Read The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D Online
Authors: Nichole Bernier
The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D (23 page)
Reading about Elizabeth’s grief was difficult for Kate, but seeing Dave’s reaction to the miscarriage secondhand was somehow even more raw. He moved through the house like a ghost, would make a sandwich, then leave it in another room, uneaten; he’d go into the spare room to polish his clubs, and Elizabeth would find him sitting motionless. They didn’t share their pain, or much of anything. Neither knew how to handle the roles in which they found themselves, lacking the thing that brought them about.
I find him staring at me through the cutout in the kitchen wall when he’s in front of the TV. He looks away, guilty, trying to pretend he wasn’t. As hard as he is to read, I know he’s blaming me for putting him in the position of loving and losing
.
I
T WAS
“B
OSTON
D
AY
.” They did it once each summer on the island, visiting the favorite sites from lunchtime until dinner—the Public Garden and Swan Boat, the
Make Way for Ducklings
statue and the Frog Pond. A stroll through the Commonwealth Avenue Mall ended at the firefighter memorial, where they’d touch the jacket of unyielding bronze, as lifelike as if it had been strewn on the wall by one of the men after a long day. It was a lot of ground to cover, and when they arrived home the kids would have to be carried from the car. But that’s what childhood summers are about: falling asleep on the drive to the last ferry with ice cream smeared on your mouth and chin.
They held tickets for the 7:45 a.m. boat. While Kate waited for the children to get dressed, she logged on to her e-mail. Newsgroups and headline news analysis; she skimmed the stories with vague interest. Economic forecasts, restaurant reviews, new terrorist camps found in Indonesia.
Chris had been gone nine days. Kate had received two voice mail messages from him, each just a few rushed sentences expressing optimism for the purchase of the Cambodian hotel and a few brief e-mail messages. Whenever Chris went to the Far East he was more or less unreachable. But she couldn’t remember being this aware of
the time difference before, the infrequency of updates, and the scarcity of details about where, exactly, he was.
Piper emerged in mismatched clothing holding her favorite doll, recently maimed in a scuffle with her brother. Kate had reassured the girl that the leg could be reattached at the Doll Hospital at home; they’d done it once before. Until then, Kate secretly wished she could tuck it away in a suitcase. The sight of the one-legged doll was disconcerting.
“Nice look. Very splashy,” Kate said, admiring her daughter’s blue plaid shorts and pink toile blouse. She pushed the girl’s hair back from her face. It was a new thing, Piper choosing her own clothes.
James came and stood beside them, brushing his teeth. “Can we go to that big toy store?” he asked. “The really huge one, and buy something?”
Kate’s laptop gave a ping.
Hey hon, just arrived in Manila, small change in plans. Angkor Wat is a go if we pair it with buying the prince’s dog of a hotel here too, or maybe the one in Jakarta or Bali, so I’m going over there for a quick look at each then hopefully home. The place in AW is amazing, a palace ten minutes from the park temples. Tell the kids it’s giving me all kinds of ideas for sand castles. Sorry again about your wallet. Did you already cancel the credit card? Remember we’ve got that extra cash in my bottom drawer and just use the backup card. I’m fine here using the corporate account
.
See you soon, Love C
Manila. Jakarta. Bali. Kate held her coffee in midair. Was Jakarta in the Philippines or Indonesia?
“Mom? Can we get something at the big store? I’m tired of the toys here.”
Where was that new trouble spot? Kate tried to remember the
island groupings with the greatest concentration of red spots, and cursed her poor geography.
“Mom? I really want some Legos.” James prodded her arm. “Mom?”
“Do they have a store that fixes dolls like at home?” Piper asked. “I really hate her leg off like this.” She thumped the doll against her hand, agitated.
The children began to argue about what kind of store they should visit. Their voices merged as a single discordant buzz.
Kate tried to go back to the Web site with the Indonesia headline but the page wouldn’t reload. She called up a search of maps and news articles. Words jumped from the screen.
Jungle. Hostages. Knives. Throats
.
