“Maybe it’s already happened,” he said, smiling at me, and my lips trembled with incredulous joy as I smiled back. In that moment, I thought it was all about to happen, it was promised.
But as month by month has
gone by, each one with a single line on a stick and a flash of relief in James’ eyes that I do my best to ignore, I wonder if it ever will happen, if anything is promised.
As my brother Patrick comes in with his family, the kids running from the deck to the yard with boisterous, banshee screams, and Tiffany, Patrick’s wife, hugging my mom as she puts the Jell-O salad she brought on the kitchen table—we brought some Brie—I edge closer to James.
“You okay?” I ask quietly, feeling like I should at least inquire, and he glances at me, startled and a little wary, as he always seems to be when I work up the energy and courage to ask about Emily.
“Yes, I’m okay.”
“I know this development with Emily…” I venture cautiously, tiptoeing on the thin ice of the unspoken, but wanting to, needing to test its weight, even though part of me is so afraid of the hair-line fractures that I suspect will result. “It’s hard.”
“It’s the right thing to do.” He speaks in a final tone, and I let it go, as I always do, with something like relief. At least I tried.
James first told me about Emily and Rachel on our second date. Thankfully I didn’t spill any wine. We’d first met in a noisy sports bar in downtown Boston, where I’d gone with friends for an afterwork drink and James had been dragged along by one of his colleagues. Neither of us had really wanted to be there, and as we sat on the edge of our respective groups, neither of us involved in the raucous give and take of the chatter, we caught each other’s eye and gave commiserating smiles.
When I went to get a refill of my white wine, James did too, and we ended up chatting as we waited for our drinks. I thought that would be the end of it, and felt a little sad—with his floppy brown hair, kind eyes, and quiet manner, James seemed like the kind of self-deprecating, decent guy I hadn’t yet been able to find.
But then, as I was leaving, he came up to me and asked me for my number. Shyly, seeming a little uncertain, which made me like him all the more. He called me a few days later, and we had dinner that weekend, with the wine fiasco keeping things light.
But when the second date came around, as our appetizers were cleared, James put his palms flat on the table and said in a serious-sounding voice, “Look, I need to tell you something.”
My heart lurched—wouldn’t anyone’s—but I kept my voice light as I raised my eyebrows and smiled. “Okay,” I said.
“I’m divorced,” James told me. “At least, I’m in the process of getting a divorce. I separated from my wife four months ago. It will be finalized soon.”
“Okay,” I said again. In my mind I was trying to decide whether four months was a decent enough length of time or not.
“But there’s more,” James said, his manner one of someone laying down a burden that had become too heavy to bear. “I have a daughter, Emily. She’s four.”
“Okay.” I couldn’t think of another response; it was something more to absorb. My mind felt like an oversoaked sponge. I took a sip of my drink, stalling for time as I tried to sort out my thoughts. Married, with a child. You expect that when dating in your thirties; there are always complications, the inevitable baggage someone who is not fresh-faced out of college has collected along the way. But I wasn’t sure yet how I felt about it then, coming from James. “What happened?” I asked eventually. “With your marriage?”
James shook his head slowly. He looked so genuinely sad that I felt afraid. There was history here, more than the tired, old usual. I could see it in his face—the shadows in his eyes, the graven lines from nose to mouth. “We grew apart,” he told me. “But not… not in the usual way. Emily got sick…” He spoke haltingly, every word coming at a cost, and I remained silent as I listened to him explain.
How a year and a half earlier, Emily had started having symptoms. Small things at first—stumbling a bit, but she was only three, so who was to say it wasn’t normal? Slurring words, when she’d only just started speaking clearly. Sudden high fevers that seemed to have no cause. Headaches, although they hadn’t realized at first because she hadn’t had the verbal skills to explain; she’d just cried and sometimes clutched her head. Joint pain that made her writhe and sob.
It all sounded heart-wrenching in the worst way, and my eyes welled up listening to him explain how they’d gone to the doctors, who had first dismissed their concerns, but then they’d gone again, and then there had been tests, so many tests, but never any answers.
“And she just kept getting worse,” he said quietly, his head lowered, his palms still flat on the table, fingers spread out. “Ten months ago she had her first seizure, a big one. Tonic-clonic, it’s called. She’s been in and out of hospital since then, mostly in, for the seizures and also some infections and other problems. She has trouble walking, can barely speak, and still no one can say what’s wrong with her.”
“That… that sounds so tough,” I said after a moment. Such ridiculous, offensive understatement, but I was grasping for words, still absorbing it all, trying to figure out how I felt. I barely knew this man, and yet he’d bared his already flayed soul.
“It was,” James said. “And is. I’m sorry I’m laying this all on you now, so early, and I know it might make things awkward, but I feel like I have to tell you. Because it’s a big thing. Maybe too big.”
I heard the note of vulnerability in his voice and it made me ache. What was too big—too big to warrant the commitment of time, energy, emotion that our relationship would be? Was this? With a tremor of fear, I wondered what would qualify as too big for James. What could I tell him that would make him walk away?
“So did you and your ex-wife split up because of Emily’s illness?” I finally asked.
“Yes,” James said, “and no. But mostly yes.” He sighed, lifting one of his hands from the table to rake through his rumpled hair. “We grew apart, and started to resent each other. We weren’t communicating at all. But we also approached the whole thing differently, I suppose. We both wanted the best for Emily, of course, and we still do, absolutely. But a while ago what that might mean started to look different for both of us.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, a bit warily.
James hesitated, wanting to choose his words with care. “Rachel’s been obsessed with finding a diagnosis. Emily keeps deteriorating, but she seems to think if we can just find out what’s wrong with her, it will all go away. A magic pill or some course of therapy… she doesn’t use those words, and she’d probably deny what I’m saying, but that’s essentially what she’s hoping for. A quick fix, relatively speaking.”
I could understand why she would wish for such a thing, do everything in her power to try and obtain it. Wouldn’t any mother? Any parent? “And you…” I paused, feeling my way through the words. “You don’t think Emily can be… cured?”
“No, I don’t.” The statement was so terribly bleak. “I know that sounds heartless, but I think it’s better for everyone to realize what’s going on. And from everything the doctors have said, all the stuff I’ve read about degenerative neurological conditions… they don’t just go away. They don’t even get better.” He blinked rapidly, and I almost reached over and placed my hand on top of his. I lifted my hand, let it flutter near his, and then put it back in my lap. Touching him at that moment felt like an invasion, too much of an intimacy. This was only our second date, after all.