Amity Gaige - Schroder

Q - R - S - T - U - V - W - X - Y , and Z .

“Where have you been ?” you said, your face in a literal sweat, as you stepped out of the apartment and onto the porch. “I’ve been losing my mind here, Eric. Pacing around for two hours. Two hours! It’s dark. It’s No vem ber.” You fell to your knees and began to search your daughter’s body with your hands, making her laugh. She was bundled in her parka, hood up and cinched. I was confused. Why wouldn’t she be fine?

You looked up at me. “Do you even know what time it is, Eric?”

“I guess we lost track of time, hon. We’re sorry.”

“ We’re sorry? She isn’t in charge of getting you guys home on time. Jesus. I was out of my mind with worry. You couldn’t have called? You couldn’t have left a note? My poor peanut. Are you cold? Where were you?”

“The liberary,” Meadow said from behind her scarf.

You sighed, routed. As a middle school teacher, you had to support library use.

“Come in, come in,” you said, ushering us into the apartment, which glowed with golden light. “You two worry me sick .”

Throughout the winter, this sort of conversation repeated itself with little variation. I could see your evident exasperation with my time management, lack of schedule, etc., but as far as I was concerned, I was a trustworthy guardian — a man of strong build, multilingual, a good problem solver — so what were you so wound up about? As far as I could tell, a parent got through his or her day via a mix of structure, improvisation, and triage. This took complete concentration. Thinking about you or about how you would have done it would have been an unhelpful distraction. Did you want us to stay home all day watching the window?

But OK. I really don’t mean for this document to devolve into the jeremiad that I was never permitted to deliver in family court. I readily accept the following charges against me, that:

a) I often forgot to leave notes detailing our whereabouts.

b) I sometimes did not remember how much you wanted to see Meadow at the end of the day and therefore our whereabouts should have been at home .

c) I occasionally omitted mentioning certain not-so-age-appropriate activities or side trips we took, which you mostly found out anyway from some pal of yours who saw us.

d) I was bad at following instructions, especially as pertained to schedules and quotas (e.g., servings of fresh fruit), and probably, yes, I had a certain passive-aggressive reaction to these rules and hid my resentment of them behind a friendly absentmindedness.

But I tried . I took care of her.

One day, while you were correcting me for some oversight after your return home, I watched your pretty face in its shrewish contortions, and your words sort of fell away, and I saw that you were jealous. You were jealous that I got to be with Meadow while you had to content yourself with other people’s children. This realization softened me. I felt bad for you, and for what seemed like the Pyrrhic victory of being a working mother. I apologized for teaching Meadow foreign words that we would then use as code in public. I saw, as you did, that this was a wedge. And so I tried to include you more and leave you more notes and account for every hour we spent, and in general, to be smotheringly nice to you. Your happiness was still my central goal. I wanted you to see that you had everything you wanted. A noble job. A gifted child. A husband who was secure enough to stay at home with his child for a gap year. And a home — we did have a lovely home — a rented duplex on the top two floors of a baby blue tenement on Morning Street.

You cheered up by springtime, but there was still a part of you I couldn’t please. There was a part of you I couldn’t reach. I began to wonder if what you wanted was another child. Maybe you wanted another chance. Maybe you wanted to make sure one kid belonged to you, only to you. I understood that. I understand possession. After all, I wanted you to belong only to me. I brought up the issue that spring, one night in the kitchenette.

“More children?” you said, turning around, a dish in your hand. “Why do you say ‘more’? How many ‘more’ do you want?”

I took the dish from you to dry it. Again we were cleaning up and trying to talk at the same time, something that probably contributed to our irritability.

“One more, then. One more child. You want to, Laur?”

You looked at me for a long moment. Then you turned back toward the sink, saying, “Oh, Eric.” My name, as you turned, was swallowed by the running water. I watched you sort through the dishes caked in spaghetti sauce and waited for you to elaborate.

“You seem discontented,” I said.

“Discon tented .”

“Do you object to that word too?”

“Yes,” you said, “I do.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s so cold is what’s wrong with it. Discon tent ed. It’s a word someone would use in Masterpiece Theatre .”

“It’s Latinate,” I said, shrugging.

“I don’t care. I’m your wife, Eric. It’s just you and me here. There’s no audience. The word you should use with me is sad . Or unhappy .”

“OK.” I stacked another dried dish on the countertop. “Are you unhappy?”

You considered it. “No.”

“Well, good.”

“Lonely sometimes.”

“You’re lonely? Why are you lonely?”

“I don’t know. I feel lonely a lot. When we don’t understand each other. I sometimes think we aren’t interested in understanding each other, like we used to be. Sometimes I don’t understand the things you do. Sometimes you seem like a stranger to me. I can’t figure out if I’ve gotten lazy or if there’s a part of you that’s hidden from me. Tell me I’m crazy.”

You looked over your shoulder at me then. I stared back at you.

“I’m just me,” I said. “Eric Kennedy. No big mystery.”

You were slow to turn away.

“Maybe I’m just tired,” you said, rubbing your temples with wet hands. “I don’t know, Eric. I don’t know what’s wrong. I think about it so much, but I never get any where.”

I watched your shoulders as you returned to the dishes — scrubbing, rinsing, placing them dripping in the rack. You did, in fact, look lonely. This seemed to me impossible. Impossible in the sense of wondrously bad— inconceivable . It seemed inconceivable that two lonely people could strand one another in the same kitchen. The naked conversations in which we spent our first year abed were not so long ago. God, Laura, I was interested. I came up behind you and put my arms around you. I rested my head against yours. We stayed that way for a long time.

“I’m totally devoted to you,” I said.

“I know,” you said.

“I don’t want anything more than this.”

“It feels good when you hold me,” you said. “It feels good. Don’t move.”

Meadow and I settled in. We both unpacked our small bags into a shared dresser. Then we got back in the Mini Cooper and I drove an hour south until I found a local credit union. There I took out a cash advance on my credit card, netting two thousand dollars and a roll of quarters. I then drove back north to a Walmart on the outskirts of Swanton. I bought Meadow a proper bathing suit — a two-piece with spangles that you would have hated. I also bought a fresh razor, a flashlight, Tic Tacs, a loaf of Roman Meal, a squirt bottle of mayonnaise, a family-sized package of cheese singles, and a vanilla-flavored Garcia y Vega. We used half the quarters on the plastic horsey ride in the Walmart foyer. Oh, and I let Meadow buy a heavily discounted package of chocolate Easter eggs, which she divested of their pink and blue foil wrappers in silent rapture in the backseat of the Mini Cooper. There. There are your details.