Learning to Stay (19 page)

I hang an arm over the edge of the bed, next to my husband, to bridge the distance between us. It is an olive branch, a life ring I’m throwing to him. And when I wake in the morning, he has grabbed hold. My fingers are interlaced with his, and I wait until the absolute last minute to unweave them so I can ready myself for work. When I kiss him good-bye, careful not to startle him awake, I can still feel the heat of his skin pressed against mine, and I carry it with me. I carry it out into the snow and cold, still burning warm.

Most of the day, it’s all I can do to keep my mind on work. I zone out during meetings, in the middle of writing e-mail, and while I’m waiting in line for a midafternoon jolt of caffeine. Forgotten are the grocery store incident and the long hours that followed when Brad went missing. Now, I have a hard time thinking of much else besides Brad’s hand in mine this morning, the dinner he made last night, the way things might be starting to turn around. Finally.

Wind whips my hair across my face as I make my way back to the office, the steaming cup in my hand feeling like the only warm thing in the world at the moment. Winters in Wisconsin are largely manageable—until March rolls around. By then, you’re always bone-weary from the biting air, the ice, and the unrelenting, day-in and day-out bundling and unbundling required to go anywhere. It hits you suddenly: One moment you’re nicely settled in the groove of winter, and the very next you feel like you might actually lose your mind if you have to scrape your windshield or deice your locks one more damn time. It always gets old. And when it does, Wisconsinites flee for pastures that, if not greener, at least see the sun on a regular basis.

When I first heard Brad was coming home, I let myself daydream
about taking a quick vacation with him somewhere, like we used to do—just pack a cooler with sodas and sandwiches and head due south, stopping only when we could get out of the car without donning a jacket. One year we drove to Louisville, Kentucky; another to Nashville. After the incident on the Beltline, I stopped thinking that driving any significant distance with Brad would be a prudent move. And after the incidents with Margie Valhalla and the balloon, I stopped hoping that we might ever take a vacation together again. I let myself hunker down into survival mode—one day to the next. But then there was last night, and this morning. And now I’m thinking that a getaway might be just the thing.

I have only half an hour before Zach and I are set to meet to review
Rowland v. Champion
, and I should be returning calls to a couple of new clients who were arrested for their second and fourth DUIs, respectively, last night, but before I know it, I’m so deep into Coast to Coast Travel’s Web site that I can almost feel the sand between my toes.

I click through pictures of impossibly blue water and resorts nestled into linen white beaches, drinks in bright shades of pinks, greens, and yellows held by couples smiling at each other as if knowing a secret I’m not privy to. I think of sitting at a wooden table overlooking the ocean with Brad, a hot breeze drying the salty water on our skin as we share that same look. I’m enthralled by the transformative promise of it all—the sea, the sand, the glasses filled with red fruity goodness and topped with little paper umbrellas.

I’m enthralled by the lack of anything to worry about in a place like that.

Everything is included—the airfare, the food, the drinks—everything. Three nights and four days. And all for less than my monthly law school loan payment.

There are two voices arguing in my head. The first repeats, “You
can’t afford this,” while the other points out that we have a credit card with an unused, sizable limit for “emergencies,” and that my husband was gone for an entire year, during which he nearly died. We deserve a vacation. With all that’s happened to us, doesn’t the need for a break from our life rank right along with food, water, and shelter on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs?

Then a third voice enters the conversation. The imaginary law firm partner says only one word in response: “No.”

If I ask to take this time off right now, I’ll be looked upon as a flake. As someone not worthy of the gift of
Rowland v. Champion Construction
that’s been bestowed upon me. As someone not fit for partner and hardly fit for basic employment at Early, Janssen, and Bradenton. It matters little that when Brad was deployed, I did nothing but work—weekends, holidays, my birthday. I gave this firm my everything, and I squeezed blood from a stone doing it. But right now, we need me to keep my job more than we need a vacation.

