Page 125 of When We Had Forever
The summer after Michael turns thirty-eight, he disappears.
Only for an hour, but it’s utterly unlike him, and we’re supposed to attend the opening of Seagrove’s newest art gallery tonight. It’s the kind of event my husband loves: an excuse to dress lavishly and converse with glittering people in hushed, reverent tones while nibbling at carefully crafted hors d’oeuvres. In all honesty, I’ve been looking forward to it, too. I don’t often get him away from work so early in the day.
I’ve donned a slinky dress and blow-dried my hair, but he’s nowhere to be found. He left for his annual physical hours ago, and I can’t imagine a doctor’s appointment taking this long.
I call him. When he doesn’t answer, I pull up our location-sharing app. Since that day in Seattle, I’ve dreaded not being able to get in touch, though I’ve only had to use this thing once or twice.
Michael’s blue dot pulses steadily on the map, and my fingers tighten around the phone.
He’s in a place he absolutely should not be.
Inside of a minute, I’m zooming from the driveway. The greenery blurs past. This must be some kind of mistake. A glitch in the software. Or maybe Michael got a flat tire and had to pull over.
But when I round the last bend, my heart capsizes. Michael’s BMW X7 sits parked outside the liquor store, right beside the door.
I slot my Genesis in beside it, my palms slick. My husband has been sober for thirteen years. I can’t imagine what would have the power to make that change.
I leap from the car, then pause. Michael sits in the BMW’s driver’s seat, his face as pale as a full moon. He stares off, not seeing me, not even seeing the liquor store, from what I can tell.
I circle to his passenger side and test the door. It’s unlocked. I climb in.
“Michael?”
His gaze swivels to me, much too slowly. Something’s definitely wrong. His cheeks have a greenish cast that ties my guts in a knot.
“I didn’t go inside,” he says tonelessly. “I wanted to, but I didn’t. I was hoping you’d come and stop me.”
I gulp. “Okay. Good. That’s good. But what’re you doing here? Whathappened?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s looking at me, but alsonotlooking at me, somehow.
“Was it something at your appointment?” I venture. Still nothing. “Michael? You’re scaring me.”
“I haven’t been fair to you,” he blurts from nowhere.
That rocks me back in the seat. “What?”
“I haven’t...” He trails off, shakes his head. “Nothing. I’m just...not feeling well. I think I might throw up. Can we go home?”
The tightness in my belly eases. Food poisoning would explain that greenish tint and the sheen on his forehead. I got sick with it a few months ago and spent the evening curled around the toilet bowl, so delirious I swore I heard the jingle of Penny’s collar, even though she’s been gone for years.
“Of course,” I say. “Here, come around to this side. I’ll drive.”
At home, I tuck Michael into bed with a glass of water he doesn’t drink, then go downstairs to whip up some soup in hopes of easing his stomach. But by the time I head back upstairs with a bowl, he’s asleep, even though it’s only 7:00 p.m.
I watch him from the doorway. He doesn’t stir, and in the end, I leave him be.
The following week, Kate’s daughter is born.
My best friend texts me three days later.Meet Evelyn!The picture shows Kate on her couch with a squashed-face infant nestled against her chest. Dark circles hang beneath her eyes, but her smile looks genuine.
She’s beautiful, I write back, because she really is.And you did it, warrior woman!
I did, she texts.And thank god it’s over. Margaritas at Tequila Mockingbird tonight? I could really use an hour of non-mom time.
I hesitate, not sure new mothers are supposed to get drunk three days after giving birth. Then again, what would I know? Besides, Kate has told me she’s going straight to formula this time—after a months-long odyssey with her son, Hunter, that involved multiple lactation consultants, excruciating nipple pain, and lots and lots of late-night tears, she’s given up on breastfeeding completely. And she deserves to celebrate not having an entire extra human kicking around inside her rib cage anymore.
So I mount the stairs to Michael’s office. Ever since the liquor-store incident, he hasn’t been himself. Several times, I’ve caught him staring out the windows instead of working, and he points haunted eyes at me over the dinner table, as if his innermost thoughts disturb him.
