Chapter 48
When Troy gets home from work, the house is still and dark. There’s a motionless feel, as though no one is home, its occupants out of town. But Klara’s car is in the garage, and in his app, that little blue dot is hovering inside the box that represents their home.
Unease blooming, Troy flips switches, lighting his path.
He’s far later than he wanted to be—a last-minute call from one of his most demanding clients, then accidents snarling and slowing his entire trip home—and he’s starving.
When he selected this neighborhood, this house, he knew he’d have to undertake a fairly lengthy commute, but that was necessary.
He needed to pull Klara farther from her own office, to pull her into a less familiar county.
But admittedly the traffic, and the length of his commute, have been worse than he’d expected.
So wouldn’t it be nice to have a meal warming on the stove when he finally made it home?
A plate in the fridge? But the stove is bare, the fridge nearly empty.
They’ve been subsisting on takeout, on easily prepared foods—Klara’s pregnancy diet persisting, things bland and fried and beige.
Often when he gets home from work, he hastily throws a sandwich together.
He climbs the stairs, listening for his wife, for anything.
He checks their room first, and she’s there, an indistinguishable lump, the comforter twisted around her, glowing white in the thin blue light that streams in from the windows. He can see the top of her head but not her face; she’s turned toward the wall.
“Klara?” he asks, and he’s convinced she’ll pretend to be asleep, as she so often does when he’s around.
But she turns her head toward the sound, a baby bird searching, and he can tell that her face is wet.
It’s nothing, the tiniest movement. But it’s everything. It’s an opening.
He goes to her. “Are you all right?” he asks, and her breath is shuddering.
“No.” A whisper, defeated.
“What is it?” he asks. He crouches beside her, brushes comforter and hair from her face.
A pause. He waits.
“It’s just hard. It’s so hard.”
“The baby?”
“It was just so sudden. I guess those things always are.”
The pads of his fingers against her cheeks, she lets him blot away her tears.
“It’s confusing. It wasn’t what I wanted. You know that. But it was starting to be. I did want her.”
Her.
Troy swallows, wonders whether she found the clothes, whether she checked her medical records after they lost the baby or whether she merely intuited the baby’s sex, and correctly. But it’s not the time to ask.
“I know,” he says. “It’s—a devastating thing.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says abruptly, watery. “I’ve been awful to you.”
“It’s fine, Klara.” But he’s buoyant, feels like he’s floating beside the bed. This, precisely this, is what he’s been waiting for.
And there’s a part of him that’s screaming that she doesn’t mean this, couldn’t possibly mean this. And if she doesn’t—if this isn’t real—why? She must have a reason. She’s sharp, his wife. It’s one of the traits that attracted him, but it’s also made everything more difficult.
But there is one way he can test her.
“It’s not fine,” she’s saying, but he leans forward and kisses her, and there’s stiffness and salt, but then there’s give. There’s heat and warmth, and he doesn’t want it to end, but he must test her.
He pulls back, strokes her cheek. “Let’s just move forward, all right? We were happy. Let’s find that again.”
She blinks at him, then nods.
“I know it will take time. We’re grieving.”
“Yes,” she says. A low whistle of a sigh, then she pushes herself upright, smooths her hair back, a sheepish smile. “I’m a mess.”
“Not to me,” he lies. “You’re perfect.”
Or perhaps it isn’t a lie. After all, isn’t this how he loves her most? Vulnerable and needing. Lost, alone, drenched from the rain, facing professional disappointment, or unexpectedly pregnant. When she’s like this, that’s when he thrives. He swoops in and shows her how she can’t live without him.
“I can stay home again tomorrow,” he suggests, even as he knows he can’t. He has a closing that he can’t move.
She shrugs, listless. “Whatever you have to do. I’ll be okay.”
“Maybe try getting out for a bit,” he suggests gently. “A coffee or something.”
She nods, fingers the ends of her hair.
“Did you do anything today?” he continues. “Did you get out at all? I was just thinking, I don’t know—that might help.”
Klara sighs again, wetly. “I tried, actually. I went to the library near us. I can’t believe I hadn’t checked it out yet.
I was browsing the books, but then I happened to go past the children’s area.
There was a mother pushing her newborn in a stroller and holding her toddler’s hand, and, Troy, I just couldn’t. I had to get out of there.”
“Of course you did,” he tells her, stroking her hair. “Maybe just stay in, then. Order yourself a nice meal. Rest.”
And she nods again, so agreeable she is, in this state, and his heart soars because she’s passed the test. It’s all checking out. That blue dot at the library. No other movement. He’ll watch her closely, but he’s hopeful.
At last, she’s communicating with him. She’s being honest. And in this moment, he loves her so much; he wishes he could just gather her up and tuck her inside of himself. He would hold her there, so tightly, so safely. He would never let her go.