Chapter 21
Jane
I work later than usual to make up for yesterday, and just as I’m about to shut everything down for the weekend, my phone rings.
My father.
I’m functioning on less sleep than usual, and I’m so not in the mood for this, but I answer anyway, as I always do when he calls.
“Hi,” I say, settling back in my comfy office chair.
“Hi, Jane. How are you?”
“Good.”
Some people might feel comfortable being honest when their parents ask them such a question, but “honesty” hasn’t described how I’ve interacted with my father for a couple of decades now.
Though in many ways I am good, aside from last night’s poor sleep. My life has a nice rhythm, even if I’m unsure where this is all going.
“How is…Evan?” he asks. “Is that his name?”
Once again, I assure him that everything is good. “How are Suzanne and the kids?”
“Peyton just started university. I can’t believe she’s so grown up.”
I wonder if he made a comment like that when I began university, which feels so long ago now. Or maybe he was too caught up with his new family to think about it much. I was a reminder of the past; they were the future.
I try not to let it bother me. For the most part, I’ve come to terms with the fact that my father isn’t who I want him to be; there’s no point hoping otherwise. It only leads to disappointment.
“Have you been…” Dad pauses. “Have you been keeping up with your pap smears?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “I got one last year. No issues.”
The question is awkward, but I appreciate it nonetheless. When HPV vaccines became available in Canada, Dad looked into how I could get one, and he asks about pap smears every few years now.
Other than giving me money, it’s his only attempt to show he cares about me. He’s not like Evan’s parents, who talk to him regularly and load him down with food whenever they see him. Dad was so uncomfortable when I got my period that he couldn’t even go to the feminine hygiene aisle with me, but I guess he feels an obligation to ask this question on occasion, given my mom died of cervical cancer.
“That’s good,” he says briskly. “The reason I’m calling is that I’m coming to Toronto for work.” He gives me a date later this month. “I thought I could visit you at your new house. It’ll be nice to catch up.”
Nice to catch up. As though he’s a not-so-close friend, rather than my goddamn father.
But I don’t express my irritation.
“Sure,” I say. “I can make us something for dinner.”
We talk for a couple more minutes.
“I should go,” he says. “By the way, Peyton asked for your phone number and address. I gave them to her. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s fine.” Though I’m confused, as she and I don’t have a sisterly relationship.
After ending the call, I walk to my bedroom—where I slept last night for the first time in ages—and regard myself in the mirror above my dresser. Then I examine the photo of me with my parents, trying to figure out if I look much like my mother. Every time I do this, I conclude that I do. But maybe it’s wishful thinking. I wonder if the similarity will fade as I age, as I become (hopefully) ten and twenty years older than she ever was.
I study my father in the picture. The man who, for a brief period of time, made me the center of his universe. But I no longer have that.
Could something similar happen with Evan?
Once again, I find myself wondering how different things would have been if my mother’s cancer had been caught earlier. If she were still alive—or, at the very least, had lived until my twenties. I also wonder how much that shaped my feelings about being a woman. I say I’m a woman because that’s what I’ve been told I am and I don’t feel strongly about it, but it’s not an important part of my identity. Would that be different if I had a mother? Or if my father hadn’t pulled away when I went through puberty? Or does it have nothing to do with that? The rare times I speak to my father, I always end up pondering these sorts of things.
I pull my hair into a ponytail and head downstairs just as Evan comes in from his walk.
“Hey,” he says. “I saw Skylar and Deena outside—they’re heading to the hospital. Deena wanted me to thank you again for looking after Skylar. Also, I checked the mail.”
There’s a community mailbox at the end of our street. Evan is responsible for checking it, but he doesn’t do it every day. We don’t get much mail. But today, he passes me an envelope with a handwritten address.
“It’s from Peyton,” I say. Funny this arrived today.
I open the envelope as I head to the kitchen. I pull out a card with a pun about toast, and it takes me a moment to understand what I’m seeing.
A card to congratulate us on our wedding.
My first thought is that I’m surprised Peyton even knows how to send mail. I wasn’t aware Gen Z ever did that. To be fair, it’s not something I do much, either, though I remember being taught how to address an envelope in school.
But then I smile. Peyton took the time out of her day to do this. It’s the only tangible acknowledgement of my marriage that I’ve received from my family, unless you count the check my dad gave me at Christmas.
“What is it?” Evan enters the kitchen.
In response, I hand him the card, and he chuckles at the pun.
“Should I hang it on the bulletin board?” he asks.
