Page 4 of Wildwood

“I’m sorry too. You are right that we should at least look at it.”

“Really?” I try to keep my voice level.

“Yes. A slower-paced life could be good for us given the baby.”

“I agree. And I’m sure I could get a remote position somewhere, and that would help the work-life balance even more.”

“Or you couldn’t.”

“I will,” I say convincingly.

“No, I mean, you could take some time off work.”

“For maternity leave?”

“No, for like, a longer duration.”

It catches me so off guard, I’m almost stunned into silence.

“Why would I do that?” Every muscle in my body feels rigid suddenly.

“Look, you’ve been miserable at your job for years. And you’re pregnant. If we inherit Wildwood, and that’s still a big if, we’d be able to sell our current home, so you probably wouldn’t need to work for a little bit. Maybe you could take a few years off or something and figure out what you want to do next. Even if we don’t inherit Wildwood, we could try and make it work.”

I don’t say anything and try to steady the pounding in my chest. I have a degree from a top-ranked college, a degree for which I’d worked countless work-study jobs to obtain, a degree that still holds me hostage in tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of debt. I’ve always worked. It’s who I am.

“I don’t mean that because you’re the mother, you should be at home. I mean it sincerely. I hate seeing you stressed all the time. I’m not saying don’t go back to work, I’m just saying, take a break, take the pressure off yourself of finding something immediately. Go back when you’ve found something great. And spend a year with the baby, not this twelve-week maternity leave crap.” He pauses. “Most women would love that opportunity.”

Irritation flares in my chest. No good statement from a man begins with “most women would.” But I swallow down my annoyance. Because despite our bickering, at the end of the day, I know I married one of the good ones. And if I’m honest with myself, he’s right. I need a break. I probably should have quit long ago but never had the mental bandwidth to actually go through with it. I don’t know what I want to do next. But I know I shouldn’t rush to figure it out. It also sounds like me being able to spend more time with the baby could be a selling point for Topher with Wildwood.

“Maybe you are right,” I say slowly. “But I don’t want to decide anything now.”

“Of course not.”

“I’ll keep an open mind about it. And you’ll do the same with Wildwood?”

“Yes,” he says. “I promise I’ll keep an open mind about Wildwood.”

He kisses my shoulder, then rolls over to turn out the light. The minutes tick by but I still can’t sleep. My brain is humming with a mixture of apprehension and excitement, an endless barrage of unanswered questions, and the strange sensation that some long-awaited plan has been set in motion.

Chapter 3

The morning we leave for Newfield, we wake early and are on the road by 8:00. We haven’t spoken much about Wildwood since the first night. I get the sense Topher wants to approach things chronologically. Why talk about it (and argue about it) before we even know what we are arguing about? I’m the opposite. I live in hypotheticals.

In the car, we eat breakfast sandwiches and listen to podcasts as the city gradually gives way to Boston suburbs, bleak stretches of highways and off-ramps, and finally, to mountain vistas. Though I haven’t been to Newfield since childhood, the drive feels familiar.

I’ve dozed off to sleep when I feel Topher tapping my knee.

“I think this is it.” He veers off a highway exit.

Instantly awake, I lean forward in my seat, futilely trying to get a faster glimpse of the town. Off the exit, we turn left onto Main Street. There are sidewalks on both sides of the street, which is lined with tall oak trees.

“This is beautiful,” I say, as Topher crawls down the street.

“It’s gorgeous,” he agrees.

Newfield could be in an advertisement for Vermont tourism. An old brick elementary school can be seen on the right. Children in rainboots are playing in a grassy expanse in front of the school, stomping in puddles from what must be early summer showers, laughter audible through the car windows.

“You could always change the emergency medicine course,” I venture. “Become the town doctor. Make sure the kids all have their shots.”