One Week In December (19 page)

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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: One Week In December
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33
“This is nice, just the two of us. It can get a little—close—with everyone at the house.”
James waited for a response from his wife, seated next to him in the passenger seat of their car. “Liv?” he said.
Olivia started, as if she had been a million miles away in her thoughts. “What?”
“Nothing. Just . . . Nothing.”
He had persuaded her to take a drive with him this afternoon. It had taken a good degree of coaxing, too. Olivia had been reluctant to leave the house and her hunting and cataloguing—or, was it that she'd been reluctant to spend time alone with her husband? James couldn't dismiss the thought, not entirely. True, they spent much of every day together at the office, but there, talk was of business. Evenings were invariably spent at home, but for a long time now, there had been little real communication. Most nights Olivia bolted her dinner and headed off to her computer, where she spent hours reading through Web sites that focused on ancestor searches and family trees. Olivia had made it perfectly clear that she'd rather spend time e-mailing the strangers she met on those sites than watching television—or doing anything else—with her husband.
“Oh!” she said now. James was glad to hear her so animated. “Guess what Hilary told me the other day! I can't believe I forgot to mention this.”
“Who's Hilary?” he asked.
Olivia shot him a look of supreme annoyance. “I've only told you about twenty times. She's one of the coordinators of the FamilyTime chat room.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry.” James tried but he couldn't remember the names and obsessions of his wife's new online friends. When, he wondered now, was the last time Olivia had met with one of her flesh-and-blood friends in town? Not that she had many friends, but James knew of a few nice women with whom his wife used to socialize.
“Anyway,” Olivia was saying, “she told me that someone stole her list of members' e-mail addresses. She thinks it was probably someone from a rival site. Can you believe that?”
James really didn't know what to say in response to his wife's question. It didn't seem like such an unusual crime to him. “Huh,” would have to suffice.
He waited a few moments before speaking again. “We could probably still catch the Quilt Show if you'd like.”
Olivia frowned. “No, thanks.”
James took a chance. “Quilts play an important part in folk history, don't they?”
“Yes.”
“And they're often made by several generations of women within a family, aren't they? Women working as a sort of team.”
“Sometimes.”
“I just thought that since—”
“The Rowans have no really old quilts. It's too bad. I've been through every trunk in the attic and there's simply nothing. Grandma says she has a vague memory of her mother having an old quilt, but she has no idea where it went. Can you believe that?”
Again, James just said, “Huh.”
So this was the nature and extent of their communication. And it had been months—almost half a year—since they'd had sex. James didn't like to think of himself as one of those selfish, sex-obsessed men, but he did have a normal appetite, and the prospect of adopting a celibate life while still in his forties didn't excite him. He wouldn't cheat on his wife; he didn't have the stomach for such crude behavior.
Besides, it wasn't just about the sexual act. What bothered James about the distance that had grown between Olivia and him was that it was not only physical but also emotional. Olivia's lack of interest in making love was, to James's perception, a lack of interest in maintaining his friendship and his affection.
He was certain there was no other man in Olivia's life. If he were a dramatic sort, he supposed he could feel jealous of her preoccupation with the Rowan family's past. But James didn't think anyone could feel jealousy over a rival that didn't seem able to bring any real joy. In fact, Olivia seemed to grow increasingly unhappy the longer she spent poring over census reports, chatting online, and digging through her parents' attic.
Still, James did feel a bit like the proverbial third wheel in his marriage these days, that or an afterthought in his wife's frantic schedule. But he hadn't given up trying to assert and maintain his position as partner.
“I thought,” he said now, “that on the way home on the twenty-seventh we could stop in Portland. We could go to the museum, or maybe visit the Victoria Mansion. I've heard they decorate really beautifully for Christmas. Then we could get lunch somewhere. We could go to that funky old bar on the water, what is it called, J's Oyster? Remember, they have those raw scallops you love.”
“I can't,” she said quickly. James thought he heard a hint of panic in his wife's tone. “I can't miss my Wednesday night chat group. We're meeting at five and we've got a renowned social anthropologist joining in. It should be fascinating.”
