Learning to Stay (36 page)

“Where are you off to?”

I can’t believe how coldly Brad is acting, how clinical he sounds. This isn’t a vacation I’m taking—a weekend or two away from him—but no one else would think that if they overheard our exchange.

I shrug.

“You really don’t know? You packed up all my things and all your things and you don’t have a destination in mind? Just going to start driving, or what?”

“I
was
going to head to California to see Sondra for a while.” I emphasize the “was.”

“That’s good. Real good. Never been to California,” Brad says. “You either, right?”

Tell him!
my inner voice says to me.
Tell him you want to stay. Tell him you’ve changed your mind.
But Brad is so cold, so detached. Last night he asked me to stay, and this morning, he’s inquiring about my travel plans as if we’re strangers seated together on a plane.

I nod.

“Aren’t you excited?” he asks. It’s like he’s playing a game of emotional chicken, my stomach sinking with every syllable he utters.

“Excited?”

“Yeah,” he says. “This is a good opportunity. Clear your head a little. Soak up some sun. Relax. You deserve to relax some.”

Why is he acting like this? Why is he doing this? Where is the
man from last night? Where is the man I’ve spent the past six years of my life in love with?

He’s in love with someone else.

“This is about her, isn’t it?” My voice is soft and shaky.

“Her?”

“The woman. In Babycakes.”

A sob wells up inside me. Can’t I catch one little, tiny break here? I finally come around, and my husband has already found someone else. I choke the tears back down. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of crying. Not over this.

“Oh, Elise,” Brad says, and like a ray of sun breaking through a cloud-soaked sky, there’s the faintest hint of feeling in his words. He runs a hand through his already-tousled hair and it spikes from his head in a wave. “That’s not at all what it looked like. That was Randy. She’s Jones’s trainer. She’s brilliant with dogs, and she loves this one, doesn’t she?” He pats Jones on the top of her head, which is as big and flat as a salad plate. Her tongue lolls out the side of her mouth.

“So you’re—you’re not—”

“Sleeping with her?” Brad laughs. “No.”

I don’t appreciate his mirth. And instead of relief, I feel only dread. I suck a deep breath in and blow it back out. The ground is tilting, trembling under me, and I will it to stop. I will it to steady.

“Would you rather I was?” he asks.

I shake my head. I bite my lower lip. I concentrate on my breathing.
I will not cry.

“Is that what this is about?” Brad asks. “E., it was your idea to leave. This is what you want, right?” The words sound almost flip.

What I want,
I think silently,
is for you to give a damn about something besides that dog. For you to want me as your wife, your partner, your lover—not your parent, not your personal police, not your conscience. I want you to make me feel like I matter again. Like I matter to
you.
But my voice fails me, and all I can squeak out is, “It’s like you don’t even care.” Then my lip biting and breathing fail me, and I start to cry.

I cry because I had doubted that Brad could get better—not all the way better, which is a place he still might not be able to get to, but at all. I cry because we were so good once, and our relationship has unraveled to the point where I tell him I’m leaving for California and he says, “That’s good. Real good.” I cry because I want him to want me to stay, and because it seems that what he wants is not me. Not us.

Brad leans forward and grabs my face in his hand. His thumb and forefinger form a vise grip.

He turns my head and holds his forearm in front of me, the tattoo’s black letters only inches from my face. “Don’t you see this?” he asks, shaking his arm. His voice is husky with anger and frustration. “Didn’t you hear anything I said last night?” My teeth hurt from the pressure of his fingers on my cheeks.

I stare into his eyes. They’re not vacant, but they’re not his, either. He releases his grip and shakes me loose. He moves back on the bed, putting space between us.

“Listen, E.—I don’t blame you for doing what you’re doing. Don’t worry. Things here are actually pretty good.”

“What are you saying?” I ask. My fear of voicing that one question, of the answer it might bring, hangs almost tangible in the air between us.

He shrugs. “Up here, my life works. It works better than it has in a while.” Brad reaches for my hand and takes it in his. I wonder whether it’s cold and stiff and icy, because that’s how I feel. I realize I’m holding my breath, and instead of letting it out, I feel it evaporating inside me, my chest constricting. “I don’t think it really works with you anymore—nothing personal.”

My vision narrows. It’s as though Brad has just tossed me into a
deep well. As my arms spiral in a panic, trying to grab any available purchase, he’s peering calmly down at me, watching me fall.

I think of the life we had in Madison, which already feels thousands of miles and years away. I think of everything I once thought so important there—my career and my cases and our favorite spots and all the memories tied to them—all fading like an old photograph. I think of the man I saw through his living room window, rocking his infant to sleep, and the one teaching his little boy to fish. I think of the heavy and sweet spring air hanging outside these windows and the way Brad looked yesterday morning, working with Jones—jaunty and relaxed—and how Jones calmed him in the truck in a way no one, or nothing, else would or has been able to. I think of the way Brad looked this morning, like his old self, and the feeling that his skin on mine kindled deep inside—a primitive, subconscious part of me recognizing that this is still the man I married. This is still the man I love.

“I don’t want to go,” I say.

Brad shakes his head. His eyes well, wet and red. “I know, E.,” he says. “But if we’re honest, really honest with ourselves, I think we both know that you should.”

He moves toward me, pulling my hand to him until his arms envelop me. He buries his head in the crook of my neck. I can feel his stubble. I can feel his chest rise and fall against me. And I can smell him—his particular mix of salty and earthy and spicy-sweet. And it smells just like home.

I shake my head no, but he doesn’t notice, and our tears mingle like two sad streams in the valley of our necks.