The children stood in front of her, their mouths opening and closing. She felt light-headed and her ears began to ring.
She closed her eyes and inhaled, then exhaled slowly, counting to ten.
When she opened them the children were staring. She closed the laptop with a decisive click. “Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s go to the ferry.”
December 17, 1994
Dave didn’t get the tour card for next year, and didn’t make it at qualifying school. He is talking about going on one of the mini tours to work his way back, or even the Asian Tour again, which would take him away much of next year. When he says this he’s looking at me as if he’s testing the idea. I can’t tell if he’s daring me to disagree or if he secretly wants me to argue, wishes I’d haul him back by the collar and say Enough of this, stay with me.
These past months we’ve been like roommates in a time-share. He’s been playing and training in Florida much of the time, and when he is home, I’ve had to work late on a new client. When we overlap, everything is tiptoed around. Married life is a subtle turf war and quiet politeness. He can’t stand the soap I buy, and the only way I knew was because he joked about it with his teeth clenched. Sometimes he actually opens the oven door when he comes home at dinnertime and looks perplexed to see nothing cooking. I could scream. We almost always got takeout before. When, pray tell, did I become the chef? We’re totally out of sync and don’t know what to do with each other, two people who’ve been handed job descriptions for work that never materialized.
We weren’t together for Thanksgiving but we will be for Christmas. You can’t play golf on Christmas
.
January 17, 1995
I think Dave going on the pseudo pro tour is a mistake, and I decided to lay it all on the table and tell him. If we are going to make a go of this marriage we have to decide if it’s for real, and not just the product of a baby that no longer exists. He never mentions it. To me, she’s as real as if she were hovering like a fog in the corner of the room, the better parts of both of us that seem to have disappeared.
I made us a real dinner the other night, cracked open a bottle of wine, and forced the conversation. I asked him not to go on tour, to be willing to try with me for another baby. It was like talking to a statue. When this guy dies, his tombstone is going to read I Didn’t Want to Know.
Now he’s gone and I’m alone in the apartment and it’s like I’ve shot back in time, Thai takeout in front of the TV. I’m spinning the ring on my finger, not sure if I’m still supposed to wear it
.
February 28, 1995
Dave skipped two tour dates and drove home, surprised me with a romantic three days together for our six-month anniversary. He took the initiative, even laid out a marriage revival plan. Wants us to make a point of seeing each other every two weeks—either he comes home, or I fly down there. Wants us to start looking for a house again, to think about another baby. I fell asleep last night to his fingers through my hair.
I have the feeling that he’s living on the edge down there. Last night I noticed furrows down the sides of his mouth, deep worry lines, and he’s lost weight. He says he’s playing well and I’ve seen the deposits in the savings account. But I know he’s slept in his car more than once
.
A magazine clipping, a circular piece ripped from the middle of a page, fell from the journal.
THE BOGEYMAN
weekly commentary by columnist Chad Flax
… It’s like the wild savanna out there this year and these guys are feral, a lot of alphas scrapping for mangy kills. Not much to be won, but much to lose. Dave Martin is digging deep and doing penance for a lame PGA year, and it’s paying off. We expect good things from him if he can get back on tour next season.
May 1, 1995
Pregnant again. I’m ecstatic, scared, hopeful but not daring to believe that this is a given. I feel strong as an ox, but my body isn’t something to be trusted. I’m tempted not to tell Dave until I pass the twelve-week mark, though that didn’t prove to be any magic safety zone last time. I can adjust my own expectations, consider this a maybe-baby until we’re out of the woods. But I don’t think he can
.
Sunday, June 25, 1995
I saw a great house today. A three-bedroom Cape that needs work, but very cute, good bones, good yard. It’s in the town with the best schools where we looked a little last fall. It would be a stretch, but if we did the repainting ourselves and waited to renovate the kitchen, it could be doable. I’m up for a raise next month.
He’s coming home tomorrow after three weeks away, says Let’s go have a look. I’m almost out of the first trimester. I’m going to tell him
.
