The dining room and sunroom bore me, and I head back upstairs, skipping my guest room, and only giving his daughter’s room a cursory glance. The next room is gold—a library, complete with floor to ceiling bookshelves, a rolling ladder, and inset lighting. There is a large chair and a couch, both the sort that you could sink into and never leave. I should have created a room like this in our house. We bought five thousand square feet and wasted it on Simon’s larks. A workout room. A media room. Two guest rooms that were never used. A formal dining room. Why hadn’t I taken a larger piece of it? Why hadn’t I insisted on something like this? And later—once they were gone and I was alone, why hadn’t I created it for myself? But I know the answer to that. I didn’t create it afterwards because I hadn’t deserved it. It would have felt tainted and selfish.
His books are organized by author, and all of the greats are here. I don’t touch anything, the banana still in hand, my respect for his books greater than for door handles and light switches. I find my section, and am pleased to see all of my titles here, their spines creased from reading. Aside from me, there is little romance, his tastes tending to classics and contemporary fiction. I smile at a few of the names and lift my chin, my gaze moving up the shelves, itching in my desire to climb the ladder and properly peruse his collection. There is a sharp pain at the base of my neck and I carefully drop my head, stepping back. I’m overdue for a pain pill and abandon my snooping, heading downstairs and toward my medicine.
The meds taste terrible, the kind of chalky pills that instantly melt a little on your tongue, before you get a chance to drink any water. I take two, plus the anti-nausea, and glance out the window above the sink. Mark’s Bronco is there, a thin man standing near it, a phone to his ear, cigarette in hand. It’s the man from last night, the one who works for Mark. Royce.
Something bumps in the living room, and I turn, relaxing when I see his dog trotting toward me, his tail hitting everything he passes, a thump-thump-thump that could destroy an entire china shop. He smiles at me, his body sidling up and leaning against me, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth as he looks up. He swings his tail and his entire body flexes from the action. “Hey bud.” I don’t want to pet him. He looks dirty, and his trot through the house has left a path of wet paw prints. He rests his full weight against my shin, and lifts one paw as if I understand what that means. Simon once wanted an Akita, some giant bear-hunting dog that sheds like a cheap sweater and slobbers a gallon a day. I had refused, he had gotten belligerent, and somehow, two weeks and a dozen arguments later, we compromised and he had a new motorcycle. That was how most of our arguments worked. Part of me suspects he never even wanted a dog, the motorcycle his end goal, the entire thing a psychological game I’d lost.
A low whine comes and I look back down, his brown eyes minutely moving as he searches my face. Despite myself, I reach down and carefully pat his head. As an adult, I’ve always considered dogs in the same way that I did children: slobbery noise-machines that require an enormous amount of effort. I had been wrong about children. While Bethany, especially at the beginning, had been a nonstop drain of time and energy, she had been worth it. A million times worth it.
This dog wouldn’t have been worth it. Now he is lying down, right on top of my shoes, his belly arched towards me, his paw still stretched up, hanging in the air. His mouth is open in a ridiculous expression of joy, as if this act—restricting my movement—is cause for celebration. I pry a foot out from his heavy body and step to one side, his head lifting to watch as I make my escape.
I am heading to the front door when I see the pages. They sit on the dining room table where we ate last night, a small plate on top of them, one with a muffin and banana on it. I pause, sidestepping until I am in front of the stack.
CHAPTER FIVE in bold letters on the top of the first page. New content. Before I had trudged up the stairs and into bed, I’d outlined a few chapters, had written a page or two of content and left it on the counter. He must have stayed up, read it over, and dove in. I move aside the plate, and think back over our conversations in that barn, my hand-written additions where those had left off—a lot of ground to cover. I flip through the pages. Twenty, if not more. It would have taken me two weeks, and he did it in hours. I pull back the chair and sit.
Moving the pages toward me, I barely notice the brush of the dog’s body as he settles at my feet. The first pages cover Bethany’s birth, and I mark up several passages, the muffin disappearing as I add in comments and move through the scene of bringing her home. Mark’s writing is improving, and I can almost feel my nerves when we made it home, my hands shaking as I gripped the edge of her crib, Simon’s enthusiasm annoying in its confidence. Why had I been the only one afraid? Why had I been the only one with regret?
I read further.
All of my emotions, they are on these pages. They are raw and real, and I regret my sexist opinion that—because he was a man—he wouldn’t understand. A knot of anxiety worsens as I read, old emotions rushing back, all the conflict I had struggled with, along with the terrible spite I’d had for my daughter.
I push aside the muffin wrapper and force myself to turn the page.
I step out of the house an older woman. Reliving those first months with Bethany had been hard, yet nothing compared with what’s to come. Royce gives me a ride to the barn, I pet a happy and healthy baby calf goodbye, and three hours later, I’m climbing back into the plane. I pause, one foot in, and take a moment to inhale the warm air, my muscles pleasantly tired from the exertions, my hair still carrying the scent of outdoors. There is part of me that doesn’t want to go home. I can imagine settling into this world, watching the leaves fall from the trees, writing in the mornings and spending afternoons in Mark’s library, working through his collection one hardcover at a time.
I sit down and close the airplane’s door, struggling a little to lock it into place. When he steps in, the plane shifts, and I watch him go through a long process of flipping switches and checking off marks on a clipboard.
“I read the new pages,” I say, once he is finished, the plane slowly easing forward, the propeller humming along.
“And?”
“And… they were good.” The words seem too small. “Really good.”
The corner of his mouth lifts a little, a deep dimple popping out amid all of his stubble. “I’m glad you liked them. I was worried it was too—”
“No.” I look out the window, toward the hangar. “It was good.”
He passes me a headset and pulls on his own, his voice deep and competent as he speaks to the traffic controller. I take the excuse and close my eyes, working through his new content in my mind. We are working in chronological fashion, a way which, on its own, will probably bore the reader. Later, Pridgen will restructure it, put in hints of the future, and change up the structure of the delivery. But for now, what’s important is that Mark sees and tells the events in the way I experienced them. The reader needs to understand the emotions I felt, the catalysts and reasoning behind the decisions, and the mistakes I made.
They’ll still judge me, despite the three hundred page explanation. But, maybe some of the millions of readers will understand me.
Once we are airborne, the wings leveling off, Mark’s hands relaxing on the throttle, I pull out my laptop and start to write, picking up where Mark’s last content had left off—Bethany’s tenth month of life. And for an hour, Mark silent, the hum of the engine my backdrop… I dive deeper than just an intro. I relive a moment, and put it all on paper myself.
“I’m not your patient.” I cross my arms so she can’t see my hands shake. This is the problem with having a mother who’s a shrink. You can’t do anything without it being analyzed, criticized, and classified.
“You need to talk to someone you can trust, Helena. If you don’t talk to me, then Simon will call another doctor. And I won’t be able to protect you from their opinion.”
I dig my nails into the flesh of my palm. “I don’t need protection from an opinion. And Simon can’t force me to speak to anyone. I am fine, everything is fine—and I’d like you to leave. Now.” She has to go. I need her to. I can feel the buildup—the transition from irritability to anger to rage. The rage is almost here—and I fight the urge to physically shove her out the door.