Chapter 22 Patton #2
“Suraj, hi. Sorry to call you out of the blue, but I’m wondering if you’ve heard from Nisha today? She left me a . . . strange voicemail a few days ago.” I skip the part about it worrying the hell out of me. “I just heard it this morning since I was unreachable on set.”
I also leave out the part about taking the first flight home because of the voicemail, or that I got home to find her stuff missing. No point worrying him until I know more.
“Patton, good to hear from you.” My father-in-law’s usually boisterous voice sounds uncharacteristically subdued. “Actually . . . yes. I flew back with Nisha last night. She said she’ll be staying with me for a little while.”
The relief I just felt after hearing his voice evaporates instantly. “She’s with you? Why? Is she okay?”
There’s a pause, and I can hear some rustling in the background before a door slides open and shut. The faint sound of traffic comes through the line, indicating he’s stepped outside.
“Son . . .” His voice is gentle, as if he’s unsure how to deliver the rest of the message. “Did you read the note she left for you? She pinned it to your fridge.”
I immediately find the note—a piece of the same lined paper that’s crumpled inside my pocket—stuck to the fridge.
Suraj takes a long breath. “Son, she’s been through a lot over the past few days . . . Something no one should have to go through.”
“W-what do you mean? What has she been through?” I stutter out the questions even as my gut tells me that I already know.
The baby. Something happened to the baby.
The baby her body took on so much to create and house. The baby we’ve talked about so often ever since she got pregnant again. The baby we both have wanted for so long.
“I believe you’ll find your answers in the note—”
“Suraj, I’ll read the note, but can you please put my wife on the phone? I need to speak to her. Whatever she’s going through, we can get through it together.”
“She just laid down for a nap. But, Patton, I spoke to her. I even tried to convince her to talk to you. But she says she’s not ready.”
“Can you just tell me what happened? Did something happen to her, to the baby? Is this about me leaving for Thailand? I can get out of the contract if that’s what she wants. I can figure out a way to stop working so much—”
“Patton, I don’t know if this is about what she wants. It’s a question of what she needs. I think at some point you’ll both need to do some soul searching and figure out if your wants and needs align anymore.”
What? What does that mean? What does he mean, we’ll need to figure out if our wants align? Of course, they align.
“Suraj—”
“Give her time, Patton. She’s . . . not herself right now. When she’s ready to talk, I’m sure she will.”
The hollow in my chest threatens to take over my body while the same thought keeps circling inside my brain. How can this be happening?
“How long?” I ask, choking on the words. “How long does she need?”
“I don’t know . . . I’m sorry, son.”
Sitting on the kitchen floor, with my back against the cabinets, something dies inside me as I read the letter my wife left me.
The moment feels surreal, like a nightmare I can’t wake myself up from.
Patton,
Here are my truths.
The first truth is that I love you. I will always love you.
The second is that I lost our baby three nights ago.
My breath halts inside my lungs, my vision going blurry as the words fuse together on the page. I read them again, slowly this time, as if they’ll make more sense, but they don’t.
I know that news will break you the same way it broke me, sitting alone on our bathroom floor in the middle of the night, watching my body fail at the one thing it was made to do.
You’ll say it’s not my fault, and maybe you’re right. But right now, I can’t stop blaming myself.
My stomach twists as bile threatens to rise. The fact that she had to endure all that . . . God, Nisha . . .
No, baby, it’s absolutely not your fault.
I know you’ll blame yourself, too—for not being here, for missing my calls, and for somehow not knowing that I needed you. But this is not about blame anymore. It’s about two people who want the best for each other but can’t seem to give the other what they need.
She’s wrong. It is about blame, and all of it lies with me.
I lost our baby alone. I drove myself to the hospital alone. I answered the doctor’s questions alone. I came back to our empty bed and grieved alone.
And in all that aloneness, I realized I’ve felt that way for a long time. Not just these past weeks, but for months . . . maybe even years.
I realized that this is the future I signed up for, with or without kids. Because it’s clear what comes first for you, and, unfortunately, it’s not me. Not us.
The letter trembles in my grip, each “alone” like a blade tearing at my skin. She’s right about all of it, except for one thing. She’s never been second place to anything—not my career and not my aspirations. I just never proved it when it mattered.
I feel guilty even as I write this. I know why you left. The opportunities you’re getting are the ones you’ve always dreamed of, and you absolutely deserve them. But somewhere along the way, your dreams became our dreams, and mine got forgotten in the midst of goodbyes and hellos.