Kate could not fathom keeping a pregnancy to herself. There were the mechanics of it—the nausea, all the upleasantness of the first trimester, hard to hide even if your husband was away most of the time. And then there was the worry, the excitement, the imaginings. For Kate and Chris it had been a game. Even before they’d crossed the relative safety of the early months they’d invented names, each
coming up with nonsense and insisting it was his or her first choice. Trebuladon would be a prizewinning urban architect. Bellapagoda would redefine Asian fusion cuisine. Neither admitted the truly beloved names, keeping them close to the vest until later. There was also the secret fear of naming something the size and fragility of a sea horse, spine still fusing as it slept behind unblinking eyes.
For three months Elizabeth had done all that first-trimester excitement and anxiety alone. Even if it was intended to protect her husband, her ability to conceal was breathtaking.
Downstairs Kate heard her cell phone ring. It was 9 p.m.—morning in Cambodia. He was due to check in. She imagined him sitting on the edge of the bed shirtless, rubbing his face and stretching before he picked up the phone to call. There might be an ashtray on the nightstand where the photo of her should have been, filled with stubs of some unfiltered foreign cigarettes. Then she envisioned a form mounded under the sheets beside him, a bare brown calf peeking from beneath the exotic dyed comforter. The long, lean leg of someone with a euphonious name and a sultry smile, someone who would not be critical of his vices or distracted by the writing of a lost friend.
Even as she thought it, she was horrified with herself. Where had that come from?
She caught the phone on the last ring before the voice mail would have picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Kate. It’s Dave.”
“Dave?” Surprise supplanted manners while she tried to hide her disappointment.
“Yeah, your old pal Dave Martin. Jonah and Anna’s dad.” He was loose, glib. He’d forgotten to say Emily.
“Sorry. I thought you were Chris. He always calls on the cell.”
“Yeah. I tried the home number but it wasn’t working.” She glanced at the house phone, knocked off the cradle by one of the kids.
“Where’s Chris?” he asked.
“Southeast Asia. He had a project come up and had to fly to a few places, Cambodia, Jakarta, Bali.”
“Well now, that’s an interesting part of the world. He has to have just about the worldliest job of anyone I know.” Dave was circumspect. If Southeast Asia gave him pause, he didn’t let on. “But it is a shame he had to leave in the middle of your vacation.”
“Well, he shouldn’t be gone much longer. He flew out six days ago. He just e-mailed today that he had to make a few more stops, but he’ll be back soon.”
“Hmmm.” He paused a half beat too long. She could almost hear him trying to scrape together something polite about the region that would sidestep current events. “I once played a small tournament in Manila. Some pretty places there, out in the countryside. Monkeys would come right out onto the fairways.”
Kate had never heard Dave talk about his tour days, had always thought his nonchalance about his playing career, his ability to move on without looking back, showed a lack of passion. She now wondered how much of what she’d assumed was superficiality might have been his way of masking something he felt too much.
“You played in the Philippines?”
“I went on the Asian Tour, minor-league stuff. Man, I would have played off the top of steaming landfills if I thought it would have gotten me closer to making the tour.” He was mocking himself, keeping it light, and his tone had an intimacy to it. “That was before I met Elizabeth, back when I was trying to qualify for the PGA.” His voice cooled and became more precise. “Lean years,” he said simply.
“I had those too. Cooking in some real dives before culinary school. I’m surprised I didn’t catch something in some of those places.”
He chuckled low. From the end of the dark yard came the gurgle of waves running up the beach and receding.
“Well, Kate, I hope you don’t mind my calling to check in again. I just think of you sometimes, sitting out there and reading and reading. It’s quite a thing you’re doing.”
She walked outdoors, leaving the door open as she stepped onto the patio. A breeze rustled the plantings in their window boxes and swept across her legs, bare under her nightshirt. “I know. It is.”
“Going straight into someone’s mind like that.” She heard clinking, cubes in a glass. “I mean, really. Even in a great relationship, there are limits on how well we can ever really
know
another person.”
She pressed her fingernail into the porch railing. Chipping paint buckled, and she picked up a flake. “I don’t think we really can.”
