WORKING HOLIDAY
WORKING HOLIDAY
GRADY
I’m about to leave The Croft when I hear the sound of a baby crying. Travers looks up at an open window and nods, but when I turn to look I don’t see anyone there.
“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” I say, and make a hasty retreat.
I drive until I am far enough away to be out of sight, then I pull over onto the side of the road and cry like a baby myself. The sound that comes out of my mouth is so animal-like that the dog starts to whimper too. Columbo licks my face and I appreciate his concern and affection, but it doesn’t make the tears stop. I feel broken and confused and scared. Am I so tired that I’m losing my mind? Or am I just so sad because I lost the love of my life that I simply cannot function? Maybe I need to talk to someone, get some professional help, but I don’t know anyone and even if I did, what would I say? My sorrow is a ledge nobody can talk me down from and I prefer to fall alone.
I wish I’d never come to this island.
This working holiday isn’t working and I have to get out of here. Things are getting worse for me, not better. I was in a bad place before, but since I arrived I seem to have completely lost my grip on reality.
I think I can still hear a child crying in the distance and the sound makes me shiver. Abby wanted to have a baby but I didn’t. I made excuses, told her I didn’t want them or that I didn’t feel ready, and I think she had finally realized that I never would be. It became a taboo subject in our marriage, one that always resurfaced when we disagreed about something. She seemed convinced I would see things from her point of view one day, and I thought she’d give up trying to persuade me. We were both wrong. Her biological clock only ticked more loudly, and the parenthood debate clearly wasn’t going to go away.
Which was why I had a vasectomy and didn’t tell her.
It was such a simple procedure she didn’t even know I’d been in the hospital.
If there was something my wife wanted she always found a way to make it happen. No matter what, and regardless of how I felt. Against all odds were three of her favorite words. She’d talked about wanting to try to get pregnant before she was forty, before it was too late. Said it might be her last chance, which made me realize it might be mine. So I made sure this was one thing that couldn’t happen without my say-so. Not because she wouldn’t have been a wonderful mother—I knew she would be; Abby was good at everything—but because I didn’t come from a happy family and I think children sometimes inherit their parents’ mistakes. I didn’t want my child to inherit mine. I don’t think I’m very good at loving people—I genuinely prefer dogs—and I was scared of not feeling what a father is supposed to feel. I know what it feels like to have parents who do not love you, and I didn’t want to risk inflicting that all-consuming hurt on a child of my own.
I wonder if my life would have unfolded differently if Abby and I had a child.
I wonder where she is, if she’s even alive.
I wonder if I’m going to imagine seeing her everywhere forever.
My head is too full of muddled thoughts but the loudest one is also the clearest.
I take the pamphlet out of my pocket one last time and stare at the owner of Beautiful Ugly. I blink through my tears, but there is no denying it.
The woman I met yesterday is not my missing wife.