I close the browser on my computer, the promise and lure of sand and sea and golden tans disappearing like a dream upon waking, as if they hadn’t really existed. Outside my window, the sky has turned the color of a chalkboard, leaving not even a hint of sunlight to struggle through. A fierce March wind howls and kicks up the fine dusting of snow that’s fallen since I returned from my coffee run.

A new e-mail flashes in the status bar on my computer. It’s Zach, asking me to swing by his office. I type,
Will do—be right there
, and hit “send.” I gather the files and notes I need for
Rowland
and head to Zach’s office.

Zach wears shoes that look expensive and stylish. Expensive and stylish and foreign—as if he zipped on over to Rome to have them custom made. He has matching pairs in light and dark brown, black, navy blue, light beige, and a reddish brown. When I enter his office,
he is on the phone. His chair is reclined and the reddish brown shoes are perched neatly on the edge of his desk. He uses the instep of one to scratch the top of his opposite foot and motions me in.

“Well, that’s what you get for rooting against U-Dub: a busted bracket.”

Zach is smiling and he winks at me. Then he holds up one finger to tell me he won’t be much longer.

“Ha, ha ha. You’re a funny one, Ricardo. Well, we’ll see, I guess. I just don’t see how UConn pulls this off, but if they do, I owe you a beer.”

I gather that Zach is talking to Ricardo Welsh, a fellow up-and-coming litigator at Fitz and Simmons, one of Madison’s premier firms, and I gather that UW-Madison—“U-Dub”—must be in the NCAA Sweet Sixteen. That’s the extent of my basketball knowledge, and frankly, I’m proud that I know even this much.

There is more chuckling from Zach, and he says, “Sure thing, Counselor. Yup, you too,” before leaning in to hang up the phone. Then he reclines again and brings a hand to his chin, resting it thoughtfully on his knuckles.

“What?” I ask, uncomfortable with the silence and with the look Zach is giving me.

He waves me off. “Nothing. I was just thinking that—eh—never mind. Anyway, good night last night?”

That meal. The card. Brad’s skin on mine. I shrug. “Worked late, went home, worked some more,” I say.

Zach nods, a knowing expression on his face. He seems pleased with this answer. A smile plays at the edge of his mouth.

“So,” he says, “what can I do you for?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You wanted to see me?” I pat the files and legal pads I’ve brought with me. I’m pleased with both my self-control and preparedness. I feel like my old self. It feels good.

“Ahh, yes,” Zach says. “Actually, I have a proposal for you.”

“Oh?”

“I was talking with Bradenton this morning. She’s on her way out to San Fran to do some discovery on
Bridge Global
—well, anyway, she had some ideas on tactics for our case that I’d like to go over with you.”

There’s something in the way he says “our case” that makes my body flush with pride. I’m reminded again what an opportunity this project is for a junior associate like me.

I knit my forehead. “Okay, shoot,” I say. Since when does he need a proposal to discuss
Rowland
?

Zach looks at his watch and scowls. “See, the problem is that I have to be in court in fifteen minutes. So I wanted to see if you were free for dinner. Magnus at six thirty. Reservations are under my name.”

My head snaps up in surprise. Not because I’ve long dreamed of eating at Magnus—a gourmet South American eatery where Brad and I once sheepishly ordered only drinks after seeing the menu prices and had to retreat home for sandwiches after—but because of Zach’s presumption that I would be free tonight, that I will be more than happy to drop anything else I have going on and have dinner with him. And because it sounds suspiciously like a date.

On its face, this proposal of Zach’s is reasonable. He will be in court until dinnertime, and he needs to eat. It’s been pitched as a working meal. But there’s something in Zach’s demeanor, his self-assured delivery, the fact that he didn’t put this in an e-mail but instead wanted to ask me face-to-face, which makes me think otherwise.