It’s so early, it’s barely light out, and Gitche Gumee’s waters are still and dark as I walk down West Washington Avenue in Marquette. Morning is my least favorite time of day and early morning even more so, but this was the only meeting time I was offered. Plus, it’s not as though I’m working a full day. I tell myself I can always take a nap later.

I order a coffee and a strawberry sour cream muffin. Then I sit and wait. Somehow, I’ve arrived early. I decide there must be a wrinkle in the time-space continuum for this to have happened. I can’t remember the last time I was on time for anything, much less early.

It doesn’t take me long to drift off, until I’m lost in my own mind. Is Brad right? Am I that alien to this place—or the other way around? Is he really trying to do what’s best for me, or was he not being fully honest with me about his motivations? I belonged here once, and I think I could again. Brad said his life worked better here, without me. Right now, I’m choosing to believe only the first part. What if I can find something to smooth our new, jagged edges so that we fit together better?

What if the answer is already here—right in front of us?

I jump when the chair opposite me scrapes on the wood floor and as if on cue, into it slides the leggy, strawberry-haired woman I first saw here with Brad.

Randy.

“You must be Elise,” she says, holding out a hand. She’s wearing the same green glasses and a green, worn, short-sleeved shirt that reads
PUGS NOT DRUGS
over a long-sleeved gray shirt. There isn’t a trace of makeup on her face, and her hair is pulled back into an expertly messed ponytail with tendrils hanging in all the right places. I would have to work for hours to conjure up such effortless chic. She might have just walked out of an Urban Outfitters photo shoot. I wonder how she knows that I’m me, and wild scenarios start flooding my mind. Has Brad shown her pictures of me, and how much has he told her about me—about us? But then I look around and realize that I’m the only patron here. I tell myself to settle down already.

I hold out my hand and make sure to grasp hers firmly. It’s a handshake I’ve perfected over the past years as a young, female attorney—one that says, “I might look young and sweet, but you don’t want to screw with me.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say.

The barista delivers her a smoothie and a cup of fresh fruit. I had to walk up to the counter for service.

“Thanks, Stef,” Randy says, and the barista gives her a little wave. Randy turns back to me, working her straw out of its wrapper, and says, “I can’t thank you enough for meeting me this early. I have an insane day, but I really wanted to sit down with you.”

She is warm and easygoing, and I would like to hate her. I would at least like to keep my hackles up. After all, this woman has spent countless hours with my husband over the past months, and shared, I imagine, intimate moments along the way; I have only just learned she exists.

But after a few short minutes around her, my edginess dissolves and I’m looking at her as though we’re back in junior high and she’s the girl who’s popular, not because she’s commanding or domineering, but because she’s just so…cool. I want to spend more time with her to see how it is she does it—to absorb a little of whatever is emanating from her, in hopes that it might rub off on me, too.

“Don’t thank me,” I say, “thank
you
.” And I feel as awkward now as I did in junior high.

“So,” she says. She smiles at me and nods.

“So,” I say. I didn’t tell Randy exactly why I wanted to meet, just that I had something to run by her. That’s because in my mind it isn’t yet clear. I know only that I’ve seen the effect that Jones has on Brad, and I can’t shake the idea that maybe he’s not alone. Maybe there are other Joneses and other Brads out there, waiting to find one another. Maybe there’s a way to facilitate that process—something Brad and I can do together.

That, and I wanted to meet this woman with whom my husband has been spending so much time.

“So you’re a dog trainer,” I say. “How long have you been doing that?”

“I grew up showing dogs. My parents were into it. But I always preferred challenging dogs, the tougher projects. So when my husband got a job here—he’s a radiologist at Marquette General—and I couldn’t find a job, I decided to see if I could make a go of what had been a serious hobby until then.”

I nod, feigning interest in her story, but inside I’m thinking,
So, Randy is married
.
She doesn’t wear a ring, but she
is
married.
This revelation slows the thoughts of her and Brad together that have besieged me. I know married people have affairs, but I’m trying to focus on the upside. At least she’s not a gorgeous
single
woman with her sights on Brad.

“And?” I ask. “You made a go of it?”

Randy shrugs. “Yes and no. I did some behavioral work with
family dogs, and some sled dogs here and there. But there’s not much money in it. Nothing steady enough, anyway.”

“You’ve seen Brad with Jones, though, right?”

“I’ve seen them work together a lot, absolutely.” Randy’s tone is polite but flat, as though she expected something out of this conversation that she’s already determined isn’t going to materialize.

“You didn’t know Brad before, but Randy, that dog has changed him. It’s changed his life.”

“She,” Randy corrects me, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “And yes, I knew him well enough to see how much she’s affected him—all for the better. It’s been an amazing thing to watch.”

I bristle at her choice of words. Is she trying to one-up me—pointing out that I haven’t been here to see Brad’s transformation and she has? As true as this might be, it still smarts. I fight the urge to one-up her back and tell her about the incident in the truck only days ago, how Jones with Randy’s training hasn’t exactly been a cure-all. “Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I say, forcing a smile. “What if there’s something to this? Brad can’t be alone, right? He’s not unique. There are thousands of soldiers like him—struggling with these ‘invisible wounds.’” I make quote marks with my fingers.

Randy looks confused. Her brow is furrowed, one eyebrow raised—something, even with practice, that I’ve never been able to do.

I continue. “What if we could take other dogs—take them and train them and match them up with veterans like Brad?”

“We?” she asks.

I shrug. “Whoever.”

Randy fixes me with a sweet, thin smile, as if I were a child who just said that if people around the world would only love one another, we could have world peace. “It’s a nice idea, Elise. A really nice idea.”