I'm Fine and Neither Are You(33)

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.”