“Oh,” he said. “Okay.” He was disappointed but not surprised by Olivia's answer. For close to a year now, Olivia had seemed entirely uninterested in all their old routines; she'd showed absolutely no interest in doing the things they used to enjoy doing together, like taking walks and hunting out funky little restaurants and watching old movies. James had wondered if maybe Olivia was clinically depressed, but he had resisted talking to her about this, scared off by her continual rebuffs, some of which could be angry and cold.
Still, James continued to tempt Olivia with suggestions of her usual favorites. And yet in return she never offered a kind word or a compliment; she never made a gesture toward him, to let him know that yes, he still mattered to her. James wasn't looking for any special favors, just some recognition that she was still aware of him as a person—and as her husband. James didn't think he was asking for too much. . . .
But maybe this was just the way his marriage was going to be from now on. Maybe he would just have to learn to accept conditions the way they were. Lots of couples simply existed side by side without any particular warmth or real companionship. Lots of couples survived if it seemed they couldn't actually thrive. He'd just never thought he would be part of one of those couples.
James sighed. He hadn't meant to. He glanced over at his wife, but she didn't seem to have noticed. Her head was turned to the passenger's window and to the snowy landscape outside. James wondered what it was she actually saw as they drove through the Maine landscape.
34
She'd seen Alex from the window of the den. He was doing some work out back, by a small toolshed her grandfather had built many years ago. At least, Becca assumed he was working. Alex was wielding a hammer. That's what people did with hammers. They built things or destroyed them.
On impulse, she bundled into her coat and boots and joined him. Maybe, she thought, fresh air, no matter that it was cold, might make her feel better. Calmer. More normal. Maybe. When you felt as desperate as Becca felt then, anything was worth a try.
“What are you doing out here?” Alex asked when he looked up to find her standing a few feet away. His nose was red-tipped with cold and he wore a suede and shearling hat with earflaps. Becca thought it made him look slightly goofy but not in a bad way.
Becca shrugged. She hadn't thought of what excuse she would use for being out behind the house, where there was absolutely no reason for her to be unless she wanted to build a snowman or go cross-country skiing, nether of which she wanted to do. Ever.
Before she could make up a hopefully plausible lie, Alex went on. “Not that you need a reason to be out here. It is your parents' property. I just meant, what are you doing out here in the cold? It's only just above freezing, you know.”
“Thanks for the reminder. What are you doing out here? Well, I mean . . .”
She gestured to a pile of tools laid out in a large, rough suede pouch.
“Those heavy winds we had the other night just about finished this old shed. Your father was going to repair it himself, but I didn't think it was a good idea. He's not as young as he used to be. . . .”
“Is he sick?” The question was out before Becca could grasp the genuine concern she felt for her father.
“Not that I know of, no.”
“Isn't it an odd time of the year to be repairing a shed?” she asked. “I mean . . . there's snow all over the place.”
Alex grinned sheepishly. “You caught me. I'm avoiding work at the moment. One of the projects I'm supposed to be finishing in the next weeks is . . . Well, it's giving me some trouble. So I'm hoping that some physical exercise will, I don't know, renew my energies.”
“You're a procrastinator.”
“Guilty as charged. But at least I'm doing something positive for someone else while I'm procrastinating. Steve's really such a good guy that—”
“Why are you always defending my father?” Becca asked, cutting him off.
Alex looked at her, puzzled. “I wasn't aware I was defending him. Why? Should I have been? Has he done something he needs defending for?”
“He . . .” Becca paused. Suddenly, she didn't know how to answer that question. “No,” she said. “Never mind.”
“It bothers you that I'm friendly with him.”
“That didn't sound like a question.”
“It wasn't,” Alex said. “It's pretty obvious you're not thrilled about my spending time with your father.”
“I know it's none of my business who you spend time with but—”
“You're right,” he said, yanking an old, bent nail out of a piece of the rotted wood. “It is none of your business.”
