5. James
CHAPTER FIVE
James
NOW
“We wrote and committed the code, so the software should be up to date now. I was hoping you could take a look? If you don’t mind…” The request trails off as Diane, our senior software developer, ends her request with an apologetic grimace.
I nod at my two monitors sitting side by side, the one on the left displaying a screen split four ways like the opening credits to The Brady Bunch. Though, I can probably bet my next paycheck most of those on this call don’t know who or what The Brady Bunch is.
“Don’t mind at all,” I reply. “It’s part of my job.”
“We initially started with Java after going back and forth between C++. Now we’re discovering so many bugs we might have to reconsider the base design,” Terry chimes in from the bottom right corner, “and I hate to ask when we should’ve had this figured out, but—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I assure, interrupting what I’m sure was about to be a list of unnecessary excuses and apologies. “I really don’t mind giving it another look.”
Terry nods, the sky behind her already dark with the later hour in New York. “We really appreciate it. And I know the time difference might throw things off, but I can extend my office hours if needed.”
Diane smiles kindly, the backdrop of her screen similar to mine with her office being only a few doors down. “Whatever you find, just let us know. We’ll be sure to review it with the team.”
I sneak a glance at the time on my screen. It’s past five, and I should’ve been on the road already, but this meeting took a little longer than expected.
“Listen, I have to go,” I announce to the team. “Just email me if you need anything, and I’ll talk to you separately tomorrow, Diane.”
We all bid our farewells, though a little less enervated than when the meeting started.
This is why I hate end-of-day meetings. The attention span of those in attendance, myself included, is lacking, and we’re more focused on the seconds ticking away to punch out instead of more important things like actual work-related matters.
I’ve been at Nexus Sphere for about six years.
Just after Sophia was born. It was a move I discussed in detail with Kendall at the time.
I was growing a little weary at my old job.
We’d just bought a house, and so many things were changing already.
But that’s the thing with treading into the unknown.
You worry about things you didn’t even need to worry about while forgetting to contemplate and brood over the things tucked far away in the back of your mind.
Things that should’ve been brought to the forefront and held more of my attention.
I log off my desktop and head out the door.
The elevator ride is filled with the same listless energy my meeting had with the long workday hitting myself and fellow office goers.
As I walk past the security desk in the lobby, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.
I unlock it at the same time I enter the parking lot. It’s a text message from Kendall.
Kendall
I’m stopping by the store. Do you want me to pick up some dessert? Sophia’s been asking for ice cream.
It shouldn’t feel out of place, this near mundane back and forth between husband and wife, but it feels anything but.
Messages with no heft or substance haven’t been a part of the repertoire in a while.
Every text message, every strained phone call has weight to it.
Otherwise, they wouldn’t exist. There would be no exchange of words without an essential cause.
It could’ve been weeks, or even months, since the last time we sent each other a message like this.
They never mattered to me, and they felt just as ordinary as brewing a morning cup of coffee or making sure all the doors are locked before going to bed.
But now, they’re significant. My heart skips a beat with each nugget of information my wife is willing to give me with a glimpse into her day.
I’ve been measuring our interactions on a scale.
One end marked “good day” and the other aptly marked “bad day.” Sometimes, the small indicator in the middle leans in our favor, inching toward a good day.
And on other days, on those particularly bad days, I don’t even look at it.
I notice it’s on the good days these messages come in more predictable intervals.
It’ll always be something informative like that we need more milk, or she’s running a little late because she’s getting gas or picking up something from the store.
I’ll come home, and she’ll meet my eyes more often, smile at a joke I make for Sophia, usually at my expense.
On the bad days, my phone stays silent. I don’t hear from her until I get home, and she offers a terse smile instead of a warm inquiry about my day.
I don’t understand how we got here. How years of hurt and bad luck led to the state of our marriage now. Too frail to hash out every argument. Every ordeal, every blow, every painful memory. Too hopeful to jump the bridge into divorce.
Divorce. It feels like a barbed vise around my heart.