“Sure.”
He tacks it up next to our calendar. Yes, we have calendars on our phones, but I like having a paper one as well.
“My dad called while you were out,” I say. “He said he gave Peyton my contact info.”
Evan pours himself a cup of water. His skin is glistening with sweat. “How is he?”
“Same old, I guess. He’s coming to Toronto for work soon and wants to have dinner.”
“When?”
I tell him the date, and he looks at our calendar.
“Crap,” he says. “I’m supposed to go to Montreal for a few meetings. I was going to come back the following day, but I haven’t booked the flights yet. I can see if—”
“No.”
“You don’t want me there?” He sounds a little disappointed.
“I would,” I say honestly, “but I can manage on my own. I don’t want to cause you any inconvenience.”
He gives me a look. “You’re my wife.”
I’ve heard him call me that before, and it’s just a simple statement of fact. But for some reason, the way he says it causes a stirring of pride and pleasure.
The word represents a commitment we made, a commitment to be a family—and now, it feels like more than what we initially intended.
“If you can make it work,” I say.
He squeezes my hand. “I’ll try to move something up so I can come back that afternoon.”
“Thank you.” To my embarrassment, I feel tears come to my eyes.
“Jane?” Evan doesn’t tell me not to cry, for which I’m thankful, but through the tears blurring my vision, I can see the concern etched on his face.
“I don’t know…I just…my dad didn’t come to the wedding, despite months of notice, and you want to rearrange a trip because of a dinner.”
It’s more than that, but yeah, that’s definitely part of it. I’m someone’s priority now, and I’m not used to it.
A mix of emotions wells up inside me. I want to tell Evan that I love him, but it’s been such a long time since I said those words to anyone. I’m afraid to do anything that might upset what we have. I don’t know how fragile this is.
“You know you deserve so much better, right?” he says. “You deserve a father who actually shows that he cares for you.”
I feel like I ought to defend my dad. Mention that he asked about pap smears.
But I don’t.
“Yes,” I say, “but deserving something doesn’t mean you get it.” I think of queer teenagers who get kicked out of the house by their parents. I also think of how my husband should have had the opportunity to marry for love…and didn’t.
And yes, I do love him now, but I can’t be sure of his feelings. I know he cares for me and has some level of attraction to me, but love? I don’t know.
I wish I had more experience with such things.
He squeezes my hand again. “I’ll get started on dinner.”
Usually, I do the cooking, but this morning, after my poor night’s sleep, he said he’d handle it today.
I pull out my phone to text Peyton. I’m pretty sure I have her number, and I’m also pretty sure I’ve never used it before. Indeed, I soon confirm there’s no message history between us. ME: Thank you for the card. I got it today. ME: Where are you going to school?
I set my phone aside. Peyton, presumably, has better things to do on a Friday than text me. But before I have a chance to do some tidying in the living room, my phone buzzes. PEYTON: Simon Fraser PEYTON: no way was I staying in Calgary
I can’t help chuckling. I wonder if it was more a need to see someplace different…or to get away from her parents. I’m not sure how long the drive is, but it’s certainly not easy driving distance. A lot more than an hour or three. ME: What’s your major? PEYTON: Biology. That’s the plan, anyway. PEYTON: I’m really sorry I couldn’t come to your wedding. I had the money to fly to Toronto. But I can’t get a credit card because I’m 17, which made it hard to book anything. Mom refused to book the flight for me and said I was too young to travel that far by myself.
How would she have the money? From a summer job? Part-time work? I assume she’s not paying for school, but still.
And why would she have wanted to go to my wedding? Badly enough that she’d use her own money? We’re not close.
I feel a wave of guilt that I didn’t try harder with her.
Except she was a toddler when I started university, and my family moved out west a year later. I’m not close with my father or his second wife. And there were times when I did try harder with my half-siblings, but it didn’t get anywhere.
I won’t let the guilt get to me, but since she seems interested in a relationship now, I’ll make an effort going forward.
I remember wanting a little sister when I was younger, and I wonder if my parents would have had another kid if my mom hadn’t gotten sick. But by the time I did get a sibling, I was well into my teens, and it was one more thing that made me pissed off at my father. You have time for a baby, but not for me? ME: That’s ok. I understand. PEYTON: Dad should have gone. Then I could have gone with him. Can’t believe he missed your wedding because of a business trip. PEYTON: But I have a friend at u of t and I’m hoping to get a job out there next summer. Don’t tell mom and dad. Not yet. I’ll visit you then.