Becca was taken back. Alex's tone had been matter-of-fact, not at all nasty, but still, his response had startled her. It was so—honest and blunt. And in spite of her determined aloneness, in spite of her dependence on isolation, she could no longer deny that she found him interesting. She had sought him out this afternoon, hadn't she?
“So,” Alex said, his voice loud in the cold, still air, “what did you want to be when you grew up?”
“What?” Becca laughed a little, taken aback. “What a bizarre thing to ask.”
Alex shrugged and tossed aside another length of rotted wood. “Why is it bizarre?”
“I don't know,” she said after a moment.
“So, what's your answer?”
“I don't know,” she repeated. “When I was a kid I never thought much about the future. I guess I was kind of—shallow. I was a bit wild. What was right in front of me seemed interesting enough. I can't really explain it.”
What she could explain—but couldn't voice—was that the wild, shallow girl had gotten pulled up pretty short at the age of sixteen, and that ever since, life had been all about focusing on school and career in order to provide for her daughter. Life had been all about proving to her family that she wasn't entirely a screwup.
“Well,” Alex said, “if you could start all over again, what would you like to be when you grow up? Pie in the sky. In a perfect world. Just say whatever's in your heart.”
“I can't answer that,” Becca said finally.
“Why?”
“Because I have absolutely no idea what to say.”
“I can't believe there's nothing in your heart. . . .”
“It's not that,” she said quickly. “I just don't know what I—what I like. I just don't know what, if anything, interests me. Other than work, of course.”
It pained her to realize this, and it surprised her to be admitting it, especially to someone she hardly knew. Such admissions could lead to exposure of her secret—and of herself—and that was what she had feared most for the past sixteen years. And yet here she was telling her parents' neighbor an awkward truth. She felt uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable enough to run. Why was that?
“I have no hobbies,” she went on. “I have no passions. I go to work. I go to the gym. I read but . . . But not what I want to read, whatever that is. I mean, I read work-related stuff. I listen to the news.”
Alex wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his gloved hand. Yes, it was cold, but the sun was strong and he'd been working hard.
“So,” he said, “it's safe to say that you find little pleasure in life. I mean, in your life, in the way you're living it.”
“God, Alex,” Becca said with a laugh that was not one of pleasure, “I might not be the happiest or most fulfilled person around, but I'm not suicidal!”
“I'm sorry,” he said. “That wasn't at all what I meant to imply. It just sounds as if . . . well, as if you don't have a lot of fun.”
“Is fun so important?” she asked, very much wanting to hear his answer.
“I think it is. Look, I'm not talking about amusement park fun, though I've got nothing against a good roller coaster ride. I mean—fun as in simple pleasures. Laughter with friends. Picnics. Chocolate cake if that's your thing. Museums. Movies. The stuff of daily life. Do you have a pet?”
“I work too many hours. I'd have to hire someone to walk a dog.”
Alex smiled. “Have you considered fish?”
“No.”
“Do I dare to ask about plants?”
“You just did. No plants.”
“Just an idea.”
Becca was silent for a moment. She lived in a neighborhood replete with galleries and she hardly ever glanced in a window, let alone attended an opening. When was the last time she'd been to the Museum of Fine Arts? It was within walking distance of her apartment; what good excuse could she have for not seeing a show or attending a film there? And then there was Fenway Park, and the aquarium, and the science museum, and the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. . . . She hadn't been to any of these places in years. As for entertaining at home, she never did any; who was there to invite for dinner or cocktails or Sunday brunch? And in spite of the fact that Becca had a fully furnished guest bedroom, the only person who had ever spent the night at the condo was Rain.
Becca felt slightly sick.
“So,” she said finally, “here I am, a person with no pleasures in her life. What does that say about me?”
“I don't know.” Alex eyed her curiously. “Do you really want an answer from me?”
“Does it say that I'm boring?”
Now he laughed heartily. “Oh, I wouldn't say that!”
“So, what would you say?” she pressed.
“It's not what I'd say that matters, Becca. It's what you would say about yourself.”
“Humor me.”
“All right.” Alex paused. “How about: Becca Rowan is a person who hasn't yet discovered her bliss.”