Even if we don’t share every detail of our lives or have weirdly unserious talks like if we’re scared of dying or whether or not we believe in aliens, the thought of not being able to see her walk through our home leaves a hollow cave in my chest. It might be why we’ve never talked about it, never brought it up as an option.
James
I’m good. Thanks for asking.
Kendall
Okay.
When I get home, I find my mom in the kitchen, her hands buried in a small heap of suds and coffee mugs and a steady stream of water from the faucet into the large sink.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, James,” she answers, her neck craned over her shoulder while her hands are occupied.
“You don’t have to do those.”
“I know,” she tells me. “I just wanted to keep busy until you guys got home.”
“I can do the rest.”
She hums dismissively with her focus on a crusty bowl that once held a serving of cereal and continues. “Is Kendall on her way home?”
I nod. “I think so. She said she was getting ice cream, but she should be home soon.”
I have my empty travel mug in my hand, and the handle dangles from my fingertips awkwardly. A habit of not wanting to add to my mom’s workload but not really knowing where else to place it.
My mom looks at me with a flat smile and offers a dripping hand in my direction. “Give it.”
I chuckle. “Thanks.”
Her being here helps pour a little bit of normalcy into our home.
Most days, aside from the few when I’m able to leave the office early or during breaks when Kendall gets to stay home with Sophia, my mom helps us.
While we toyed with the idea of Sophia going to school where Kendall teaches, it made more sense to keep her at her home school where my mom could do after-school pickups.
Especially on the days Kendall’s workload kept her past her usual office hours, which would’ve left Sophia moping in her classroom with the question, “Are we leaving yet?” leaving her pouty mouth every five minutes.
And with the preferential art programs at the high schools within our district where she would eventually attend, we couldn’t really find any other reason to schlep Sophia eighteen miles away to a completely different district out of mere convenience for our commute.
My mom finishes with the dishes and starts towel drying her hands when I hear the front door open followed by a distant shriek of the word “Mommy” echoing through the walls. It’s funny how my arrival wasn’t even acknowledged, but Kendall gets a fanfare welcome.
The sounds grow louder. The rustle of shopping bags and excited chatter announces Kendall’s arrival in the kitchen, and when she rounds the final wall, I see her weary smile.
It isn’t a taut or forced smile, but one that comes from finally being in a relaxed state after a chaotic day.
One I rarely get to witness. And it stops me in my tracks for a second, making my offer to take the clunky grocery bag from her clumsy.
“Thank you,” she whispers when I manage to slip the twined handle from her middle finger and set it on the counter. She turns to my mom, her smile deepening, and softly says, “Hi, Beth.”
“Hi, honey.” I don’t miss how my wife is “honey,” but I’m just “James.”
“Did Soph give you any trouble today?”
“Aside from the stickers on the windows in my van? She was a perfect angel.”
Kendall turns to me with an exasperated eye roll. “We have to get her to stop doing that.”
The smile on her face reminds me of when we first met. When birthday cupcakes were all that were on the itinerary until we realized what else was on the table. Some harmless flirting and roommate gossip. When I didn’t realize how quickly we’d fall for each other.
“Did you want to stay for dinner?” Kendall offers. “I got some stuff to make chicken lettuce wraps.”
This is news to me since I was planning on heating up the leftover lasagna in the fridge. But I stay quiet, letting Kendall’s offer stand.
“Sure,” my mom answers.
Kendall starts unloading the other groceries she bought alongside the ice cream. My mom goes to seek out Sophia, knowing she’ll be ecstatic about our additional dinner guest.
“Do you need some help?”
Kendall smiles at me, her hands busy as she places everything on the counter.
This one is the kind of smile that’s all tentative and unsure, lacking confidence, a slight change from her last one.
It’s careful but anticipatory, but she still manages to answer with more than a dismissive, ‘No, thank you.’
“Do you think you could wash the lettuce?” she asks.
“Yeah, of course.” My answer comes out in a weak croak. I don’t think there’s anything I want more than to wash the lettuce. I’d go dig it out of the ground if she’d ask me in that expectant voice and soft tone.
Kendall takes the last item out of the shopping bags, and I see that it’s a small paper bag with a bright blue Rx logo on it.
