Before
BEFORE
The summer after Michael turns thirty-eight, he disappears.
Only for an hour, but it’s utterly unlike him, and we’re supposed to attend the opening of Seagrove’s newest art gallery tonight. It’s the kind of event my husband loves: an excuse to dress lavishly and converse with glittering people in hushed, reverent tones while nibbling at carefully crafted hors d’oeuvres. In all honesty, I’ve been looking forward to it, too. I don’t often get him away from work so early in the day.
I’ve donned a slinky dress and blow-dried my hair, but he’s nowhere to be found. He left for his annual physical hours ago, and I can’t imagine a doctor’s appointment taking this long.
I call him. When he doesn’t answer, I pull up our location-sharing app. Since that day in Seattle, I’ve dreaded not being able to get in touch, though I’ve only had to use this thing once or twice.
Michael’s blue dot pulses steadily on the map, and my fingers tighten around the phone.
He’s in a place he absolutely should not be.
Inside of a minute, I’m zooming from the driveway. The greenery blurs past. This must be some kind of mistake. A glitch in the software. Or maybe Michael got a flat tire and had to pull over.
But when I round the last bend, my heart capsizes. Michael’s BMW X7 sits parked outside the liquor store, right beside the door.
I slot my Genesis in beside it, my palms slick. My husband has been sober for thirteen years. I can’t imagine what would have the power to make that change.
I leap from the car, then pause. Michael sits in the BMW’s driver’s seat, his face as pale as a full moon. He stares off, not seeing me, not even seeing the liquor store, from what I can tell.
I circle to his passenger side and test the door. It’s unlocked. I climb in.
“Michael?”
His gaze swivels to me, much too slowly. Something’s definitely wrong. His cheeks have a greenish cast that ties my guts in a knot.
“I didn’t go inside,” he says tonelessly. “I wanted to, but I didn’t. I was hoping you’d come and stop me.”
I gulp. “Okay. Good. That’s good. But what’re you doing here? What happened ?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s looking at me, but also not looking at me, somehow.
“Was it something at your appointment?” I venture. Still nothing. “Michael? You’re scaring me.”
“I haven’t been fair to you,” he blurts from nowhere.
That rocks me back in the seat. “What?”
“I haven’t...” He trails off, shakes his head. “Nothing. I’m just...not feeling well. I think I might throw up. Can we go home?”
The tightness in my belly eases. Food poisoning would explain that greenish tint and the sheen on his forehead. I got sick with it a few months ago and spent the evening curled around the toilet bowl, so delirious I swore I heard the jingle of Penny’s collar, even though she’s been gone for years.
“Of course,” I say. “Here, come around to this side. I’ll drive.”
At home, I tuck Michael into bed with a glass of water he doesn’t drink, then go downstairs to whip up some soup in hopes of easing his stomach. But by the time I head back upstairs with a bowl, he’s asleep, even though it’s only 7:00 p.m.
I watch him from the doorway. He doesn’t stir, and in the end, I leave him be.
The following week, Kate’s daughter is born.
My best friend texts me three days later. Meet Evelyn! The picture shows Kate on her couch with a squashed-face infant nestled against her chest. Dark circles hang beneath her eyes, but her smile looks genuine.
She’s beautiful , I write back, because she really is. And you did it, warrior woman!
I did , she texts. And thank god it’s over. Margaritas at Tequila Mockingbird tonight? I could really use an hour of non-mom time.
I hesitate, not sure new mothers are supposed to get drunk three days after giving birth. Then again, what would I know? Besides, Kate has told me she’s going straight to formula this time—after a months-long odyssey with her son, Hunter, that involved multiple lactation consultants, excruciating nipple pain, and lots and lots of late-night tears, she’s given up on breastfeeding completely. And she deserves to celebrate not having an entire extra human kicking around inside her rib cage anymore.
So I mount the stairs to Michael’s office. Ever since the liquor-store incident, he hasn’t been himself. Several times, I’ve caught him staring out the windows instead of working, and he points haunted eyes at me over the dinner table, as if his innermost thoughts disturb him.
Yet whenever I ask what’s wrong, he shakes himself and gives me a smile. “Nothing.”
“Hey,” I say from the doorway. “Would you mind if I went out with Kate tonight?”
He glances up from his desk. “Sure. Will you need a ride later?”
I pause. I know he’s asking whether I plan on drinking. By unspoken agreement, I never do when he’s around, but I have indulged a few times with Kate over the years. “I don’t know. Can I call you if I do?”
“Of course,” he says, his tone mild, as if everything is perfectly fine. Maybe it is. “Whatever you need, angel.”
At dinner, I do indeed end up having margaritas. Four, to be exact, which all hit at once the moment I stand up from the table.
I stumble. Kate slings a steadying arm around my shoulders as we make our way to the parking lot. Tanner, in a surprising show of competence, has managed to get both kids into the car in order to come pick us up, and I breathe a sigh of relief at not having to call my husband.
Whatever’s going on with him, I don’t want to think about it right now.
“How’s Operation Vacation coming along?” Kate slurs in my ear. “Have you convinced Michael to get on a plane again yet?”
I would flinch if I hadn’t drunk so much. As it is, I just hiccup. The lights of the restaurant twinkle and weave in the darkness. “Still working on it.”
I don’t feel like admitting the rest: that three-plus years post-Hawaii, I’ve nearly given up trying. Instead, I’ve come to accept that this is my life. I have a good husband, a good home, the best of friends.
It would be selfish to ask for more.
Tanner pulls up in the Suburban. He waves through the windshield and puts a finger to his lips, indicating the kids are asleep.