A part of me delights in having a secret with a sibling. I’ve never had that before.
We chat for a little longer.
“Hey,” Evan says, startling me. “Dinner will be ready in two minutes.” He takes in my smile and gives me a curious look.
“Just texting Peyton,” I say, as though it’s a regular thing, rather than something I’ve never done before.
A few minutes later, I’m scarfing down fried rice. Evan isn’t an especially good cook, but he’s competent, which is more than can be said of some men, and it’s nice to not have to cook all the time. Nice to chat about the mundane and not-so-mundane details of my day, rather than eating with my phone, like I used to do. I’d usually be in a cranky mood after a phone call with my father, but not today.
“I’m going to visit Max tomorrow,” Evan says. “If you want to come, let me know, but I figured you’d be happy to have some time to yourself.”
I wonder if he’d prefer to see his brother alone but felt he had to offer. I’m happy for him to have a relationship with his family separate from me—it’s not like I feel excluded.
“I’ll stay home,” I tell him. “Maybe I’ll go wild and…I don’t know, bring Watson on a trip to the basement.”
“He won’t like it down there. It’s too dark and gloomy.”
“But you don’t mind it? The deal was that you’d get the bigger bedroom if I got the upstairs office, but I’ve basically taken over your bedroom.”
He gives me a look. “I’m not nearly as sensitive to these things as Watson, don’t worry. Besides, I have feet, so I can move when I like. He’s at the mercy of whoever brings him down there.”
“That’s a good point,” I say, but my mind has drifted elsewhere.
It’s rare for Evan to hang out with anyone without me. Does he find it too awkward, now that we live in the suburbs? We have a car, though. Does he feel guilty about leaving me alone?
“You know,” I say slowly, “if you want to go out more often without me, I don’t mind. Truly. Watson and Mr. Frog will keep me company. And if you don’t want to drive, I can pick you up occasionally.”
Though Evan doesn’t really drink anymore—he did in university, but he doesn’t like the way it makes him feel now—he does get high on occasion.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Later that night, as I’m lying in bed next to him, I think back to that smile. I didn’t used to be such an expert on Evan’s smiles, but that’s changed.
He wasn’t happy that I said he could go out by himself. But why? Does he feel like I’m trying to get rid of him?
And why doesn’t he see friends more often?
I think of the blue bottle of antidepressants on the bathroom counter. He diligently takes them every day, despite the side effects.
Suddenly, it hits me.
Evan feels like he’s doing people a favor by not making them spend time with him. When I encouraged him to go out without me, it felt like confirmation of that. He’s still friendly with the people he encounters—he’s gotten to know our neighbors better than I have, for example—but he keeps his distance.
He wasn’t always like this. I know that much.
Oh, Evan.
My heart clenches as I curl closer to the man sleeping next to me, the man who wants to plan his flight so I don’t have to face my father alone.
Maybe I’m wrong. I have clues, here and there, yet I can’t be sure. I could ask him, but something in me recoils at the thought.
I don’t know how to be close to someone.
And I don’t know how he feels about me. Does he love me, but he’s afraid of being rejected, afraid of upsetting the balance in our marriage?
I have no idea what it looks like when someone loves me. I’ve said “I love you” to two boyfriends, and neither of them said it back. I put my heart out there, as hard as it was for me, and the last time, I got a gentle, “I care about you, too.” He was careful not to return the words I’d said to him. Maybe that’s part of the reason I didn’t even try to date for so long, and then I decided to forgo dating and simply get married.
I just don’t fall in love in the right way.
There have been times in my life when I couldn’t stand watching romances and romantic subplots. They usually portray something that doesn’t quite make sense for me. Something that makes me feel broken, as foolish as that may sound. Figuring out that I’m demisexual—during my second relationship—made me feel a bit better about how I fall in love, but I still feel like I’m not doing it right.
Because these feelings weren’t part of the plan. If I share the truth and it doesn’t go well, there’s so much I could lose. Waking up together. Morning coffee together. Pillow talk. A house that’s half mine, with my own office. A home where I feel like I belong. A longtime friend.
He said he wouldn’t have sex with anyone else, and maybe that means something—but not necessarily. He wasn’t doing it before, and perhaps he just doesn’t feel the need.
For the second night in a row, I can’t sleep, so I get up and spend half an hour reading negative reviews of random products on Amazon.
This time, however, I return to Evan’s bed when my eyes start to droop.
I don’t want him to wake up alone.