Always the Last to Know(57)

John also knows his wife doesn’t love him anymore. She is important in some way, and she doesn’t like him very much, but she isn’t unkind. John tries to remember why she doesn’t love him, but he can’t remember or understand why that would be.

Barb. Barb. He wants to talk to his Barb. When he tries to make his mouth say her name, he only hears a wheezy old man—his now-self—making horrible sounds, so he stops trying. A bossy lady comes to see him and tries to get him to talk, but those sounds are too awful. Sometimes, if he moves his mouth too much, he drools, and this makes him feel small and stupid.

Barb.

Barb.

She looked so pretty on their wedding day, back in the long-ago.

They lived in a little red house in the long-ago. Not this house. Things were better there, but then there was something very sad, and she was different. Closed and locked. Case closed.

Case closed. Those words mean something to him, but he’s not sure why.

Barb lives here now. In his grandfather’s house. It’s her house now, not his. Not theirs.

Barb wanted something very much in the long-ago. Was it this house? No. But something to do with this house. A boat? No, but almost a boat, with the same starting sound, that’s what the bossy lady says when she tries to make him talk. The starting sound. Boat. Bank. Baby.

Baby. She wanted a baby. So did he. Lots of them. He wanted four, because four was a nice number, many but not too many. But they couldn’t find the baby. No, not find. Get the baby. No, not that, either. They couldn’t buy the baby?

Have the baby. They couldn’t have a baby, and Barb was pretending to be happy, but she wasn’t. She would have people over and make meals and light candles and pretend-smile, and he hated it. The . . . untruth of it. She would do those things and then he’d hear her crying in the bathroom, but she wouldn’t talk to him. Fine. Fine. That was a word he knew was a lie when Barb said it.

She had . . . pretended, pretended happiness, and did things with people John barely knew, and filled their days with people and work and . . . and . . . and there were always things in the way, her things, her projects and papers, and he just wanted it to be the two of them, like the time in the little red house, when home was home, not a place to do so much. Always, there were the new people who thought Barb was fine, fine.

One night in the long-ago, he heard that noise, that horrible again-noise of Barb crying in the bathroom, the slight echo, how hard she tried to be quiet, how she’d run the water so he wouldn’t know. He wanted to go in and tell her not to cry, that he would . . . find . . . no, not find, but do something to help. But she didn’t want him to know she was crying, which was why she had the water turned on.

He almost went in. He put his hand on the . . . the . . . that thing you turn to open a door, but then the water went off, and John jumped back. He walked silently down the hall to pretend he hadn’t heard her, didn’t know, hadn’t almost come in.

He should have gone in, he realizes now. Maybe she would still love him if he had gone in. He’s sorry he didn’t go into the bathroom. If he could do it over, he would have gone in and not let her pretend to be fine. He would’ve let her be not-fine. They could’ve been not-fine together.

But too much time passed, blurry time that John doesn’t remember. Then Barb was happy because of the baby, the girl baby, and he was the one who was alone. He was alone and no one listened to him, and he wasn’t sure what to say, anyway. He wanted four children, but there was only one and she was Barb’s, until a long time later, another one came, and this time, it was his baby. This time, he wasn’t shut away. He got to be needed again.

Sadie. Sadie!

He smiles because he remembered her name. Sadie. Such a pretty, happy name.

He tries to say it, but no sound comes out. His mouth is moving, but not the part that makes sound.

He wishes he could tell his daughter he remembers her name. He wishes he could say, Hi, Sadie, and make her smile and hug him. But he can’t, and this makes his eyes water, and so he tilts his head back and escapes to sleep once more.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





Juliet


It wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. Juliet knew this. That being said, she wouldn’t mind a paper bag to put over her head right now. Or no, a silk bag. They could afford it, that was for sure. That way, no one would have to look at each other and pass judgment.

Park Avenue Aesthetics.

Yep.

There were four of them, three women, including Juliet, and one man. One woman had that freakish, ageless look that didn’t say youth, but did say that plastic surgery was a legit addiction. Her skin was so tight it seemed like her whole face would crack if she blinked, which she seemed unable to do. Another woman was stunningly beautiful and, honestly, why was she here? Could she be a day over thirty? Don’t buy into the patriarchy, sweetheart! You’re perfect! Then again, what if she’d been made perfect here? If so, could Juliet have what she was having? The man was a normal-looking guy who had a pleasant face and fit-enough physique. What did he want to change? Why?

Go home, people, she wanted to say, hypocrite that she was.

Clearly, business was booming, because the office occupied two floors of a Park Avenue building and had a waterfall in the lobby. She’d been offered a bottle of mineral water when she came in, and the chairs were luxuriously comfy. Harp music interwoven with whale song was playing from discreetly placed speakers. There were many brochures on the table, but Juliet couldn’t bring herself to look at them.