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“Why?”
“Because I didn’t think it was a secret that we lost a daughter, and I wanted someone to talk to.”
His lips part, and I think for a moment he might say something that will make me feel better, assure me that what we have isn’t lost and this void isn’t really there.
Instead, he sets his toothbrush in the holder and leaves the room, closing the door with a softclick. I want him to slam it. I want him to because if he does, it means he has some fire left in him.
I follow him into the bedroom, where his hands are at the button of his jeans. The scene here is the same as a few nights ago. Same words, same doubtful thoughts.
“Why does it matter if I told her?”
He shrugs.
“Why do you do that? You say things and act like I’m just supposed to read your mind. What is it that’s bothering you?”
He looks up at me, eyes cloudy, lost in thought. “Nothing.”
Yeah right.
“So I’m imagining this space between us?” Both of us stand on either side of the bed; the space between us revealed in our stance. He is on one side, and I’m on the other. “I’m imagining that you’re never here and when you are, you’re quiet? Or whenever Mara is mentioned, you freeze up and turn into this ice-cold version of my husband?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says forcefully, but I shake my head. He searches my eyes, coldness in his.
“You can deny this void between us all you want. I see it on your face. You know it’s there, but you’re not doing anything to save it either.”
His lips curve at the corners, but not from amusement. It never is from amusement. “You couldn’t be more wrong if you tried. You’re reading too much into it. It’s nothing.”
It’s just like him to say that. He’s wrong, though. This isn’t nothing. It’s everything.
His body stiffens, and when I look up again, his expression is intense. His mouth opens as if he is going to say something. But he doesn’t.
“It is something, Noah. You’re not here.”
He throws his hands up in the air. “I’m still fucking standing here, Kelly. I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“Maybe not physically.” I press my hand to my chest over my heart. “But here… you’re gone.” I will myself to stop talking. The last thing I want to do is drive him further away, but I can’t hold it in any longer.
He swallows. Blinks. Breathes heavy. He looks vulnerable and lost. A rare glimpse into his pain. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, I do.”
He breaks eye contact and looks at the bed. I’m met with the tautness of his jaw.
“Answer me.”
His eyes return, but no words come. Suddenly, he moves around the bed and my face is captured between his hands. His lips touch mine, featherlight and fleeting. “Does this answer your question?”
My shaking hands cover his. “No. This is always your answer. You avoid.” His lips part, and then he draws back. He looks unfazed.
When he doesn’t say anything, this time I’m the one walking away. To the couch.
It hurts to do so. I want to crawl inside his chest and hold his heart. I want to beg him to save this, me, us, and ask him where it went wrong. I remember my therapist telling me that the hardest strain on a marriage is losing a child. At first, I didn’t believe her. I was angry she said it. But now I see it. Now I get the strain.
As I lie there, my eyes on the ceiling and the faint glow from the streetlights streaming in through our blinds, I think back to how we got here and when these problems first began.
Just as the rain outside picks up, Noah comes out of the bedroom, his eyes finding mine in the dark. He wants to say something, but as usual, he doesn’t. His hand finds his hair, tugging, and then he sighs, retreating to the bedroom. The door closes behind him.
So I pick up Journal and vent. Journal is the only one that really knows me now. Writing is what I do when I can’t talk to Noah.