Chapter 31
Thanksgiving
The apartment door slams, and I look up from the couch. Rob is at the top of the steps, taking off his coat. He’s tired and drawn. “Hey.”
“Hey. You’re back earlier than I thought.”
“Yeah, I don’t want us to be late for this party. You gonna get ready? I have to change my shirt.”
I nod, mustering the energy for the dinner. I’ve been feeling okay, relatively speaking, and I’ve been sleeping better, even though I’m off the meds. The dreams are all but gone. They stopped when I made the decision to do what I’m going to do, one week from now.
Someone, my mother probably, once told me depressed patients with a suddenly improved mood are a much higher suicide risk, as people often feel better when they’ve decided to end their misery and have formulated a plan.
I wonder if what I’m feeling is like that.
A sort of attempt at suicide — from this life, at least. Considering the risk I’ll be taking, possibly actual suicide.
I step into the art bedroom, changing into the cobalt-blue dress I wore the first time I had dinner with Rob, piling up my hair. When I emerge, Rob is at the kitchen island. He smiles as I come up the steps.
“You look great. I like this dress on you.” He leans in for a soft kiss, careful not to smudge my lipstick. “You realize you’ll have to smile tonight, right?”
I grin at him to show I’m quite capable of smiling. “Actually, I’m in a good mood. You ready?”
“Wow. Put her in a nice frock and she’s transformed. It’s a miracle cure. Okay, let’s go.”
I laugh, a little forced, but at least the mood is light as we get a cab to Mike and Hans’s loft.
A few of our other H&F colleagues have already arrived — Josh and Austin, Angela and her boyfriend, and several of the agents I’ve come to know well.
At the center, Mike and Hans, the perfect hosts, pouring glass after glass of champagne, their caterers serving up a turkey dinner at a long table.
I uncharacteristically stick to virgin mojitos, not wanting to get drunk and maudlin. Better to avoid alcohol tonight. I don’t want to start making confessions.
Rob, on the other hand, is clearly drinking away the pain, downing glass after glass of bubbly, then switching to whiskey. He’s making an effort to be sociable, but I can tell a lot of it is for show.
When the Thanksgiving toast comes, I kiss my husband.
Suddenly wondering if this could be one of the last times, I linger in the kiss, then lean into it, more passionate than is perhaps appropriate for the table.
We even attract a couple of whistles from Hans, and one “Get a room!” — which we ignore.
Breaking free, I hold Rob’s face in my hands. “Happy Thanksgiving, baby.”
He looks at me, sensing something is up. But all he says is, “Happy Thanksgiving, my love.”
By midnight I’m done, and Rob is decidedly drunk as we return home. Back at the apartment, he throws his coat and shoes off in the lobby and follows me into the kitchen, where he leans in for another kiss.
“Okay, booze breath.” I half-laugh, pushing him gently back. “Bed, I think. Drink some water.” I kiss him firmly on the cheek. “Night, honey.”
I head into the art room, wondering if I should sleep in the main bedroom tonight. But Rob’s drunk. Better to have a quiet night’s sleep.
I’m climbing into bed when the door opens. Rob leans against the frame.
“Don’t sleep in here, baby,” he slurs. “Be with me tonight.” He stumbles into the room and nudges me to the other side of the bed, taking off his pants and shirt, getting in. He is drunker than I thought.
“Rob, you’re kinda wasted. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
I try to ease his body off the bed. But he’s a big guy and barely notices. He pulls the covers over him and lies down, facing away from me, turning out the bedside light.
“Just lie with me,” he mumbles, already falling asleep. He reaches back for my hand and pulls my arm over him.
Holding him feels so good, I quit resisting. With one arm across him, I stroke his thick black hair with my other hand, feeling him drift off. It’s comforting to watch him sleep. Even if it is alcohol-induced.
I don’t know how many hours later, but it’s not yet dawn when I wake to find the bedside light on again. Rob is no longer beside me, and I sit up with a start. He’s at the dressing table, the ceramic mask staring at him. Then, with a lurch of my stomach, I see what he is doing.
I sit up, with a sinking feeling. We’re in for another Big Talk.
Rob looks up at me, meeting my eyes in the mirror. He shakes his head. He holds up the journal. My journal.
“I couldn’t resist. I couldn’t not read it.”
“I’m not mad. Honestly, if you had a journal, I’d have probably done the same thing.” I pause. “How much have you read?”
He swivels around to face me. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair all over the place. He’s a mess.
“I started from the back. All the recent stuff, the past few months. When you started writing everything to her.”
“Right.”
The air in the room is thick.
He takes a sharp breath. “Are you leaving me? Is that ‘the plan’?”
I bite my lip, thick saliva building at the back of my mouth, then give a tiny nod. “I think she’s coming back for you. I need to let her.”
“What? How is that even possible? What are you planning, Josie?”
I can’t tell him.
“Come on, baby — none of this says what you’re planning to do. What is it? You going to pack your bags and disappear?”
I press my lips together. “I’m not going to tell you the plan, Rob.
I’ve no clue if there’s any chance of it even working.
I can tell you it’s happening soon, and then we’ll know.
If it works, she’ll be back, and she’ll be your wife — your real wife — and I’ll be gone.
If it doesn’t work, I’ll still be here, and I’ll have done everything I could.
I’ll be absolved, and you will be too. There will be no more guilt. I hope.”
Rob throws the journal on the floor and comes to the bed, climbing on it, kneeling over me. “I don’t want you to go, Josie. I love you . . . so, so much. Don’t leave me.” His voice breaks, and he buries his head in my shoulder. “Don’t leave me, baby, please.”
“You love her, too,” I remind him, stroking his back. “And she’s your real wife. We love each other, but it’s not enough. I told you in Venice I hoped it would be enough, but it’s not.”
He lifts his eyes to the giant photograph above our heads, and his face contorts with despair. He punches the bottom of the frame, splintering it. “Fuck Venice. Fuck all of it. What am I going to do without you, Josie? I love you so much.” His body collapses on me. “Don’t leave me.”
I hold him. “If the plan doesn’t work, and I’m still here, then I’ll never leave you,” I murmur in his ear. “I’ll know we’re meant to be. Trust me.”
We both sob ourselves into a restless sleep, the beside light left on the whole time.