I never asked you to choose between me and your career. I never wanted to be that kind of wife—the kind who begs and pleads, clings and cries, only for you to resent me one day.
I could never fucking resent her. Never. She should have asked. She should have made me see.
A voice inside my head reminds me that she tried, with every frown when I had to leave soon after I came home and every protest when I had to miss another anniversary or Christmas.
But I can’t be this kind of wife, either—the one who quietly accepts the loneliness every time it’s handed to her. The one who loses herself, little by little, until there’s nothing left.
So, here’s another truth: I love you, but love isn’t closing the distance that’s growing between us.
I’m leaving. Not to punish you or to make you come after me, but to find myself again. You might think I’m being cruel, but staying until my love turns bitter, until every plea turns into a fight would be crueler.
The air feels thin. No, not thin . . . more like noxious gas.
I know you think we can work this out, and maybe one day we can. But right now, I need time to grieve, space to heal, and distance to remember who I am when I’m not Patton Pierce’s wife.
I can’t stop you from calling or trying to find me, but I’m not ready.. I don’t know if or when I’ll be.
But here’s my last truth, the one I have to believe: if we’re meant to find our way back to each other, we will.
Love,
Nisha
I wipe the tear that rolls down my cheek, slumping against the cabinet as if I’ve been stabbed by a thousand daggers. The letter falls from my hand like it suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
So, that’s it?
She’s gone?
Our baby is gone?
My world, as I know it, is gone?
It’s a sucker-punch stronger than anything I’ve felt before. Even stronger than the confused heartbreak I felt as a six-year-old boy, seeing my mother get arrested and taken away right in front of me. My world collapsed then, but it’s completely shattered now.
She left me . . . just like my mother did.
And the part that’s killing me is that she’s right about all of it. About me not being here enough, about her being alone.
God, she lost our baby, and I wasn’t fucking here. I can’t begin to imagine what she went through that night, and when she needed me the most—to hold her, to rock her in my arms—I wasn’t here.
She was alone all the time anyway, so of course she would leave. Who the hell wouldn’t? But to not take my calls or want to talk to me . . .? How am I supposed to survive that?
Something crinkles inside my pocket, and I remember the crumpled paper I stuffed inside. My fingers shake as I pull it out to read through the list again since I never comprehended it the first time.
Ten Things I Wish About You:
1. I wish I had more of you than anyone else does.
2. I wish you’d stop promising “soon” when we both know you mean “never”.
3. I wish you could be present in all our big moments. I wish you could be present in the small ones, too.
4. I wish I didn’t have to face my fears alone.
5. I wish you’d make me laugh until I cry, not cry because you’re gone again.
6. I wish you remembered that you married your best friend, not your job.
7. I wish you’d believe that you’re more than the boy who got left behind—you’re the man I chose.
8. I wish you knew that my silence isn’t acceptance, it’s heartbreak. It’s exhaustion.
9. I wish you’d remember that I matter more than any phone call.
10. I wish you’d see that I’m drowning.
The last line blurs, echoing inside my head like a gavel in a courtroom.
I wish you’d see that I’m drowning.
How could I not have seen? How could I have missed it behind her sad smiles and slumped shoulders?
Despite the tears still falling, I fold the list into a small square, placing it inside my wallet and making a vow to read it every day to remind myself of my failures, of everything I lost.
And that’s exactly what happens.
For years, I stay true to my vow, reading her list on planes, in lonely hotel rooms, between takes, and on breaks. The paper starts to soften and crease. And though the ink starts to fade, it burns bright inside my mind, her heartbroken wishes etched inside my soul.
It’s my punishment and my penance, a reminder of all she wanted and everything I didn’t give her. Maybe one day it would be my redemption.
Though, what I don’t realize then is that the list won’t just be a plan for if I ever get her back; it’ll be the commandments I’ll live by for when I have her again in my arms.
For the next year, I’ll call her like the hope of hearing her voice is the only thing keeping me alive. I’ll even fly to San Francisco and beg her to talk to me.
Until one day, when she sends me a final text, begging me to let go, before changing her number.
So I do. I let her go. Not because I want to, but because she’s left me no choice.
I let her go and spend the next years working on myself, to face the parts of me I’d ignored to one day become someone worthy of her again.
Except, what I don’t know then—what I can’t possibly know—is that six years from now, she’ll be standing in front of me. And when I finally have her mouth on mine, I’ll realize that she never really let go, despite what she’d asked me to do.
That, like me, she never really moved on, either.
And this time, I’ll make sure she never wants to.