“Come on,” I say. “Our knight in shining armor is here.”
Kate climbs in back, cramming herself between the two car seats. After a few clumsy attempts, I manage to hoist myself into the passenger seat and fasten my seat belt.
On the way to my house, Kate starts to cry. Normally, I would startle—my best friend rarely succumbs to tears—but between the alcohol and the postpartum hormones, I figure this is probably par for the course.
“She’s so beautiful,” Kate burbles between sobs. “I can’t believe we made her. How mind-blowing is that?”
When Tanner pulls up to my door, I blow silent kisses toward the back seat so as not to wake the babies, then clamber out. Even from the driveway, I catch the wash of yellow illuminating the backyard. Michael is in his office.
I sneak inside and wobble up the stairs to our bedroom, where I run a toothbrush over my teeth, splash water on my face, and collapse into bed without even changing into pajamas.
I would say good night, if I weren’t so spectacularly drunk. Even in my inebriated state, I realize that rubbing my intoxication in Michael’s face would be incredibly cruel.
The world does a slow, nauseating spin, and I drift, not entirely certain whether I’m awake or dreaming. Eventually, a strong arm slips around my waist. A weight settles on the bed.
My eyelids flutter. It’s dark, though I don’t remember turning off the lamp. Did I? What time is it? It could be ten at night or five in the morning. I can’t even tell if I’m in my bedroom or some amorphous dreamscape.
“Are you awake?” a voice says in my ear.
It sounds like Michael, and yet it doesn’t. Something deep and broken drags beneath the words.
“I love you.” Warm breath sifts against my ear.
I can’t gather the energy to reply. My limbs feel heavy, my head fuzzy inside.
“I hope you know it’s for my own reasons,” the voice continues. “Even if you’ve never really loved me.”
I freeze. Everything inside me quiets. I do love him. Of course I do. What kind of bizarre dream is this?
“I’ve tried to make you.” The arm around me curls tighter. “I really have. But now I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have. If I should’ve let you go a long time ago.”
Let me go?
“I just...needed you,” he says. “I still do. What would’ve happened if you hadn’t stopped me from going into the store that day?”
I open my mouth, or try to, but nothing comes out.
And in another moment, the dream fades. It spins off into silken, swaying darkness, taking me with it.
In the morning, my head feels like someone has taken a sledgehammer to the inside of my skull.
I drag myself upright with a wince. The clock on Michael’s nightstand reads nearly eleven, and I hang my legs over the bedside before braving a walk across the room. God, I haven’t been this hungover since college.
I tame my snarled hair and force some ibuprofen down my throat, then venture out of the bedroom. To my surprise, Michael’s office is empty.
I find him downstairs, in the kitchen. The heavy scent of frying bacon and syrupy French toast saturates the air.
He’s cooking. And whistling .
I collapse on a stool at the island and squint. “I didn’t know you could whistle.”
With a flourish, Michael serves up a heaping plate. His eyes twinkle. “Well, now you do. How’re you feeling?”
“Great.” The mere word threatens to split my head open. “Why’re you so chipper?”
His smile widens. “Because my doctor called this morning. And it’s good news.”
I look down at the food, then up at him. He watches me, expectant, his expression more open than it’s been all week.
“What good news?”
“My biopsy results came back. Benign. No cancer.”
“Biopsy?” I shake my head, wondering if hangovers can cause auditory hallucinations. “What biopsy?”
“Dr. Maraida found a lump last week. On my testicle. I had to go do an ultrasound and get a giant needle poked into me. But it turns out it was nothing. Just a scare.”
I sit motionless. “You thought you had cancer? And didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
I gape. “I’m your wife. It’s my job to worry when, you know...something important happens.”
He doesn’t shrink from the accusation in my tone. It seems to roll off him like so much water down a duck’s back. “I wanted to spare you, Mina. It wouldn’t have made any sense for us both to be miserable. Not unless there was something to actually be miserable about.”
I pause, weighing that. Last night’s dream floats back to me in hazy snatches. “Is that why...?”
He waits, his head tilted.
My cheeks tingle. I had to have been asleep. Michael never talks like that. And yet... “I had the strangest dream last night.”
He doesn’t blink. “About?”
“It was you, I think. Or someone who sounded like you. You got in bed and told me all these things about what you should’ve done, like... Like you regretted stuff.”
His expression turns thoughtful, but I discern no recognition on his face. “Just a nightmare. This whole thing has just been a horrible nightmare, and now it’s over.”
I search for a response. I can’t believe he’d shoulder something like this for an entire week without telling me. And yet somehow, I’m not surprised.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Michael says. “Maybe we could take a vacation. Go back to Hawaii.”
Everything rushes away, the smell of the food fading. Even the hammering in my head quiets. My body fills with heat as the old daydreams come flooding back with a strength that makes me dizzy.
“Hawaii?” I could spend another night on the beach with him. I could hold that man in my arms again. “Really?”
“Sure. I could ask my doctor for some Xanax. That’d make the flight easier, don’t you think? I’ll just take so much I won’t even notice getting on the plane. And we’ll have even more fun this time.”
“That would be impossible,” I say automatically.
Michael’s smile flickers, but soon recovers. “Let’s do it.”
“Okay,” I whisper, all thoughts of cancer scares and foggy dreams forgotten. God, I love him. More than ever.
Except the trip never happens. For months, Michael resists my efforts to pin down a date, and when I finally do, a crisis at work forces him to reschedule.
Then, in February, less than two weeks after his thirty-ninth birthday, I get a phone call.
One that changes everything.