“You’re going to expense dinner at Magnus? Do you really think that’s the best use of the client’s resources, Mr. Newsome?” I ask, calling his bluff. If our clients were the Rowlands instead of the state’s largest construction company, there would be no way to stick them
with the bill for an unnecessary three-hundred-dollar meal and still sleep at night.

I rub my hands together, feeling remnants of velvety warmth from Brad’s skin early this morning. When I think of finally getting to try Magnus, the person I picture seated across from me is my husband.

“I have a lot to do tonight,” I say. “How about we meet first thing in the morning over breakfast? Your pick.”

Zach thinks for a minute, pursing his lips. Then he says, “Sure. I’ll e-mail you a time and place. Do you have anything in the morning?”

“I’m free until nine o’clock.”

“Sounds good,” he says. He checks his watch and whistles. “Okay, you. Get on out of here. I’ve got a hot date with Judge Roselyn.”

“Mañana,” I call over my shoulder on the way out of his office.

This morning the streets and snowbanks and trees were covered with a grimy, dingy gray, but thanks to the thin sheen of snow that fell throughout the afternoon, it all looks crisp and new under the streetlights’ glow.

I stop at Capitol Foods on my way home and pick up two chicken breasts, Parmesan and mozzarella cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, kalamata olives, and penne pasta—ingredients for the one “fancy” dish I know how to make, basically because I made it up and it’s a recipe that consists of cutting everything into pieces, sautéing it, and then tossing it all with the pasta and cheese. At the last minute I add a bottle of Chianti. I resisted the urge to send us on a vacation we can’t afford, and I declined dinner with a colleague at a place we also can’t afford. A good bottle of wine is a reasonable splurge, and I’m feeling sentimental and a little celebratory after Brad’s effort with dinner last night. I’m looking forward to actually enjoying a meal with him tonight. Would it be nice to sit across from him at Magnus? Sure. But these days I feel blessed to be sitting across from him at home.

I lug the groceries and my workbag up our front steps. Something about the lighting, the time of night, reminds me of the evening Sergeant Gerlach sat here beside me. And with that memory come all of the heavy, horrible feelings that washed over me then. My breath sticks on its way up my throat, and I’m rooted in place, if only for a second, by what tonight might look like if that night had turned out differently.

It’s okay, though. It’s all okay now, I remind myself. We’ve come out the other side. Again I think of waking up this morning, Brad’s hand in mine, and smile as I turn the key in the lock.

The minute I open the front door, though, I can tell something is off. Everything in my range of sight is fine. Things are where they’re supposed to be. But the atmosphere, the mood of the place, isn’t right.

I call out for Brad, but there is no answer.

The light above the kitchen sink is on, but the rest of the house is dark. I set the groceries down on the counter next to a half-empty jug of Jack Daniel’s, cap off. Next to that is Brad’s cell phone. When I pick it up, it’s either off or out of batteries.

I call Brad’s name as I make my way down the hallway, nearly tripping over his rucksack, which is slumped against one wall, the top gaping open. There’s no answer.

The door to our room is cracked open, and through it escapes a sliver of moonlight. I ease the door open slowly, quietly, so as not to wake a sleeping Brad. But I needn’t worry. When I look in, there is a stack of folded blankets on the floor where I expect Brad to be and our bed is neatly made—all square corners and covers pulled taught as if over a drum.

Once again, I don’t know where my husband is, or how long he will be gone this time. My previous gusto for creating a special night leaks out of me like air from a balloon, replaced by a sudden exhaustion that makes me sag.

I pad to the bathroom and turn the tub faucet as far as it will go, then let it run hot while I return to our room and undress. In the few moments I’ve been out of the bathroom, it has already filled with steam. I switch the lever to direct the water to the showerhead and step in, my skin gloriously assaulted with thousands of tiny red-hot pinpricks.

When I go to close the shower curtain behind me, I see it. I rub my eyes at first, but the words are still there, etched by steam on the new bathroom mirror:
I’m sorry
.