isa

“We have a work thing we need to go to on Thursday.”

These are the first words Andrew has spoken since dinner began.

“What kind of work thing?” I ask.

He takes a bite of chicken. “A dinner party,” he says. I can see the food in his mouth as he speaks. “At Jacob and Diane’s house.”

He knows I hate Jacob and Diane. Jacob never stops talking about his house on the lake, and if he could only get out there more often. Diane’s worse--every conversation feels fake, like she’s thinking carefully about what she says before she says it. Like she’s navigating her way through a field of landmines, and if she says the wrong thing, I’ll blow up and take everyone out with me.

He’s probably known about this for weeks. Of course he waits until two days before to spring this on me. I feel my fingernails dig into my palms.

“I’d rather stay home.”

Andrew sighs and puts his fork down. “Come on, Clem. Don’t do this.”

“Why do I even need to go? It’s not like I work there.”

“Everyone will be there. I’ll look like an ass if I show up without you.” He’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

It’s not really my problem how you look, I think, but I don’t say it.

I focus on the table, a round, worn wooden table covered in scratches and coffee rings. The chairs match--at least, the two we are sitting on match the table. Andrew can’t understand why I refuse to put the third chair away. He says the bright green clashes, plus no one ever sits there anyway, so why should we keep it there?

What I don’t tell him is that sometimes, I can feel Isa sitting there. I can almost see her reaching out for her food, so close I can almost touch her.

“Clem.” I look up. Andrew is now leaning forward, hands clasped. If you didn’t know him, you could almost think he was begging. But I do know him.

“Come to this dinner. It’ll be good for you.”

How? How on earth would it be good for me, going somewhere where everyone will stare, will whisper? “I’ll just stay home.” I stand, grabbing my plate to put in the dishwasher.

“God damn it Clem,” he says, “It’s just one fucking night.”

I don’t answer.

He says the next part quietly, but I can still hear him. “When are you going to get over this?”

Moonlight dances across the ceiling. Andrew is laying beside me, snoring. He’s the type of person who can fall asleep as soon as their head hits the pillow.

I used to be like that.

It’s been two years since I’ve last gotten more than a few hours of restless sleep in a row, but Andrew is still sleeping like a log. Unburdened, even. 

Sometimes I feel like we were meant to share this burden, but something went wrong, some cosmic mistake, and I’ve been carrying all of it. My world feels so heavy, and he looks like he’s floating.

I suddenly get the overwhelming urge that I don’t want to be here, in this bed, in this room, as if it’s suffocating me. For a moment I actually feel as though I can’t breathe. Pushing away the covers, I roll out of bed, my feet hitting the cold floor. I open the door slowly so it doesn’t creak--I don’t want to wake Andrew.

I go to the kitchen and open a window. The night air is cool and calm. Sounds from the street are almost nonexistent, all I hear right now is the wind rustling the trees.

After a while, I walk back upstairs with the idea I’ll get back in bed and finally be able to fall asleep. As I get closer, I begin to hear Andrew’s snores, and I find myself ducking into the room next to ours.

A white dresser with gold painted handles. A piggy bank on top, next to a small jewelry box and some framed photos. A blue carpet. Stuffed animals--a unicorn, an elephant, a cow--on top of her bed. Above it, wooden letters hung on the wall. ISA.

I lay down on the pink bedspread and close my eyes, pretending I’m laying with Isa until she falls asleep, like I used to. 

As I drift off, I almost believe it.

He told me he didn’t see her go under the water. That she was there one minute, and just gone the next.

They went to the beach that day. I had just bought Isa a brand new swimsuit, bright yellow with orange polka dots. She couldn’t wait to wear it out.

He told me he only looked away for a second, to fish more sunscreen out of his bag. That when he turned back around, she was already gone.

She knew how to swim. She didn’t want floaties, because she was a Big Girl.

He told me how he was calling for her, how his heart was pounding out of his chest, how he thought he was going to die.

He told me how he and two other people rushed to get her help, anything at all.

I think about her and I feel my lungs filling up with water, I can’t make a sound, I’m looking around for somebody, anybody, Andrew...

I wake up in a cold sweat. 

It’s past midnight Thursday--technically Friday--when Andrew comes home. I can tell he’s been drinking, and not only from the stench of whiskey. 

“Clem!” he calls out. “Baby!”

“Yes?” I answer, from the couch six feet in front of him.

When he finally sees me, he grins. “Clem!”

He plops down on the couch next to me. I give him a quick kiss. “How was dinner?”

“It was...it was great.” He leans his head back, as if it’s too heavy to hold above his shoulders. “You should have come.”

“Next time,” I say, hoping he won’t remember.

He’s closed his eyes. “Jason said we could go up to his lake house with him sometime.” Of course he did  I think, rolling my eyes.

I stand up. Grabbing his hands, I say “Come on, time for bed. It’s late.” I basically pull him up off the couch. He laughs and stumbles forward. “Time for bed,” he says, slurring his words--just a little.

I start to walk to the bedroom when I feel Andrew pull on my arm. Before I know it, his hands are on me and he’s kissing me. All I taste is alcohol.