I pretend not to notice as she tucks it away into a drawer.
Instead, I roll up my sleeves, hook a dish towel over my shoulder, and get to washing the shit out of some lettuce.
I can hear the water in the master bathroom shut off followed by light taps of Kendall’s feet hitting the tile floor.
The door that was left ajar—a habit she’s had since Sophia was an infant, claiming it was so she could listen for Sophia in case she cries while she’s in the shower—opens and Kendall appears over the threshold.
She’s wearing loose sleep shorts that stop high on her thigh with a large T-shirt hanging off her shoulders.
She’s rubbing her hands together as if she’s got some creamy lotion plopped in her palm, and she pads to the bed.
“Tommy just sent me a picture of their backyard,” I announce. “They just got it sodded over the weekend.” I turn the phone in my hand, angling it to face her.
“Is that Katy?” she asks, looking at the curly-haired brunette with a gap-toothed smile beaming through the screen. She has on a tulle tutu with bright orange flip-flops, and Kendall stares at the picture in awe as she takes it from me. “I can’t believe how big she’s gotten.”
“She’s what, two? Three years older than Sophia?” I point out.
“Still…it feels like yesterday they were both little babies.” Kendall hands me back my phone.
She turns to her nightstand, reaching for more lotion—this one the kind that comes in a large tube.
She squeezes a healthy dollop into her palm and starts smearing it over her legs.
I try to ignore her bent knee and how her already too-short shorts ride a little higher up her thigh with her heel resting on the bed.
I can’t even remember the last time I touched her.
Not something innocent like a tap on her shoulder or even as bold as my hand pressed to the small of her back but really touched her.
To feel her skin under my fingertips, run my hands through her chocolaty-auburn hair I know she pays nearly an arm and a leg for, or kiss her on her shoulder, loving how she always lifts it a little to meet me halfway.
“Were you talking to him about our grass?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “He said the Bermuda grass would probably be best for us. Considering we live in Southern California.”
She hums in approval.
I’m tugging at my phone charger, the port already angled to the USB-C end of the cable, when Kendall smooths her hand over the comforter. “You know, Tommy asked when we’re going to visit them.”
“Sylvia asked me too,” Kendall informs me. “Maybe we can visit over the summer?”
“Yeah,” I tell her with a nod. “Soph would like that.”
“I’m starting a new medication,” she announces. The sudden topic shift has my attention sharp and my heart hopeful. She’s talking to me. About other things besides our friends and dinner plans and Sophia.
I set my phone down amid the rumpled cotton and goose down. “Yeah?”
She nods. “My therapist said I should probably speak with the psychiatrist to see if I need any adjustments on my medications, and…”
“When are they going to prescribe it to you?” I play dumb, pretending I didn’t see her covertly stash her new prescription bag in the kitchen.
“They already did,” she answers. “I’ll probably start it over the weekend. In case there are any side effects, I don’t want to deal with it at school.”
“Okay.” I try to sound as encouraging as possible, hoping to keep this amicable air afloat until the morning.
“I…” She hesitates. I watch it work through her chest in hitched breaths and trembling hands.
“I know I haven’t even started taking them, but I think they’re going to help.
” Her fingers play with the corner of her pillow, and a soft smile plays on her lips.
“I’m sorry I’ve been…off a lot lately. I don’t mean to—”
“I’m sorry too,” I interrupt. “I know you need some space, and I want to give you that, but I just…miss you sometimes.”
The side of her palm brushes mine, and I don’t know if she meant to do that. If it was an accident, something that happened as she adjusted her position on our bed, or if it’s her version of an olive branch.
“I miss me too.”
I don’t know how we got here. It didn’t happen overnight.
It was gradual. Like water dripping into a bucket, the hollow splats a constant reminder that something is amiss.
Something isn’t right. Until it filled, so close to the brim where it just might overflow and we won’t be able to clean it up.
No stack of terry cloth towels or mops or napkins would be enough to wipe it clean and give us a fresh start.
But maybe we can empty the bucket before it spills over, even stop the drips from coming while we’re at it.