“What?” she asks. Her brow pulls together as she wipes her chin with a towel.
“What?”
“Why do you look…relieved?”
“I’m not?—”
“Yes, you are,” she argues. “Did you think it was something else?”
She watches me stumble over my answer only for it to trickle out at a suspiciously slow pace. “I uh, was just thinking…the last time you were sick like this was when…” I gesture a vague hand in the direction of her stomach.
“Did you think I was?—”
She doesn’t finish the question, but betrayal and disbelief lines her face.
“No,” I rebuff, obviously lying. “That’s not it.”
“James, I’m not pregnant.” She said it. That word. Like a rotting, flesh-eating bacteria, sucking the life out of our marriage. “Even if I was, it—it wouldn’t matter.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, my tone accusatory and hostile. I had no plans to do this here. I don’twantto do this here. We’re supposed to be having a fun afternoon at my parents’ house, not arguing in the bathroom about misguided assumptions.
“It means,” she answers, indignation heavy in her tone. She pauses, considering how to tell me the words held on the tip of her tongue. “Nothing.”
She turns around, ripping a tissue out of the box on the bathroom counter. She turns her back to me, but I can see her dab at the corners of her eyes. She sniffs as she continues to wipe at her face, attempting to make herself presentable after emptying her insides in my parents’ guest bathroom.
“I’m going to go get Sophia,” I announce after the silence becomes stifling. “She’s been in the pool for a few hours anyway.”
Kendall looks at herself in the mirror, swiping her fingers across her cheek. Her makeup is smudged and the skin around her eyes and cheeks is ruddy. She doesn’t oppose my plans like she did when I first offered to take her home. Instead, she nods at me through the reflection, and I take it as my cue to leave.
I’m at my desk at work, sifting through a mountain of emails, when my phone goes off. It’s a light ping, the familiar sound indicating someone at my front door from the camera app. I ignore it, knowing it’s probably just the mail carrier or some other delivery, but then the pings continue. They ring one right after the other. Confused and a little worried, I open the app on my phone only to see the last person I expect through my screen.
Kendall is bundled up in a sweater with her hair thrown up into a messy knot. She’s standing at the front porch, talking to some solicitor at our door. They’re making some sales pitch while she’s politely nodding along.
It’s Monday morning. She should be at school.
I watch as she smiles, though the rest of her body looks weary and tired. Last night, after we got back home, I helped her get Sophia ready for bed. She bathed her while I combed out the wet knots in her hair. I tucked her into bed after Kendall brushed her teeth and kissed her good night. I didn’t ask if she was feeling better, though I wanted to. After our little spat in the small half-bathroom at my parents’ house, I didn’t want to broach the subject. I didn’t knowhowto broach the subject. At least not without bringing up things I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to. It left things suffocatingly tense in our home. I ended up mumbling some excuse about my work laptop and having it get it out of the car, and she was already asleep by the time I made my way into bed. A cavernous dam sat between our two sides of the bed. I didn’t dare cross it, hoping to reach out and be able to feel her touch through the thick comforter. I just watched her body rise and fall with each breath. Every so often, she rustled against the sheets, repositioning herself or stirring with no cause. I eventually fell asleep too, the images of her slightly agape mouth and fluttering eyes filling my dreams.
I swipe through my phone, going against my better judgment. Kendall answers on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Are you at home?” A question I already know the answer to.
“Um, yeah,” she answers, her voice hesitant. “I’m not feeling too well, so I had a sub fill in.”
When did she decide this? “You called them this morning?”
“Last night.” She already made the decision to stay at home before she even went to bed. And she didn’t even bother telling me.
“Do you need to go to the doctor?” I push aside whatever personal grievances I have with her withholding this type of information from me. Something husbands and wives don’t generally keep from each other. It’s like toying with the safetypin on a grenade when I pry about her well-being, but I’m worried it could be something more than a case of side effects or food poisoning.
“I already called my psychiatrist,” she tells me. “She mentioned the new medication could cause some pretty serious nausea, so that’s probably it. I just need to—” I hear heavy thumping steps followed by retching. She doesn’t get the chance to hang up, so I hear her heave and gag. “I gotta go,” she croaks before the line cuts.
Shit. Worry starts to claw at my chest. She’s been sick a whole twenty-four hours. I don’t think she’s even eaten anything since yesterday morning, and whatever she did eat, I’m sure has been emptied out of her stomach.
I shoot a quick email to my team, letting them know to call me if there are any emergencies. It’s swooshed out into cyberspace as I lock my computer and head out the door.
I don’t bother calling Kendall back. It wouldn’t do any good considering she’s sick. It’ll probably just end up with a string of false assurances, telling me I don’t need to check on her and that she needs to just sleep it off or something.
