I'm Fine and Neither Are You

I was so happy I could have danced. I imagined him fulfilled and even financially successful—after all, we knew plenty of writers who made a good living. Our friend Alex, for example, had left editing to pursue freelance writing and was now making six figures.

But then Sanjay said he wanted to write a book about jazz. I didn’t remember exactly how the conversation went down, but at some point, I had pushed him to be realistic and think about more immediate and lucrative streams of income.

He never mentioned the book again.

Lesson learned. After Miles began full-day preschool, Sanjay turned his attention to freelancing, and I waved my invisible pom-poms in the air and cheered on any idea he mentioned, breathing a secret sigh of relief when none of them involved anything longer than a few thousand words.

In retrospect, maybe the cheerleading had been a mistake. Because over the past three years, he had published some—a couple of stories in an obscure music magazine, a few reviews in our local paper, and one feature, thrillingly, in the Chicago Tribune —but not nearly often enough for our bank account or his ego. And sometimes when I saw him bent over his computer, it seemed to me that so many hours with so little to show for it had frayed the best parts of the man I had married.

“It’s time for Sanjay to get a job,” Jenny had remarked when I confessed I was concerned about our family’s finances. “Like, a regular nine-to-five job.”

I had raised an eyebrow at her—this was amusing advice from someone who ran her own business. Then again, she and Sanjay were cut from different cloth.

“Maybe,” I had said, knowing I would not demand this of him. At the time, the convenience of having one parent at home who could run to school to pick up a sick kid at the drop of a hat seemed invaluable. And I had done what I always said I would and avoided marrying the type of workaholic my father had been.

But now I understood Jenny had been right. It was time. We needed to contribute more to our meager retirement account and the kids’ insufficient college funds. And wouldn’t it be nice to do some of the umpteen things we had been putting off, like taking another family vacation this century or replacing the dishwasher, which no longer deserved its name? Most important, I needed to know that at some point soon I would not be shouldering my family’s financial burden alone.

Then him making money would be request number two. Even a part-time job would be a start.

Sanjay had suggested we keep our lists short, and just as well—for all my dissatisfaction, I couldn’t think of a third change to ask him for. I shut off my computer and told myself it was enough.

Later that night, I coaxed Stevie and Miles to tell me about their days. Stevie had just finished describing all the naughty things Miles had done at camp when I glanced over at my husband, who was chomping on a fish stick and staring into the living room. At once, I was hit with an unsettling realization.

All these years, I had been congratulating myself for marrying someone who wasn’t like my father. But really, the two had plenty in common.

They were family men who didn’t take off when the going got tough. There was no doubt this was admirable. But both had an uncanny ability to be there—and yet not be there at all. As a teenager, I sometimes told people I was an orphan because it felt like the truth. My father may have lived with me and Nick, but he was mostly disengaged. Sanjay hadn’t reached that point, but as he studied the dust particles floating in the air or did edits in his head or whatever he was doing behind those vacant eyes, it seemed to me he was on his way.

When was the last time he and I had an engaging conversation? When we started dating, we never ran out of things to talk about. Now our hot topics included children, work, and our ever-growing domestic to-do list—all shared in thirty-second bursts on the way out the door or as we were falling asleep. No wonder he found his phone so riveting.

“What is it?” said Sanjay, looking at me suddenly. “You have a look on your face.”

“Nothing,” I said. I glanced down at my plate and speared a green bean. It was limp and joyless in my mouth, but I ate it anyway.

Could I really ask my husband to find me interesting again?

I looked at Sanjay, who had already returned his attention to the nothingness in the distance, and realized I was going to have to.

THIRTEEN

On Saturday I awoke early, intending to use the bathroom quickly and go back to bed. By the time I had reached the hallway, my mind was already abuzz with all that I needed to do that day. I sat on the toilet and put my head in my hands, ruing the sleep-deprivation hangover that would soon set in.

At my feet, the small hexagon tiles were cracked; a few were beginning to crumble. They had seemed so charming when Sanjay and I had bought this house almost seven years earlier. Everything about our town had seemed charming then. How nice the houses were, how spacious! How novel that the kitchens had dishwashers, and the basements had washers and dryers, and there were garages and attics for storing belongings we didn’t actually own, as there had been no room in our Brooklyn apartment for items that did not fulfill an immediate need.