Becca grimaced. It wasn't a good look for her, but she couldn't help herself. “My bliss? I've never much cared for that word.”
“Okay. How about this: Becca Rowan is a glass half empty.”
“A what?”
Alex gave a sigh of feigned irritation. “Fine. How about: Becca Rowan is a person who hasn't yet discovered—love.”
“You mean that I should get married?” she blurted. “Because a man will solve all of my problems? Because a man will give me a life I don't seem capable of making on my own?”
Alex put up his hands as if defending himself physically. “Hell, no. I'm the last person to claim a man is the answer to anything! Besides, I don't mean romantic love, necessarily. I mean love as in a passion for something. Love as in a motive for getting up in the morning and looking forward to doing whatever it is you're going to be doing. Love as in—love as in having a real purpose in your life.”
But I do know love, Becca argued silently. I know the love for my daughter. And I have a purpose. I'm a mother and an aunt. Isn't that enough?
No, that pesky other voice replied. It's not enough. And I think you know that by now. Becca shut her ears to the voice's message.
When Becca didn't say anything more, Alex went back to the job of repairing the old tool shed. And while he worked, she thought.
Since Rain's birth, she had come to think of herself as a person living post-trauma, as a person living post–defining incident. She saw everything in her life, every word and incident, to be in some relation—even if it was a strained one—to the fact of Rain's birth. Part of her suspected that this was an unhealthy way to live. But she simply couldn't imagine her life being otherwise.
Suddenly, she found herself wondering about the nature of Alex's emotional life. He had gone through a divorce, and though Becca knew no details of the situation, it couldn't have been pleasant. No divorce was free of pain. Did Alex, too, consider himself as living in a state of “after,” forever suffering the effects of one traumatic moment in time?
“So,” she blurted, almost surprising herself, because she hadn't been sure she would speak, “what is it like to be divorced?”
Alex looked up from his work and laughed. “Excuse me? Talk about a bizarre question.”
“Oh.” Becca felt her cheeks flush. “I guess that didn't come out the way I meant it to come out. Sorry. It's just that my mother told me that you had been married. I just . . .”
Alex smiled kindly; he didn't seem to be at all angry with her. “You just wanted to know if I'm an emotional wreck?”
“Well, that's not it, exactly. I suppose I'm just wondering what it feels like to go through something so traumatic and then, you know, have to live on. I mean, people get married thinking—hoping—they're going to be together forever and then if they get divorced, well, it's got to be a pretty big shock. I would think you, anyone, might feel—lost. And very alone,” she added.
Like the way I feel
. “And angry. Even hopeless sometimes.”
Alex nodded. “Yes to all of those feelings. But I try not to let my divorce define my life. Yes, it was painful but . . . But I guess I'm just not the type of person to dwell on the past. It happened, it's part of me, but there are lots of other parts, too. Lots of other experiences have defined me, many of them good, so I try to acknowledge the whole of my life.”
“Yes. I mean, that must be hard, though. To remember the good along with the bad.” Very hard, she thought. Sometimes, it seemed impossible.
“At times it's hard,” Alex admitted. “But as I said, I'm not the type to dwell on or wallow in my misery. In my experience I've found that the type of person who dwells on his pain tends to make other, innocent people part of that pain. It's not pleasant to be around someone who's let something sad infect every aspect of his life. People who dwell in their misery seem to show a lack of imagination. But hey,” he said, throwing up his hands, “that's just my opinion.”
A lack of imagination. Becca thought about that. Was that what unhappiness came down to, a lack of imagination? A failure to imagine other futures than the one you'd convinced yourself was your lot in life?
“Do you have a family?” she asked abruptly. “I mean, are they living? Do you see them?”
“Yes, I have a family. Some are living, some aren't. My father died a few years ago. Heart disease, and yes, I go to the doctor once a year. My mother lives in Riverview, New Jersey, and my sister and her husband and their two kids live in the next town over. I see them when I can, which isn't enough, or so they tell me. I'm the baby of the family, you see. Mom and Anna want me living right under their watchful eyes, but I just can't do that. They love me to death and that's the problem.”

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