Sometimes I hate him. It's a strange feeling, particularly because I often feel like he is my only ally. He knows me, inside and out. He senses my feelings. He has experienced what I have. He knows what bitterness, betrayal and hatred tastes like.
On mornings like this, when I wake before the alarm and nothing can help me fall back asleep, I watch him. I hate him on mornings like this because I know he has found some semblance of peace, and -worst of all—he believes he's found it in
me
.
He sleeps deeply because he knows he's found a reflection of himself. A slightly more imperfect, angrier, colder reflection, but a reflection, nonetheless.
His eyes open when light filters through the windows and rests in stripes against the sheets. Those eyes settle calmly on me, like always. He is never surprised when he finds me awake and staring. I wonder if he senses the irrational hatred that sometimes churns in my stomach. If he does, he says nothing.
I look away. Nuzzle into his chest. Wrap a leg around his. I don't want the day to start. I don't want to go home. His heavy hand slides down my back.
"You could stay here." It's an offer he makes every morning we wake together. His voice is still full of sleep.
I could. I really could. But I won't.
I shift and slip out of bed, finding my clothes. I shimmy into my underwear, slide my jeans up. My t-shirt is cold when it covers my skin.
He's still in bed when I come out of the bathroom, hair brushed and teeth cleaned.
"I'll call you later," I whisper. I probably won't. He'll probably call me first, giving me a few days before chasing.
Nick nods. He sits up, resting his head against the headboard. "You don't have to go, Claire." A slow smile spreads across his face. "I'll make you pancakes. Leave them a little undone, like you like them."
I can feel my phone buzzing in my purse. The alarm. I'm not sure why I bother setting it; I'm always awake before 5.
"That sounds tempting. Next time?" A fake smile flashes across my face.
"Next time," Nick repeats.
We both know I'll never stay for pancakes.
It snowed in the night. It wasn't in the forecast. It takes me at least ten minutes to wipe all the snow off my car as the neighborhood wakes up. I used to worry about being spotted by Nick's neighbors; now I'm too cold to give a shit.
I'm fairly certain Nick is watching me from his bedroom window. If I was a normal person, I'd turn right back around and melt into the heat he promises. But I'm not normal, and there's too much snow on my car. The sky keeps sprinkling more all over me.
By the time I get to my house, there is easily another two inches on the ground. I'm torn between glaring at the sky and at the man inside my house.
I think maybe he'll cancel it. He's practical. Calculated. He is probably sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped beneath his chin, ready to tell me we will have to reschedule. He'll appear disappointed, and I'll just nod and go off to read or something. My idea of a perfect day.
I unlock the door, shivering and unhappy. I forgot gloves.
I glance at our couch. Mike isn't sitting there, meaning he's brooding in the kitchen with a pot of coffee.
Our dog, Brooklyn, comes running to greet me. He is a little Chihuahua mix. I'm closer to him than any of the humans in my life. I pick him up and hug him to me, the smell of his fur and the warm beating of his heart steadying me. His jittery body wants to be let down after a moment, so I let him go.
It takes me forever to pull my boots off before venturing into my quiet house. It took me three years to decorate it. I painstakingly planned the colors of the walls, the way the furniture should be placed, what paintings should be hung. I'd loved the quaint domestic vibe that eventually evolved from my efforts. It was the first time I'd
felt
home.
Today it is just a foreign shell to me. It holds my clothes and my husband. There is nothing homey about it now.
Mike
is
in the kitchen brooding with a pot of coffee. I'm not psychic, but I just seem to be surrounded by people who are determined to stick to routines. Or roles. Myself included. Mike is playing the part of depressed husband and I tell myself not to feed into it.
"Are we going or rescheduling?" I sigh, pouring myself a cup of coffee.
He doesn't answer until I sit across from him. He crisply folds his newspaper before lifting his dark eyes to mine. There is a jolt when we meet eyes. There probably always will be. I consider it a curse. He considers it a sign we have a chance.
I remember him telling me one cold morning that our relationship was like a tree in the winter. Seemingly dead. But if we were to cut off a branch, we'd see a hint of green inside, meaning the tree was still alive. I told him he was an asshole and I hoped his students bought his bullshit better than I did. Unfortunately he'd told the analogy to our therapist and she loved it, and she uses it constantly in our sessions.
"Don't forget that winter thaws, Claire," she repeats solemnly whenever we are getting ready to leave.