Now our attic was full (though of what I could not say for certain). The laundry sat in dirty, defiant piles in the basement. And the walk from the bathroom to the kitchen was so far, so very far as my head pounded and my veins pumped feebly as they awaited a caffeine infusion.

But the smell of coffee came wafting at me as I walked down the stairs. All was not lost.

I found Sanjay standing in front of the coffee maker. “Hello,” he said.

“You’re awake. And . . . dare I say cheerful?”

“Yup. I thought we could talk about our lists before the kids got up.”

My pulse quickened. “Great.”

He took two mugs from the cupboard and filled them with coffee. He gave me one and then handed me the cream. “I feel like I should preface this conversation by saying I’m thinking about how to make more money. I know what I’m pulling in isn’t nearly enough.” I must have looked surprised because he said, “I’m not dense. I know it’s time, and that it’s been hard on you, being the breadwinner.”

And you waited to tell me that because . . .

“I was probably trying not to think about how long it had been,” he said. “Coasting has been easier than admitting that I’m failing. I’m sorry.”

My bitterness instantly dissipated. “You’re not failing. And you don’t have to apologize.”

He gave me a funny look. “I kind of am, though. And I am sorry.”

I had been planning to tell him I expected him to find a job until he was able to make more from writing, but now that he was in front of me talking about how he had failed, the last thing I wanted to do was shine a spotlight on that. So I said, “Well, I was hoping you’d think about getting a part-time gig to supplement your writing.”

He leaned against the counter. “That sounds fair.”

“You don’t have to agree to it if you don’t want to do it,” I added.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to.”

“But you don’t.”

He set his mug on the counter and sighed. “No, Penelope, I’m not geeked about trying to find a job again, since the last search didn’t go so well. And to be honest, I like being at home. But if that’s what you’re asking me to do, then that’s what I’m going to do. Besides, part-time is better than full-time. I would prefer to keep part of the day open, at least.”

It couldn’t be that easy . . . could it? Best not to look a gift husband in the mouth. “Thank you. Do you want to know the other things?”

His expression settled between a smile and a grimace. “Let me guess: you want me to look like less of a slob.”

Well, if you want to have sex more often, it couldn’t hurt. “No, I was hoping you would be more proactive at home. Help out more with cleaning and the kids without me asking you to.”

Sanjay crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’ve really been stepping it up the past week or so.”

He meant since Jenny died.

“I’ve gone grocery shopping twice, and I’m making dinner most nights,” he said. “I cleaned the kitchen and the upstairs bathroom a few days ago.”

I had to try hard not to glance around—the sink was loaded with day-old dishes and the counters weren’t much better. “Yes, and I really appreciate it. What I’m asking for is more of that on a regular basis. I feel . . .” I felt like he wasn’t pulling his weight. But as he had pointed out, too much honesty was a bad idea. “I would just like to come home to a little less mess every day. And have fewer tasks to do on the weekend.”

“I work all day, too, Penelope. I wish you wouldn’t act like I’m watching soap operas.”

I shook my head. “I was worried this would happen if we traded lists.”

“No one said this was going to be easy,” he said. “This is a tough conversation to have. But at least we’re having it, right?”

Our eyes met, and I wondered if he was also wondering whether things would have been different if Matt and Jenny had a conversation like this, too.

“About the kids, though,” he said. “Even though I spent all that time with them when they were little, they just don’t care about me as much as they care about you.”

I could see the hurt in his eyes. “Maybe you could schedule more of their activities and register them for camps and whatnot,” I supplied.

“But you’re . . .”

“The organized one?” I sounded defensive.

He nodded.

“I have to be,” I said. I softened my tone. “I’d be perfectly happy if you took over. And for the record, when Miles has peed himself in the middle of the night, I guarantee he doesn’t care whether it’s me or you who’s helping him into dry pajamas.”

He sighed. “Okay. I’ll try to help out more. But if I’m not doing enough, just tell me, all right? Because I know I’m going to forget something.”