Die For You

Was I joking? Then, when he realized that I wasn’t, a strange blankness, a total withdrawal from me, from the scene. He crossed his arms across his chest and walked over to the window.

“It’s not a good idea, Isabel. It’s not…” He let the sentence trail with a bemused shake of his head.

“It’s not an idea, Marcus. It’s a person.”

“You don’t understand,” he said. More than any other moment, this was the moment that should have sent the alarms jangling. But, of course, I couldn’t have seen anything then through the veil of my anger and disappointment.

Now, as I sat on a rocking subway car hurtling uptown, I realized he wanted to tell me then. He wanted to confess. That was the pleading I saw on his face when he turned to look at me.

“Listen…,” he began. I lifted a hand, terrified of the words that were coming.

“Don’t. Don’t say something you won’t be able to take back.”

I thought he was going to tell me to end the pregnancy. And I couldn’t have those words written between us, alive and gnawing at our marriage like rats in the attic. You’d try to kill them, but they’d always be up there scampering, scratching, crawling in through any hole they found. But maybe he wasn’t going to say that at all; maybe he was going to tell me everything I was finding out now, the hard way.

I am a person lulled to calm by moving vehicles. The subway, even with all its filth and myriad threats, is no different. My memories and the present moment mingled in a semi-dream state. I wasn’t sleeping-I was way too wired for that; it was more a kind of restless doze. Though I was aware of the rumble of the train, the stops as they came and went, I was back there in our kitchen. I could smell the marinara that simmered on the stove, hear the music from the stereo in the living room, feel the cold granite of the countertop beneath my hands.

“Don’t make me hate you,” I said.

He looked at me quickly, startled as though I’d slapped him. I wanted to. I wanted to pummel him, scream at him. And I might have if I didn’t suspect he’d just stand there, stoic, accepting my blows.

“What do you think it means to be a parent?” he asked. There was a musing quality to his tone, as if he wasn’t quite looking for an answer. I answered, anyway.

“I think it means you stop living only for yourself,” I said. “I think it means you experience a different kind of love.”

It sounded lame, defensive, even to my own ears. He gave me a long look.

“But what if it doesn’t mean any of that?” Something in his eyes made me shiver. “What then?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You know as well as I that not everyone loves their children.”

I felt a wave of nausea, the debut of a tension headache. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He shook his head, pressed his lips into a tight line. I have such clarity on this moment now, but then I was mystified, despairing. All I could think was, He doesn’t want our child. He doesn’t think he could love a baby.

I knew he’d be nervous, afraid. I expected him to be as ambivalent as I had been. But in my center I believed that, like me, under the current of all that surface intellectual confusion there would be a deep well of love and desire for a child. His frigid withdrawal, the draining of color from his face, the physical retreat-I see it now as the beginning of an end that was still too far off to perceive.

“Linda and Erik are happy,” I said.

“Really. You think so?”

“You don’t?”

“Is that what this about? Wanting what your sister has?”

“No,” I snapped. “Of course not. This conversation is not about what I want or don’t want. It’s about what is. I’m pregnant.”

“So you wouldn’t have chosen this?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

He gave me a smirk, a quick nod of his head. “That’s what I thought.”

I felt a rush of guilt, for not wanting this enough, for having it anyway, for now trying to convince Marcus it was a good thing. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I remembered Linda and Erik’s euphoria when they learned she was pregnant. They hadn’t planned Emily-or Trevor, either. But they were truly happy each time. I thought it would happen that way for us.

The light outside was growing dim and we hadn’t turned on the lights inside yet, so we were sitting in near darkness.

“Isabel,” he said, coming nearer to me.

I wrapped my arms reflexively around my middle. How fast you start thinking of that person inside you, how early you act to protect. I moved away from him, sat in a chair at the table.

“I think I understand your position well enough, Marcus,” I said, looking down at the floor. It was dusty, needed cleaning. “Let’s end this discussion before the damage can’t be undone.”

“There are so many things you don’t understand.” I didn’t like the sentence; it seemed hollow, cliched. But I wasn’t in the mood to edit him.

“Then tell me.” I looked up at him, but he was staring out the window again, not connecting with me, not engaging in any way.

“I don’t remember my parents,” he said softly. “I don’t remember what it was like to be someone’s child.”

He wasn’t reaching out for reassurance with those words. He was closing a door. I sensed this, didn’t even bother saying any of the things that sprung to mind. After a few beats, he moved over to the switch and turned on the light. I squinted at the sudden change. He seemed about to say something else, but instead took the jacket that lay over one of the chairs.

“I’m going to take a walk. I need some air,” he said.

I lifted my palms. “Fine,” I said, feeling a valley of despair open within me. Of all the reactions I imagined, this was the worst-case scenario. Even anger would have been better than abandonment.

He left then and didn’t come back until much later. I didn’t call my sister. There were so many things I couldn’t tell her about Marcus; she was always so quick to judge him even without things like this. I thought about calling Jack, but it felt like some kind of betrayal. I just watched TV for a while, hoping Marcus would come back quickly. But it was hours, after midnight when I heard his key in the door. I was in bed with the lights off. I heard him come up the stairs, push softly into our room.

“Isabel,” he whispered from the doorway.

I didn’t answer, pretending to be asleep. I didn’t want to talk anymore. I was so tired. I was relieved when I heard him go back downstairs and turn on the television. I made a point to leave early for the gym in the morning before he awoke and stayed away until after he’d gone for the day.

That night, he came home early from work with a gigantic teddy bear. He apologized and we pretended that everything was okay, normal. I wanted so badly to believe that he’d come around, I almost convinced myself. I tried not to notice that his smiles were forced, that his attentiveness just didn’t seem sincere.

Then, of course, a few weeks later there was the miscarriage. Soon after, the affair. And yet on the night before he disappeared we made love and shared croissants in the morning. Tragedy, betrayal mingling with the mundane of everyday life, a love that manages temporary amnesia masquerading as forgiveness to survive-is that the stuff of enduring marriages? Maybe just mine.

All these buried memories exposed to the light by his disappearance. I had fooled myself, thinking I was the one who saw more than others. I saw what I wanted to see, edited and rewrote the rest. I got off the train at East Eighty-sixth Street and emerged on Fifth Avenue. I was directly across town from my own apartment, separated by the expanse of Central Park. With a dead woman’s purse over my shoulder, weighted down by the first gun I’d ever touched, I felt so far away from my life that I might as well have been on the moon.

I passed the inverted ziggurat of the Guggenheim, its white expanse as vast and peaceful as a moonscape. I felt a twinge of longing to be meandering its downward spiral carefree and overwarm, gazing at the Surrealists, the Impressionists, the post-Impressionists, the early Moderns. Artists gone but art remaining, peaceful and still, even if the creator’s spirit was anything but.

The neighborhood was quiet at night, the proximity of Central Park making it seem an airier neighborhood than other parts of the city. I would have felt perfectly safe on any other night. But that night I found myself looking over my shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps, gazing at others on the street with suspicion. I dug my hand