4. Etta #2
I took another drink of coffee.
"He booked me a cruise," I said.
Yolanda went still.
"He what?"
"A cruise. Twelve days. Scandinavia. Fifteen thousand dollars. He had Deshawn forward me the confirmation."
"Through Deshawn."
"Yes."
"Jesus Christ."
"It's a nice cruise."
"Etta—"
"It's got a balcony."
"Stop it."
"What?"
"Stop doing that. Stop making it okay."
I looked down at my hands.
"When did he book it?" Yolanda asked.
"Last night. Two in the morning."
"After you slept in the guest room."
"Yeah."
"And he didn't ask you first."
"No."
"Didn't ask if you wanted to go to Scandinavia. Didn't ask if you wanted to go anywhere at all."
"He knows I've been tired. He thought I'd like it."
"Did he."
It wasn't a question.
Yolanda took the thermos out of my hands and set it down on the deck and turned to face me full-on.
"How much was it?" she asked.
"I already told you. Fifteen thousand."
"Say it again. Say the whole number."
"Yolanda—"
"Say it."
"Fifteen thousand nine hundred dollars."
"For one person."
"Yes."
"For you to go alone."
"Yes."
She shook her head.
"You know what that is?"
"What?"
"That's him throwing money at you instead of showing up."
"He's trying to help."
"Is he? Or is he trying to make you go away for twelve days so he doesn't have to feel bad about not being here?"
I felt something twist in my chest.
"That's not fair," I said.
"Isn't it?"
"He's busy. The Finnish deal is falling apart. If he loses that volume the whole Scandinavian territory could go with it."
"I know."
"Then you know why he has to fly up there."
"I do. What I don't know is why he had to book you a cruise in the middle of the night instead of just saying he was sorry."
I didn't have an answer for that.
"Listen to me," Yolanda said. "You're not going on that cruise."
"I didn't say I was."
"And you're not sitting out here feeling grateful for it, either."
I didn't answer.
"You know what you want?" she asked.
"What?"
"You want your husband. Not his money. Not a cruise. You want him."
My throat went tight.
"You want three hours on the water," she said. "You want one morning where he looks at you instead of his phone. Where he's yours. That's what you want. And he knows it. And he gave you fifteen thousand dollars instead."
"He's doing his best."
"Is he? Is this really his best?"
I felt tears sting my eyes. I blinked them back.
"He's not cruel," Yolanda said. "He's aimed."
I looked at her.
"Everything he's ever done, he's done full-power in one direction," she said. "And the direction hasn't been you for a long time. That's not cruelty. That's just who he is. But you don't have to sit here and take it."
"I'm not taking anything."
"You're sitting on a boat you provisioned for a day he didn't even see you wanting."
"He saw it. He said no."
"And you did it anyway."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Because I love him. Because I wanted one day. Because I thought if I did all the work, if I made it easy, if I just asked for three hours, he'd say yes.
Because I'm an idiot.
I didn't say any of that.
"I don't know," I said.
Yolanda looked at me for a long moment.
"You do know," she said quietly.
"What?"
"You know exactly why you did it. You just don't want to say it out loud."
I didn't answer.
"You love him," she said. "That's why. You love him and you thought if you did all the work, if you made it easy, if you built him the perfect day, he'd say yes."
My throat went tight.
"And he didn't," I said.
"No. He didn't."
Yolanda was quiet. Then she picked up the thermos and handed it back to me.
"You remember the first year?" she asked.
"Of what?"
"Your marriage. You used to bring him lunch."
I remembered.
"That was different."
"Why?"
"He was different. I was different."
"You used to just show up," she said. "On the dock. With food. And he'd stop whatever he was doing. Drop his tools. Wipe his hands on his jeans. And he'd sit down with you right there on a crate and eat and talk like there was nothing else in the world."
I could see it. The two of us sitting in the sun. His hands dirty from working the boats. The way he'd smile when he saw me coming.
"He was working the boats himself back then," I said.
"And he stopped for you."
"Because he wanted to."
"You think he doesn't want to now?"
"I think he doesn't think about it."
"Maybe he needs reminding."
"Of what?"
"That you're still here. That you're still his wife. That you still make him sandwiches at five in the morning because you love him."
"He knows that."
"Does he?"
I didn't answer.
"Then make him think about it," she said.
I looked at her.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you should take him the food."
"Yolanda—"
"Listen to me. You made all this. The sandwiches, the coffee, all of it. You made it for him. And he's getting on a plane and he probably hasn't eaten this morning and you don't want him hungry."
"He can buy food at the airport."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"The point is you're his wife. And you made him something with your own hands. And he should have it."
"He doesn't need me to do that."
"Maybe not. But you need to."
"Why?"
She looked at me for a long moment.
"Because he's your husband," she said. "Because you love him. Because you made him food and he should have it. That's all. That's enough."
I looked at the cooler. At all the food I'd made. At the day I'd built for a man who'd sent me a cruise itinerary through his assistant.
"What if he's already gone?" I asked.
"Then you tried."
"What if he doesn't want it?"
"He'll want it."
"How do you know?"
"Because it's you bringing it. Because it's food you made. Because somewhere under all that work and all those deals and all that aiming in the wrong direction, he's still the man who used to stop everything when you walked in."
I wanted to believe that.
"Is he?" I asked. "Is he still that man?"
"I don't know," Yolanda said. "But you won't know either unless you go."
"Pack the food," Yolanda said. "Take it to him. Don't make it more than it is. He's your husband. He's getting on a plane. You don't want him flying north with nothing to eat."
I looked at the cooler.
At the sandwiches I'd wrapped. The smoked oysters. The thermos of coffee I'd made before dawn. The apples and the chips and all the care I'd put into a day that was never going to happen.
"Okay," I said.
Yolanda stood up.
"You need help getting it to the truck?"
"No."
She nodded. Stepped back onto the dock. Then she stopped and looked back at me.
"Etta?"
"Yeah?"
"He's not cruel," she said again. "But you can't keep doing this."
I didn't ask what she meant.
I already knew.
I packed the cooler. Put the sandwiches in first, then the oysters, then the apples and chips and the thermos. I packed it carefully, the way I'd pack it for a day on the water, and then I closed the lid and stood there for a second with my hand on top of it.
This was all the food I'd made for a day that was never going to happen.
And I was taking it to him anyway.
I carried the cooler off the Charlene and up the dock to where my truck was parked. Ray was just pulling in, early for his shift. He raised a hand and I raised one back but I didn't stop to talk.
I put the cooler in the passenger seat.
Got in.
Turned the key.
The engine started and I sat there for a minute with my hands on the wheel, looking back at the Charlene, at the cushions and the blankets and the boat I'd gotten ready for a man who'd never asked me to.
The sun was all the way up now. The water was gold. It was a beautiful morning.
The kind of morning I'd wanted to give him.
Then I put the truck in gear and left.