Now, Mike peeks out the window. "We're still going. It's not that bad out."
"I skidded three times. We should reschedule."
He looks at me defiantly. Even after all that's happened, he won't let a slick road get the best of him. "No. I already told Joy we are coming."
"Did you walk Brooklyn?"
Mike sits back in his chair, his eyes looking me over. He's been doing that lately. Analyzing. Cataloguing. Why he does it to himself, I don't know. I guess he enjoys feeling punished. I almost asked him once if he missed her. The words were right there, dying to be let out. He stared at me as if he knew what I was going to ask and actually wanted to hear the words. But I stifled them, and he'd looked disappointed.
"Brooklyn has been out, of course. You know I take him out every morning."
He has rolls and butter on the table. I take one and busy myself buttering it, making sure every inch of it is covered. It's time-consuming, and I hog the butter. It used to drive Mike crazy. Now he studies the process and I get the distinct impression that my own routines comfort him.
"Did you have a good night?" he asks. There is no blame in his tone. No accusation. No anger. A hint of resignation and sadness, maybe, but he's not mad at me.
"It was good to see Sara."
Mike lets out a puff of amusement through his nose. He knows I wasn't with Sara. And I know that he knows. But routines, and roles, are still very important, as I've said, and the truth was never our forte.
I get up and say I'm bringing Brooklyn back out into the yard with me before we leave. Mike doesn't respond.
Brooklyn hops around in snow that's getting a bit too deep for him. I note distractedly that my coat isn't warm enough. My mother had said so when she first saw me wear it.
Mother knows best
, and all that. I thought I'd be a mother by now, but maybe it's best I'm not.
I stuff my hands in my pockets and shiver. It's freezing and lonely in our silent backyard, but it's still better than sitting with Michael in that abandoned kitchen, playing pretend.
A few people were brave enough to ask why I still stayed with him. My mother tells me at least once a week that I should cut my losses. Nick hasn't asked. He knows.
I lift my face to the gently dropping snow. The sky is that beautiful gray that is indescribable. The flakes of snow are bigger now, meaning that it will probably stop snowing soon. I wish it would snow forever and cover everything until people were forced to stay put.
A grim thought skips into my mind. It's not the first time.
I wonder if she can see me. I'm not an idiot to presume that if there is a heaven, that it's in the clouds where troubles melt like lemon drops, away above the chimney tops. But there is something about staring at the sky when thinking of the dead—that open expanse of sky leading to an empty, distant, unknown universe.
If she can see me, is she sorry? The fallout must be darker than any possible regret she felt while doing it. Can she see us all, playing our parts and pretending to live?
Brooklyn runs past me towards the door. Mike is there, holding my gloves and hat. "We should go now. Go a little early in case we have to drive slowly. Meet you out there in a sec."
Wordlessly I walk inside, grab the keys and head to the car. I wait in the driver's seat, looking up at the sky once again. I give it the middle finger, and then I laugh because I'm an idiot. There is no reply from the sky, and wherever Jessica is, it's better than here. I wouldn't be watching me if I were her, either,
3 MONTHS EARLIER
I was leaving work when I got the call. I almost missed it, walking out of school with my bags and paperwork. The number was one I didn't recognize and I nearly let it go to voicemail. But I answered, and my world changed forever.
I don't remember driving to the hospital. I don't remember telling the people at the desk who I was, or being guided to the waiting room. I vaguely recall that a nurse brought me a cup of water. She had red hair. Then the doctor came out, a tall thin man with a thin mustache. I stared at his mustache while he spoke. His lips were thin, too. He told me my husband had been in an accident. He told me where.
"But that's not even by his job. He works at the middle school. That's not even close..."
The doctor shifted uncomfortably on his feet. I thought it was because I was questioning where the accident was instead of how my husband was doing. I thought of Mike. Beautiful, wonderful, funny Mike, and asked how he was.
"Critical," the doctor reported. He was still uncomfortable. He nudged me away from the nurses' station and only then did I realize everyone was staring at me. He was holding my elbow gently. His fingers were the thinnest part of him.
"Is he going to die?" Tears welled in my eyes but didn't fall. It was as if they, too, were in suspense.
"We're working on him, doing what we can. He is a fighter."
I smiled a little. "He is."
I was overwhelmed by the need to see him. Before I could ask anything else, however, the doctor continued.
"There was another person involved in the accident."