For a moment, I melt into him. His arms reach around to my back, my hair. Mine are no longer at my sides, instead holding onto him. I could stay there forever.

And then his mouth moves from my lips to my neck, and his hand goes to my breast. And I suddenly can’t breath.

“Andrew, stop.” He doesn’t hear me, I don’t think. “Andrew, I don’t want to.”

“Come on,” he whispers against my neck. “You’ll like it.”

“No!” I try to push him away. “Andrew!” I start to hyperventilate, I can’t breathe. Without thinking I stomp on his foot as hard as I can.

“Fuck!” he screams. He jumps back, almost falling as he grabs his foot in pain. “You stupid bitch!”

My breathing begins to slow down. “I..I don’t want to. I’m not ready.” 

Andrew lays back down on the couch . “Yeah, well, it’s been two years. When will you be?”

I feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I dig my fingernails into my palms to keep them from spilling. “I’m sorry.”

Before he responds, I go into the kitchen and grab a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. Andrew snoring before I even walk back into the living room. I place the peas on his foot and go into the bedroom.

I cry until I fall asleep.

He doesn’t remember last night at all. “I remember getting in the cab,” he says, “and then...nothing.”

I tell him he hurt his foot tripping on the doorstep when he came in, and that he didn’t want to limp all the way to the bedroom. “You were passed out when I got you the peas,” I tell him, truthfully.

I made eggs this morning. He likes them over easy, so he can dip his toast in the runny yolks. He’s chewing with his mouth open--I can see the yolk in his teeth, hear the smacking of his mouth as he chews. It seems to get louder and louder. Eventually, it’s the only thing I can hear. 

“Clem?” Andrew says, snapping me out of it.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said thanks for helping me out last night.” He smiles at me and takes another bite of toast. The smacking noise continues, and my fingernails dig into my flesh. I hate looking at his open mouth as he chews, but for some reason, I can’t look away.

“It’s no problem,” I lie.

He finds me later in Isa’s room.

“Hey,” he says. He takes a few steps into the room, then stops.

Andrew doesn’t come in here often. He says it’s too painful, brings back too many memories. 

All I have are memories, and I need them more than anything.

Right now he’s standing by the dresser looking at the photographs. “It’ll be two years tomorrow.” He doesn’t look at me.

“I know.” I’m holding her favorite stuffed animal, a cow Andrew’s mother gave her on her third birthday. She named it Moo Moo.

“I remember--” Andrew begins, then stops. “I remember this day.”

He picks up a photograph in a silver frame. In it, Isa is standing in front of an enclosure of monkeys at the zoo. Her hair is braided in pigtails, and she is grinning widely, showing off her two missing front teeth. It was her fifth birthday.

I don’t say anything. Put it down, I think. Why do you deserve to touch anything in here?

“She wanted a pet monkey for weeks after.”

I nod.

He puts the picture down. Finally. “I miss her so much, Clem.” Do you really?

Tears fall down my face. “Me too.”

“It’s all my fault.” Yeah, it is.

“It was an accident,” I say. “It could have happened to anyone.” I’ve said these words over and over, repeating them again and again out loud, comforting him. He doesn’t deserve it.

“I’m so sorry, Clem,” he sobs, finally turning to me. A tear is rolling down his face, and I watch it fall, following it. He doesn’t move to wipe it away.

“I know.” You looked away.

I stand up and go to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I let my tears fall.

I made spaghetti and meatballs tonight. It was Isa’s favorite. I don’t know if Andrew remembers, he doesn’t say anything.

Every time I hear him slurp his spaghetti up my fists grow tighter, pushing my nails into my skin. I can’t look at him chew noodles and marinara and ground meat, I hate it, but I can’t look anywhere else. We aren’t talking, but I feel as though it’s so loud my eardrums are going to explode.

“This is good,” he says, smacking his lips. His mouth looks bloody, like he just finished eating some animal raw. My stomach churns.

Taking another bite, he looks right at me, chomping his teeth again and again. I think he’s saying something.

“Clem?” He says, before swallowing. “You okay?”

I stand up. “Do you want some wine?”

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “Sure, I’d love some. Thanks.”

My hands are shaking as I pour two glasses of red wine. I reach under the cabinet and grab the silver polish I use for the silverware. I look over to see if he’s watching, but he’s focused on the food. Quickly, I add it to his wine. Taking a deep breath, I walk back to the table and hand him the glass.

Andrew waits until I sit down then raises his glass. “Cheers,” he says.

I can feel my fingernails burying deeper and deeper into my palms. Lifting my own glass, I half-speak, half-whisper “Cheers.”

We drink.

Andrew drinks wine in gulps, and a quarter of the glass is gone when he sets it down. Thank god he’s finished his food. I don’t know if I could stand watching him spray food all over the table one more time.

It only takes a moment. He starts breathing heavily, gasping. I don’t move.

“Clem...hel…” he begins, before falling off of his chair onto the floor.

“You couldn’t help her,” I say. “I can’t help you.”

My palms sting, and I look down. They’re bloody from my fingernails. I didn’t know I was clenching them that hard.

I wait until I don’t hear anything, no struggling, no gasping, nothing. I clear the plates and glasses, and I go to the bedroom.

I fall asleep immediately.