What We Lose(30)

I cry openly, freely, from the third pew of the chapel. I snort and sniffle like a maniac. At first, Peter drapes an arm on my shoulder, but then he just looks at me confused and tends to M. The man next to me offers his handkerchief and a smile. I recognize him as Keith, a friendly boy from our childhood. He is older, with more bulk to his shoulders and legs, but his smile and smooth olive skin are still the same. On my other side, M burps and starts laughing. Peter sighs, reaches for the pacifier, and pops it nervously into M’s mouth, as if our child is a bottle of champagne threatening to explode.

At the end of the service, I find Aminah and hold her close. We cry long and hard on each other’s shoulders.

“I’m so sorry.” I use Keith’s handkerchief to wipe my tears from her impeccable black peplum dress.

She laughs. “It’s fine.”

“At least you don’t have to worry about mine,” I say. My cotton shift is wrinkled and stained by M’s throw-up.

“It’s not a problem at all.” Aminah rubs my back, and I am unsettled as I realize that she is, even at this moment, the one reassuring me.



That night, as has become our norm, Peter falls asleep in front of the television in the living room, and I in our bed with a book. I dream of Keith, and nothing happens in the dream except that he hugs me, strong and with his whole body, and he whispers in my ear that everything is going to be all right. Just like that, in that soft, buttery voice of his that I heard a million times in the classroom and out on the football field, You’re all right, Thandi, everything’s gonna be okay.





M’s first word is “shit,” though we will later tell people it is “shoot.” He got it from Peter, who curses all the time, while cutting the lawn, while cooking dinner, while changing diapers, and, more than me, while storming out of a room in frustration. He is convinced that he will be fired from his job, but when I suggest he look for something else, he gets angry. It’s fine for him to suggest things aren’t going well, but for me to voice the obvious is too much for him. I never realized before how much pride he had.

My boss decides that I should be the one to go to a vaccines conference in San Diego. I protest as much as I can, but I’m not in good graces after my maternity leave. Peter insists too that I go, and I know it’s because he needs time away from me. I don’t want to leave M. I plead with him, but he won’t hear it. After the trip is decided and my airline tickets show up in my in-box, I feel a sense of palpable dread.

Peter drives me to the airport with M in the backseat; M screeches the entire way. “Shit!” he cries when we drive over potholes. When we arrive at the airport, Peter zips past the parking lot entrance. “Where are you going?” I ask. I remember when he met me in baggage claim during our first visits, how he seemed so nervous he could fall over. He stops in front of the passenger drop-off, gives me a hurried kiss as the car idles. M starts crying when I kiss him goodbye, sensing correctly that I am leaving him, and Peter comforts our son as I lug my suitcase from the trunk. An elderly skycap takes my bag from me. “That’s too big for a lady,” he says, smiling. I catch him glancing at my husband in the car, and I grab my bag from him and storm toward the departure gate.

The sun sets as we cross the country. Somewhere over Nevada, I see a full moon descend, and something tugs at me. I recognize I am growing away from Peter, have been for a while, but now the truth stares at me, plain and bare. I’ve been afraid of being left alone with these feelings.

I check into the hotel at eight Pacific time. As soon as I set my bags down in my room, I call Peter to tell him that I’ve arrived safely. He puts M up to the phone, but he is tired so he only whimpers. It’s nighttime in New York. “I love you,” I tell Peter, and after I hang up, I lie down in bed with the TV on for white noise. I doze off, and when I wake at midnight I can’t fall back asleep.

Down in the hotel bar, I order a red wine, hoping it will make me drowsy, but it does the opposite. I haven’t felt the buzz of alcohol in many months. I want more. I order a dirty martini with top-shelf liquor, and something yellow that comes in a champagne flute. Soon I feel as if I am flying, though I am still sitting on a plastic bar stool, my behind slowly becoming sore.

He is sitting at the opposite end of the bar—tall, with dark eyes and dark skin. Broad shoulders knotted with muscles that make him hunch over the bar top. He is familiar to me, like someone I would have dated years ago. Between my second and third drink, he ends up next to me. I learn he works in one of the faceless buildings in midtown Manhattan, making deals for more money than Peter and I make in a month. I find myself repulsed by the canniness of his lines, but high on the fact that they are being used on me. This hasn’t happened in so very long.

When we are walking up the stairs, I tell myself I will only let him walk me to my door. When he asks to use the bathroom, I tell myself I will ask him to leave after he emerges. When he touches me, I tell myself I will not let him kiss me.

He leans over me the same way he leaned over the bar, and I feel excited and terrified at once. He pushes me onto the bed and keeps his fingers wrapped around my throat as he pulls off my clothes. I tell myself that I shouldn’t enjoy this, but I do.

Is that it?

All this time, I have been tabulating all Peter’s little faults, trying to discern which combination of them has added up to my unhappiness. But could it actually be this one simple thing—that I just need to be fucked?