A Hope for Emily

I stared at him, stunned into silence by the force of his feeling, the impact of his words hitting me like hammer blows. “I know it’s not a competition,” I said after an endless moment. “Why would you even think that I thought it was…”

“Because you act like it is. All. The. Time.” He spoke flatly, the fight gone out of him, while my mind spun. This was new. This I hadn’t heard before, even though, now that I looked back at it, I’d recognised James was feeling restless, growing distant. Or perhaps I was. Either way, I knew things between us hadn’t been great, or even good, for a while. For months we’d been moving around each other, first politely, then with simmering resentment. I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, it because of Emily. Always because of Emily.

I shook my head slowly. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“I’m not sure there is anything to say.” James smiled sadly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting up. “I know you can’t see it from where you are. I know, to you, I must sound unreasonable and selfish, especially at a time like this.”

Yes, he did, and it irritated me that he could admit that and yet still not want to change his position.

And yet, even as those thoughts ricocheted through me realisation crept in, cold and unwelcome. Even now I was seeing things as a competition, just as James had said—I’d come in feeling more tired, more put upon, more in need of sympathy and support, and now I was the one rolling my eyes at his excuses, feeling more aggrieved and more certain that I was right.

Except I wasn’t anymore.

And sitting there, with everything in me aching, I didn’t think I had the strength to fight for both my daughter and my marriage. Besides that, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to. James certainly didn’t, and who was to say he wasn’t right? Maybe the tension between us was taking its toll without me even realizing. Maybe it would be easier, being on my own. I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone but my daughter.

“What do you want to do?” I asked dully. “Emily might be coming home in a few weeks.” The doctors hadn’t made any promises, but I was still hopeful. “Don’t you want to be here?”

“If she comes home, then yes, of course I’ll be here. Every day.”

“You mean you’ll visit?” I couldn’t keep a sneer from entering my voice, even now, at the implication. A part-time dad to a seriously disabled child. How low did he have to go?

“Tell me you want me to stay.” James looked at me levelly, challenging me to admit what I realized was true. I didn’t. “Tell me you want to, and I will. Tell me you love me, and we’ll handle this together, hand in hand, whatever it takes.”

I looked away, ashamed by how he’d seen a lack in me that I hadn’t. “That’s not exactly fair,” I said in a low voice. “Considering you’ve already told me you want to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave. I just… think it’s best. For both of us. Tell me the truth, Rachel. Aren’t you a little bit relieved by this?”

I bit my lip, not wanting to go there. It was so much easier to feel aggrieved. And it was going to be unbearably hard, to do this on my own. Even if James came over every day; even if he took over on the weekends. Whatever arrangement we managed to make, I would still bear the brunt even more than I already was. And yet… he was right. Some small, treacherous part of me felt relieved.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I said finally, my voice clogged. “I don’t want it.”

James cradled his head in his hands. “I didn’t either, Rach, but this isn’t working. If anything, I feel like it’s making it worse. Harder for both of us. We need all our strength to deal with Emily, not gripe at each other.”

“I haven’t been griping…”

He gave me a weary, level look. “Can you seriously say you haven’t been annoyed with me? Even angry at times?” I looked away, half-forgotten memories of sharp words, pointed looks, coming back to mock and accuse me. But I’ve been under such a strain…

James let out a weary breath. “Maybe we…” he began, but then he let that thought trail away, and I didn’t dare to ask him to finish it. Maybe we should never have got together? Maybe we just weren’t strong enough to endure this kind of trial? I couldn’t bear to hear him say anything like that, to make our marriage a mistake or a regret.

We’d been good together, James and I, in a quiet way. I still believe that, even now. We’d been set up my mutual friends, assured by both that we were perfect for each other, and we’d admitted this over that first dinner, laughing and rolling our eyes at well-meaning marrieds determined to get their single friends blissfully together.

At the end of the second date, as he held my hand, James murmured shyly that maybe we were. Perfect. It was a big word, a lot to aim for, and yet we fit. I laughed at his jokes; he listened intently when I spoke. We made each other smile.

It wasn’t fireworks with us, maybe not even a slow burn, but we were both in our mid-thirties and we’d already had the adolescent obsessive relationships that inevitably flamed out. We’d gotten over that. We wanted something different, something deeper and stronger, except right now it seemed as if it wasn’t.

Was this how marriages were supposed to end, with a sigh and a shrug? Weren’t they not supposed to end at all? What about our vows? The whole ‘for better or for worse’ we’d signed up for? The questions pinged through my brain with no answers but James’ sad, guilty look.

“Where will you go?” I asked finally.

“There’s a Residence Inn in Needham. I’ll go there until I find something more permanent.”

Permanent. Forever. I felt, quite suddenly, seasick, as if I were on a ship that had begun to list, and the deck was shifting underneath my feet, everything around me bobbing in an unknown sea. How on earth could this be happening? I was losing my husband? I might be losing my daughter? How?

But no, I couldn’t think like that, I couldn’t let myself, because if I did I knew I’d fall apart, a mess of bones and broken pieces, and I can’t think like that now, either. I reach the counter and the chirpy barista asks me what I want.

“And your name?” she asks when I give my order, her Sharpie poised to write on my paper cup. I wonder how on earth she manages to maintain her perky expression, customer after indifferent customer.

“Rachel.” My name comes out like a whisper. I’m so tired; I barely slept last night, staying up for hours trawling the internet for the success stories that will be my evidence today, and then staring gritty-eyed at the ceiling of my bedroom as I went over my opening argument with James, as sharp as any lawyer, determined to make my case and win it.