He fell silent again. This time, I spoke first. ―What happened, Mitch? To the baby?‖
―It died,‖ he said. ―Stillborn. We knew it would be because I . . . I convinced Kathy to get a sonogram.‖
―I don‘t understand.‖
―Her mom had a couple miscarriages and her sister, too. She would never have told me either except it all came out after she tried to kill herself. So I know enough to know that a family history of miscarriages is sometimes a bad sign. She didn‘t want genetic testing; she didn‘t even want a sonogram. She fought me the whole way, but when I threatened to leave, she caved and I won that one.‖ He gave a bitter laugh. ―Oh boy, did I ever. The sono showed that the baby was anencephalic.‖
Anencephalic: no head. My stomach went cold. I didn‘t know medicine, but I know words, Bobby-o.
―The whole top half of the baby‘s skull just wasn‘t there. Not much of a brain either. The baby would either die right after birth or in utero. There‘s no way to fix something like that. Most people would have an abortion, but Kathy wouldn‘t do it. No matter what, she would deliver that baby and there wasn‘t a damn thing I could do about it.
It was . . .‖ He swallowed. ―It was horrible. The thing was a monster. You can‘t know what that‘s like, Jenna, to know you made something like that. I watched Kathy hold and cry over it as if it were the most beautiful child ever born . . . and I just . . . I couldn‘t . . .‖
―Mitch.‖ I put my hand on his thigh. ―You couldn‘t know. You had no control over that.‖
―But I did, Jenna, don‘t you see?‖ He pulled in a shaky breath. ―If I had said no . . .
if I‘d been half the man I always thought I was we‘d never have made that baby in the first place. I told myself I was stuck, no way out, that this was kinder than a divorce, but that‘s not true. I made a choice. I won‘t say it was easier because that would be a lie. Everything I‘ve done to fix this only breaks it just a little bit more. If I were really brave, I‘d end it. No matter what my part has been, I can‘t be responsible for her happiness forever. So . . . that‘s where we are. I guess you‘d say we‘re separated. I haven‘t seen her since February.‖
Almost ten months. ―Do you want to get back together with her?‖ You don‘t know what it cost me to ask that, Bob. But I did it.
―Oh, God, Jenna, I don‘t know,‖ he said. ―Most days, I don‘t think so. She‘s nobody I recognize anymore. We tear at each other, bring out the worst, and I‘m so tired. Not having her around is a relief, but that makes me feel guilty. Isn‘t that crazy? I mean, she‘s sick and so I should keep trying, right? That‘s what a good person does. But then there are other times when I sit in that cabin and stare at the lake and think about how my life was before . . . and part of me wishes I could go back and stop all this before it ever has a chance to start. But I‘m stuck. I can‘t go back and be what I was, and we can‘t move forward because what I thought we were is a lie.‖
I heard what he felt. He might as well have been telling me the story of Rubicon Point all over again: whether it‘s true that you can fall in water or only hover over the abyss. He was there, all over again, and I was down there with him.
―Mitch,‖ I said, ―do you want to fix it?‖
Silence. The thump of the wipers. The whirr of the heater.
And silence.
Then:
―No,‖ he said. ―No, Jenna, I don‘t think I do anymore.‖
40: a
When we finally turned onto my road, it was nearly midnight. We‘d driven behind a snow plow on the main interstate, but they hadn‘t gotten around to the smaller secondary roads and wouldn‘t for hours. Once off the highway, the road disappeared beneath a white carpet. Although I knew where other houses ought to be, it was like the trees had crept in with the darkness to swallow them whole. A hump of snow crouched over the mailbox at the end of my parents‘ driveway. I made out only the barest glimmer of light at the very top of the hill where the house was. Mitch slowed, but instead of turning into the driveway, he pulled to the side of the road.
―Mitch?‖
No answer.
―Mitch?‖
No answer. He only stared straight ahead. I have no idea what he saw, Bob. Then he killed the headlights and, after another moment, the engine.
Darkness swallowed the truck. A fist of wind grabbed and shook the chassis. Snow sizzled over the windshield.
I groped for his hand. The cab was warm from the heater, but his fingers were ice.
At my touch, he said, brokenly, ―Oh God.‖
―Mitch.‖ As my eyes adjusted, I could just make out the dim outline of his head and shoulders. ―Mitch. Talk to me. Are you okay?‖
He gave a sudden, savage groan. ― Nooooooo.‖ He jammed a balled fist into his thigh, hard: once, twice, three times. ―No, no, no, I’m not, I’m not, I’m—‖
―Mitch!‖ Now I was scared and so I did the only thing I could think of to try and make it better. I grabbed his fist in both hands before he could hurt himself again. ―Stop, stop. Mitch, I‘m here, I‘m here.‖
At my touch, his shoulders heaved and I heard something claw its way from his throat. He began to sag; my arms opened to catch him before he could fall anymore and then I was holding him up, the way he‘d once held me, as he let himself go.
I‘d never heard a man cry before, Bob, but . . . it‘s awful. Maybe you cry all the time, I don‘t know. Given your job, I‘ll bet it‘s tough not to some days. But I think some men aren‘t used to it and don‘t know what to do with all that feeling. Their emotions are hexane ignited in a closed space: an explosion that detonates deep in their chests and rips them apart, and then they feel like they‘re going to die—just as something was dying, at that moment, in Mitch.
Everybody breaks sooner or later, Bob. Anyone can drown. Sometimes you see it.
Most often, you don‘t because the body protects and the skin hides, so drowning doesn‘t look like drowning and some people scar so nicely. Take it from an expert.
b
Anyway.
We were there for a while, long enough for the cold to leak into the truck. I listened to the hiss of snow against the windshield and the creak of the truck and Mitch‘s grief, and I cradled his head against my chest and hung on. Finally, he sighed and pulled back, but he didn‘t let go, not completely, and neither did I.
―Oh, Jenna.‖ His voice was husky and tremulous. ―When I saw you falll. . . when you went down, I was frantic. I was so scared. I wanted to kill Danielle, I was that angry. I was furious.‖