“Jonathan, there is something I must tell you. It’s about Sophia.”
“Hmm?” He stirred next to me.
“It was my fault that she killed herself. My fault. I lied to you when you asked if I’d gone to see her. I threatened her. I told her she would be ruined if she had the baby. I said you would never marry her, that you were through with her.” I’d always thought I’d burst into tears when I made this confession, but I didn’t. My teeth began to chatter, though, and my blood was cold in my veins.
He turned to me, though I couldn’t make out his expression in the dark. A long few seconds ticked by before he answered. “You waited all this time to tell me this?”
“Please, please forgive me-”
“It’s okay. Really, it is. I’ve thought about it over the years. Funny how you see things differently with time. Then, I’d never have thought my father and mother would have let me marry Sophia. But what could they have done to stop me? If I’d threatened to leave the family to be with Sophia and the child, they wouldn’t have disowned me. They would have given in. I was their only hope to keep the business going, to have someone to take care of Benjamin and the girls after they died. I just didn’t see it then. I didn’t know what to do, and I turned to you. Unfairly, I see that now. So… it’s as much my fault as anyone’s that Sophia killed herself.”
“You would have married her?” I asked.
“I don’t know… for the sake of the child, possibly.”
“Did you love her?”
“It was so long ago, I don’t remember my feelings, exactly.” He may have been telling the truth but didn’t realize he’d drive me mad with that sort of answer. I was sure he saw the women in his life in some kind of priority and I longed to know where I stood, who was on the step ahead of me, who fell below. I wanted our complicated history to be simplified: certainly things had been sorted out with the passage of so many years. Jonathan had to know how he felt by now.
I sat, not touching Jonathan in any way, and that made me nervous. I needed the reassurance of his touch to know he didn’t hate me. Even if he didn’t blame me for Sophia’s death, he might be disgusted by all the terrible things I had done.
“Are you cold?” I said to Jonathan.
“A little. And you?”
“No. But is it okay if I lie next to you?” I took off my jacket and spread it over both of us. Our frosty breaths hovered over us like a specter as we scanned the night sky.
“Your hand is cold.” I lifted Jonathan’s hand and blew warm breath on it before kissing each finger.
I cupped his cheek. “Your face is chilled.” There was no protest, either, as I nuzzled his stubbled face, his handsome nose and his paper-fine eyelids. There was no interruption from there as I peeled back Jonathan’s clothing until I’d tunneled a path to his chest and groin. Then I undressed and pressed myself on top of him, the flannel on the inside of my jacket brushing softly against my buttocks.
We made love there on the blanket under the stars. We moved through the sexual act, but it had changed between us. It was slow and tender, almost ceremonial-but how could I complain? The whirlwind of our young passion was gone and in its place was something loving, but that left me sad nonetheless. It was like we were saying good-bye to each other.
When it was over-me leaning over Jonathan like a jockey, Jonathan sighing in my ear, then pulling his trousers up to his waist-I reached into the pocket of my jacket for cigarettes. A contrail of smoke was expelled into the cold air, the warmth in my lungs calming. I continued to draw on the cigarette while Jonathan stroked the top of my head.
I’d wondered what would happen at the end of the trip. Jonathan had never said and I wasn’t sure when it was supposed to end. The tickets were open ended and Jonathan had not mentioned when he was expected back at the refugee camp. Not that the trip could drag on much longer; it had been nothing but disappointment (with intermittent wild longings for happily-ever-after), reminders of loss with only the trees and the beautiful sky overhead to welcome us back.
Nor could I throw off the niggling doubt that I was the cause of Jonathan’s melancholy. Had I disappointed him, or perhaps Jonathan had still not forgiven me? We hadn’t talked about why he’d left me and I assumed I knew the reason: that after years of frustration and recrimination, he had grown sick of disappointing me.
But this time wasn’t about being together forever; this was about something else. I just wasn’t sure what that was. He wanted to be with me, that much was obvious; otherwise, he wouldn’t have asked me to make this trip with him. If he was still angry he never would have contacted me, sent the email, drunk champagne, kissed my face, let me cradle him in bed. I was insecure around him and always would be, the burden of my love like a stone manacled to my neck.
“What would you like to do tomorrow?” I asked, feigning nonchalance, stubbing the cigarette out in the dirt. Jonathan tilted his chin up, toward the stars, and closed his eyes.
“Well, then,” I drawled when he didn’t answer, “how much longer would you like to stay? Not to rush you, I’ll stay as long as you’d like.”
He gave a slow smile, but still no answer. I rolled on my side toward Jonathan, propping my head on one hand.
“Have you thought about what we’re going to do next? About-us?”
Finally, his eyes opened and blinked up at the sky. “Lanny, I asked you here for a reason. You haven’t guessed-?”
I shook my head.
He reached out for the wine bottle, rose up on an elbow and drank, then passed the bottle to me, with just a scant inch or so left on the bottom. “Do you know why I suggested we come back here?” I shook my head. “I did it for you.”
“For me?”
“I’d hoped it would make you happy if we came back here together, that it would make up in a small way for when I’d left. This trip hasn’t been for me-it’s been
How could it shift so suddenly, become so bad? It felt like a cold, invisible barrier was descending between us. “It wasn’t your fault,” I said, as though we didn’t know whose fault it was. I had no stomach for more wine and gave the bottle back to Jonathan. “What’s the point of talking about it, Jonathan? There’s nothing you or I can do to bring that back. What’s past is past.”
“What’s past is past,” he repeated before draining the bottle. He stared into the darkness, careful not to stare at me. “I’m so tired of this, Lanny. I can’t continue on this treadmill anymore, this never-ending succession of day after day… I’ve tried everything I could think of to carry on.”
“Please, Jonathan, you’re drunk. And tired…”
The wine bottle sank in the soft earth as Jonathan leaned forward on it. “I know what I’m saying. That’s why I asked you to come with me. You’re the only one who can help me.”
I knew where this was leading: life was circular and even the worst parts of it were guaranteed to come around a second time, begging at your heels. It was the argument we’d had every night for months-years?-before he finally left. He’d hectored, pleaded, threatened. That was the real reason he’d left, it wasn’t because he couldn’t help disappointing me-it was because I wouldn’t give him the only thing he wanted. His one desire would hang in the air between us, the only way for him to escape from everything he wanted to forget: abandoned responsibility, a dead child, betrayal by the person who loved him the most. Only one thing could make it go away.
“You can’t ask me to do this. We both agreed it was too terrible a thing to ask of me. You can’t leave me all alone with-that.”
“Don’t you think I deserve release, Lanny? You must help me.”
“No. I can’t.”
“Do you want me to say that you owe it to me?” That stung because he had never, ever said that to me before. Somehow he had managed never to fling those words in my face, words that I fully deserved.
“How can you say that”-I wailed, intent on striking back, intent on making him feel as terrible as he had made me feel-“when you walked out and left me to wonder, all those years?”
