Elizabeth Flock - Sleepwalking in Daylight

I accelerate to make up time but it’s futile: I hit every red light. The radio traffic reporter is saying Lake Shore Drive is free and clear in both directions but the on-ramp from Belmont is jammed and, inching up to get onto the Drive, I can see all three lanes are jam-packed. No one’s moving.

“Shit,” I say, catching myself, looking into the mirror to see if my swearing registered with the boys. I’ve got to work on my swearing.

There’s nothing I can do about the traffic so I switch from news radio to NPR. All Things Considered. A gentle voice is quietly reading a story about carrier pigeons. It’s a miracle, really, how these birds fly distances specifically calculated by their owners. There are long pauses between sentences to better hear the coos of the pigeons and I start to feel sleepy, like I always do when I listen to NPR. I switch to the classic-rock station programmed into the number-two button on my radio. The guitar part of “Whole Lotta Love” wakes me right up. On cue the cars around me start moving like all they needed was some Led Zeppelin to hurry things along.

Saturday is nonstop. Bob takes the boys to soccer. I throw in a couple of loads of laundry and make it to Whole Foods before the crush of confused-looking stroller-dads who’ve promised wives they’ll take the kids to do chores on the weekend. Their wives aren’t sleeping in, though. They’re doing all the stuff they’ve been meaning to get to all week but haven’t been able to because of the kids. I remember to send flowers to Ginny, whose mother died of pancreatic cancer a few days ago. I call the florist as I pull in to a parking space at the Jewel for a paper towels/toilet paper run. All the non-food things that’re prohibitively expensive at Whole Foods. Do we really need ten-dollar geranium-scented organic counter cleaner? I mean, come on. I pick up dry cleaning and stop by Alamo Shoes to return Jamie’s Crocs because I accidentally bought him the wrong size. I check off all these things at a stoplight. The pen pokes through to the steering wheel, so I don’t bear down too hard crossing off.

At three, Bob breezes in with the birthday present we need to bring to Kelly Voegele’s party at Waveland Bowl at three-thirty. The one errand I’ve asked him to do and he’s acting as if he should have a laurel wreath placed on his head. The boys want to go to Kelly Voegele’s party only because it’s bowling not because it’s Kelly who they call a dork. I wrap the gift in sixty seconds and gather the boys up and we’re out the door piling back into the car. Charlie Spencer’s parents are picking them up at the end of the party, so we’ve got a break.

“Want to rent a movie or something?” I ask Bob when we get home. “It’s Saturday night, Cammy’s in her room and we both know she’s not going anywhere and the boys are eating dinner over at the Spencers’ and I give it an hour until they call asking to spend the night there. So for all intents and purposes we’ve got the house to ourselves.”

“I’m not really in the mood, sorry,” he says. “I’ve got to hop online for a while and motor through some stuff I didn’t get to this week so …”

“Aw, come on … we have the house to ourselves. It’s like all the planets have aligned and for a split second the earth is standing still.”

“Honey, I’ve got so much to do it’s crazy,” Bob says.

“I could help get rid of some of that stress for you.” I do a slinky belly-dancey kind of move toward him.

“Seriously …” he says. “I’m not in the mood.”

“But you haven’t been in the mood for months.” Bad move. Bad move, Sam.

“Months?”

“I don’t know. Yeah, I guess it’s been a while. Maybe eight or nine months?” These words are a cartoon balloon over my head and I know we won’t be having sex tonight. Good job, Sam.

“I didn’t realize you had a calendar out. I didn’t know you were keeping score.”

“I’m not,” I say. “Forget it. I was just thinking maybe something’s wrong.” The question mark of another woman, another bedroom, threatens to clip the thread that’s holding us together.

“You know what? You saying that puts me in even less of a mood.”

“Bob, come on …”

“Come on, what? I’m going upstairs.”

I wait a few minutes and go up after him.

“Honey, please,” I say.

He spins his desk chair around. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know why you’re so mad at me, first of all. What did I do?”

“Nothing, just forget it,” he says.

“I just feel so disconnected from you,” I say. “I’m not keeping score, I swear. I just feel … okay, wait. Let me rephrase it. Sometimes do you feel lonely? Like even when you’re here at home? Like this isn’t really your life, you’re just going through the motions?”

“Nope,” he says.

“Really? Even a quick flash of a thought that maybe this isn’t what you pictured your life would be?”

“Can you get to the point?” he asks.

“It’s just,” I say. “Every once in a blue moon you don’t get the teensiest panicked when you look around at your life?”

“Panic? Jesus, Sam, where are you going with this? Our life panics you? Are you serious?”

“Okay, okay, maybe panic is the wrong word—”

“Sam …”

“Surprised! Maybe you look around and you’re surprised you have this life. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

“Not really, no,” he says. “I don’t feel that way. Obviously you do but I don’t. What’s so surprising? This is what we always wanted, right? A family, healthy kids, friends, a nice house …”

“I know, I know,” I say. “Maybe I’m just—You’re turning back to the computer now?”

“What else is there to say? You feel panicked and I feel fine. People can disagree, you know. It’s not the end of the world.”

He turns back to the screen again.

“It’s because … can’t we talk about this?”

“We just did,” he says. He shrugs and starts tapping on the keyboard again.

“What’re you looking at that’s more important than talking to your wife about your marriage?”

I look over his shoulder. “Real estate? You’re looking at houses?”

“I’m looking at comps,” he says. “I want to see what the Silvermans’ house is listed for. Is that okay with you?”

“Bob, seriously. I only want you to let me in. It’s like pulling teeth to get you to open up and I’m so tired of it.”

“Jesus, Sam,” he says. “Every other goddamn day you talk about how you feel about this or that. You’re asking me how I feel about this or that—”

“Because you don’t talk to me! And it’s not every other day.” I want to say, I bet you talk to her. That’s if there even is a her. Maybe there isn’t, I don’t know. I don’t want to know.

“Let me finish. I’m just …” He trails off, trying to form the words. “I’m sick of it. And now you’re telling me you’re panicked? I’ve told you how I feel. I feel nothing. You happy now? I feel nothing.”

That last statement throws us both into silence. He looks startled and sorry the words have come out of his mouth. WHOA! bubbles into the space between us, freakishly huge like the POW! and ZOWEE! from the old Batman and Robin fights.

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for finally saying that out loud.”

“Sam, wait—”

“I’m being totally serious,” I say. “I’m not picking a fight. I’m relieved, actually. It’s a relief to hear you admit it. You feel nothing. No—don’t get huffy—you said it. I wanted you to tell me how you feel and you just said it all.”

“I don’t feel nothing like the way you’re thinking,” he says. “I don’t mean I feel nothing toward the kids. Or you.”