Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [88]
“Only have a second,” he says. Ly ave econd. “I was talking to Mom and she wants to throw an engagement party in a few weeks. Sound okay?” Ound kay?
I hesitate and wander over to the shoe section, plunking down on a leather couch and staring at myself in the mirror. Does that really sound okay? The pomp and circumstance of Vivian’s friends, tornadoing around us with their air kisses and their Hermès scarves and their catered pâté-covered crackers, reminding me of the carbon-copied image of my old Westchestered self. Do we really need to turn our nuptials into more of a public spectacle? As if the four-hundred-person ceremony isn’t enough, isn’t exactly what I didn’t want to do in the first place?
“No,” I say quietly, with an air of authority that feels unfamiliar yet not unwelcome. A tiny beadlet of sweat trickles down my neck. “No, it doesn’t sound okay.”
“Can’t hear you!” Jack shouts, and a burst of static clogs the line. “So it’s okay?”
“No,” I say louder, and three shoppers turn to look at me. “I don’t want to do it.” My confidence accelerates like a gassed-up engine. “Please tell your mother that I don’t want to do it!”
But we’ve been cut off, my fiancé and I. I am speaking into a black hole, a void, empty air, and I stare at my phone, willing him to call back so I can set him straight. But the phone doesn’t ring, not from Henry, not from Jack, so eventually, Josie waves at me from the counter, and we shuffle to the office, shoulders sagging, morale low, and all we can do is wait for the cold breeze to usher in the winds of change.
HENRY
What I remember most about my husband was the ease with which he moved through life. I’d watch him sometimes, just shaving in his boxers or lying on the living room rug with Katie, and wish that I could absorb even a sliver of his confidence. It was as if he decided, maybe because the world to him worked in almost mathematical ways, that this was how his life would hum along and therefore, all would be well. No need for unnecessary worrying or second-guessing.
I don’t know if Henry knew how unraveled we’d become. Or maybe we hadn’t become that unraveled. Maybe I just didn’t know any better, and, like my mother, maybe all I knew was how to flee rather than to dive into the foxhole with my husband and wait out the missiles.
Two weeks before I found myself back in my old life, Henry snuck up on me in the kitchen. Katie was asleep and rather than join Henry in the den, I was wiping down the cabinets. I can’t remember why I felt so compelled to clean just then, only that I did. That it seemed like an easier alternative than making small talk with my husband. I was standing on the step stool, trying to rub out the greasy smudges around the handle of my upper cupboard, when, out of nowhere, he was behind me.
“Come on,” he said. “Come to the couch and watch something with me. You choose. I’ll throw in a foot rub.” I could hear him smiling.
“I can’t right now,” I replied without turning around. My right arm never stopped scrubbing.
“Jilly,” he said softly, placing his hand through my belt loop. “Come down. These don’t need to be cleaned right now. I’m finally back home for a few nights, and I want to spend time together.”
But I just shook my head and pressed back out-of-nowhere tears. So he padded out of the kitchen and, I presumed, retreated to the couch where he listlessly flipped through TV channels alone.
What I should have told Henry, I realize now, is that he felt like a stranger. That his efforts, which I suppose I should have appreciated, felt like efforts from someone who inhabited my house but not my home. That his touch felt like the touch of a man whom I barely knew.
But now, looking back, I can see that Henry was still trying to guide our ship. Guide me down from my figurative step stool and back to the bunker where we would weather the storm. That, yes, we’d gotten off track, and though the night was black and the storms would be dire, I could still cling on tight and face down the spiral. Eventually, the skies might have cleared, and Henry and