chances, go to grad school.‖ He sighed again. ―Try to salvage something. But Kathy wasn‘t having any of that. She lost that first baby—miscarried right in the emergency room—and then getting pregnant again, having another baby, was all she could think about. She‘d decided it was my fault, too, for not being there. Never mind that it was the pills that did it.‖
―Did you want another baby?‖
―No. I hadn‘t wanted the first one, but I felt so guilty. Getting married was my idea; I rushed us into it. Letting go of what I‘d wanted to be made me feel so . . . empty.‖ He bunched a fist over his chest. ―Like everything I‘d ever been, every dream, was gone and now there was only this hole. I tried to fill it with all the things that are supposed to make you happy: a wife, a house, a job. Don‘t get me wrong. I‘m not an asshole. I did love Kathy, but sometimes I wonder if I used her as a kind of distraction so I wouldn‘t dwell on what I‘d lost. Anyway, after I realized my mistake, I wasn‘t brave enough to undo it and then all I could do was keep running in place, trying to fix us. And now, finding out that she was ill, I was so scared she‘d try again that I couldn‘t say no even though I didn‘t see how she could handle herself much less a child. Know what her answer was to that?‖
―What?‖
―For me to quit teaching, be with her 24-7. But I couldn‘t do it. Teaching was the last thing that was truly mine. At school, I could be closer to what I always thought of as the real
me
, and now she wanted that, too. I felt like . . . Jenna, it was like drowning in slow-motion. Our lives were contracting, collapsing. And then she got pregnant again. I‘m not blaming her for that.‖ He paused then said, wryly, ―Obviously, I helped.‖
He fell silent again. This time, I spoke first. ―What happened, Mitch? To the baby?‖
―It died,‖ he said. ―Stillborn. We knew it would be because I . . . I convinced Kathy to get a sonogram.‖
―I don‘t understand.‖
―Her mom had a couple miscarriages and her sister, too. She would never have told me either except it all came out after she tried to kill herself. So I know enough to know that a family history of miscarriages is sometimes a bad sign. She didn‘t want genetic testing; she didn‘t even want a sonogram. She fought me the whole way, but when I threatened to leave, she caved and I won that one.‖ He gave a bitter laugh. ―Oh boy, did I ever. The sono showed that the baby was anencephalic.‖
Anencephalic: no head. My stomach went cold. I didn‘t know medicine, but I know words, Bobby-o.
―The whole top half of the baby‘s skull just wasn‘t there. Not much of a brain either. The baby would either die right after birth or in utero. There‘s no way to fix something like that. Most people would have an abortion, but Kathy wouldn‘t do it. No matter what, she would deliver that baby and there wasn‘t a damn thing I could do about it.
It was . . .‖ He swallowed. ―It was horrible. The thing was a monster. You can‘t know what that‘s like, Jenna, to know you
made
something like that. I watched Kathy hold and cry over it as if it were the most beautiful child ever born . . . and I just . . . I couldn‘t . . .‖
―Mitch.‖ I put my hand on his thigh. ―You couldn‘t know. You had no control over that.‖
―But I did, Jenna, don‘t you see?‖ He pulled in a shaky breath. ―If I had said no . . .
if I‘d been half the man I always thought I was we‘d never have made that baby in the first place. I told myself I was stuck, no way out, that this was kinder than a divorce, but that‘s not true. I made a choice. I won‘t say it was easier because that would be a lie. Everything I‘ve done to fix this only breaks it just a little bit more. If I were really brave, I‘d end it. No matter what my part has been, I can‘t be responsible for her happiness forever. So . . . that‘s where we are. I guess you‘d say we‘re separated. I haven‘t seen her since February.‖
Almost ten months. ―Do you want to get back together with her?‖ You don‘t know what it cost me to ask that, Bob. But I did it.
―Oh, God, Jenna, I don‘t know,‖ he said. ―Most days, I don‘t think so. She‘s nobody I recognize anymore. We tear at each other, bring out the worst, and I‘m so tired. Not having her around is a relief, but that makes me feel guilty. Isn‘t that crazy? I mean, she‘s sick and so I should keep trying, right? That‘s what a good person does. But then there are other times when I sit in that cabin and stare at the lake and think about how my life was before . . . and part of me wishes I could go back and stop all this before it ever has a chance to start. But I‘m stuck. I can‘t go back and be what I was, and we can‘t move forward because what I thought we were is a lie.‖
I heard what he felt. He might as well have been telling me the story of Rubicon Point all over again: whether it‘s true that you can fall in water or only hover over the abyss. He was there, all over again, and I was down there with him.
―Mitch,‖ I said, ―do you want to fix it?‖
Silence. The thump of the wipers. The whirr of the heater.
And silence.
Then:
―No,‖ he said. ―No, Jenna, I don‘t think I do anymore.‖
40: a
When we finally turned onto my road, it was nearly midnight. We‘d driven behind a snow plow on the main interstate, but they hadn‘t gotten around to the smaller secondary roads and wouldn‘t for hours. Once off the highway, the road disappeared beneath a white carpet. Although I knew where other houses ought to be, it was like the trees had crept in with the darkness to swallow them whole. A hump of snow crouched over the mailbox at the end of my parents‘ driveway. I made out only the barest glimmer of light at the very top of the hill where the house was. Mitch slowed, but instead of turning into the driveway, he pulled to the side of the road.
―Mitch?‖
No answer.
―Mitch?‖
No answer. He only stared straight ahead. I have no idea what he saw, Bob. Then he killed the headlights and, after another moment, the engine.
Darkness swallowed the truck. A fist of wind grabbed and shook the chassis. Snow sizzled over the windshield.
I groped for his hand. The cab was warm from the heater, but his fingers were ice.
At my touch, he said, brokenly, ―Oh God.‖
―Mitch.‖ As my eyes adjusted, I could just make out the dim outline of his head and shoulders. ―Mitch. Talk to me. Are you okay?‖
He gave a sudden, savage groan. ―
Nooooooo
.‖ He jammed a balled fist into his thigh, hard: once, twice, three times. ―No, no,
no, I’m not, I’m not, I’m—
‖
―Mitch!‖ Now I was scared and so I did the only thing I could think of to try and make it better. I grabbed his fist in both hands before he could hurt himself again. ―Stop,
stop
. Mitch, I‘m here, I‘m
here
.‖
At my touch, his shoulders heaved and I heard something claw its way from his throat. He began to sag; my arms opened to catch him before he could fall anymore and then I was holding him up, the way he‘d once held me, as he let himself go.
I‘d never heard a man cry before, Bob, but . . . it‘s awful. Maybe you cry all the time, I don‘t know. Given your job, I‘ll bet it‘s tough not to some days. But I think some men aren‘t used to it and don‘t know what to do with all that feeling. Their emotions are hexane ignited in a closed space: an explosion that detonates deep in their chests and rips them apart, and then they feel like they‘re going to die—just as something was dying, at that moment, in Mitch.
Everybody breaks sooner or later, Bob. Anyone can drown. Sometimes you see it.
Most often, you don‘t because the body protects and the skin hides, so drowning doesn‘t look like drowning and some people scar so nicely. Take it from an expert.