MAN-CHILD
MAN-CHILD
One week before she disappeared
ABBY
I always wanted children, but he didn’t, and I guess I let him talk me out of it during the first few years we were together. He made it seem as though what we had was enough. But then—maybe because so many people we knew had started having families—it began to feel as though something was missing. At least it did for me. He had his books and in many ways they were his children. I only had him and only when he was present, which he often wasn’t even if sitting right beside me. I missed the child I never had.
I’ve been accused of being a workaholic all my life, but I think when you find something that you believe in and are passionate about, it does sometimes take over. I tend to beat myself up when I don’t get things quite right. I so badly want to be good at what I do, but that determination to do better, be better, is sometimes overwhelming. It makes me withdraw into myself, pull away from the people who have chosen to love me. I know I can be distant and difficult to be around when I am working. And I’m always working.
But he did know that about me from the start.
I’m trying to do the right thing for us, not just me.
The woman in black shifts in her seat. Our time is almost up. She has other people to see and other problems to solve.
“I hope this conversation has been useful?” she says.
“It has. Thank you. The thing is, he doesn’t want children and that makes us incompatible. I married a man-child and I can see that now. He is selfish and stubborn and he doesn’t support me in my career the way I have supported him. He chooses his books over me, every single time.”
She stares at me as though those are not terrible things.
It sometimes feels as though life has passed me by and I wonder if other people feel that way too. Surely it can’t only be me. I don’t remember when the years started to speed up, but they did. Seasons tumbling into each other, days disappearing into weeks, weeks into months. I can’t seem to slow life down but I can’t keep up with it either. The markers that are so familiar to me: New Year, family birthdays, Halloween, Christmas, all come around too fast. No matter how hard I try to stay one step ahead I am always behind schedule in the story of my life. I feel old, even though I’m not, and I constantly feel like I’m running out of time.
“I have to make a change before it really is too late.”
“It sounds to me as though you have made up your mind,” the woman in black replies.
“I think so. Yes.”
“When will you tell him?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t been himself lately. I do keep asking what is wrong, but he doesn’t talk to me. Not like he used to. I was wondering if it might be depression. He has trouble sleeping and he’s permanently anxious about his books and his career, no matter what I say to try to reassure him. He’s become distracted and distant, a little more forgetful than he used to be. It’s funny really; he worries far more about his work than he does about his marriage. I honestly don’t know whether he is expecting this or whether it will come as a complete surprise.”
“Are you scared of telling him?”
“ Scared of him? No, of course not,” I tell her.
“So you are going to tell him before you leave?”
“I’m not going to just disappear in the night if that’s what you mean. He deserves to know the truth. I plan to tell him face-to-face; I’m just scared of hurting him. Nobody wants to hurt someone they love.”
“So you do still love him?” she asks, and the weight of her question feels too heavy, as does her stare. I look away. Then the woman in black who has spent the last hour listening to me, watching me, judging me, says something that I already know is going to haunt me. “Nobody said it was easy, but love is always worth fighting for, isn’t it? I think maybe it’s the only thing worth fighting for.”