Who were we before? It’s hard to remember. We counted on life to go a certain way, as it usually did, with no surprises. We worked hard. Felt entitled to a little peace and security. Frankly, I thought we’d earned it after thirty-some years together. If marriage was a process of smoothing out the rough edges, we’d gone through a lot of sandpaper. Now, we were moving into our comfortable—if youthful—middle age. Graeme intended to live to be a hundred and twelve, so he’d barely reached halftime.
To wander into the kitchen that morning and find a note on the counter—no call, no slamming doors, no waking up at zero-dark-thirty—was disconcerting, to say the least. Graeme never left the house without kissing me goodbye. That was his ritual, always, even going to the grocery store. He’d grown up Catholic; breaking the rules, especially those he made up, meant bad luck. You needed your sleep, he wrote. Love you. I’ll call later.
Sebring was in the middle of the state, about sixty miles south of Lakeland. The drive from our place in Orlando took two hours, not counting the traditional stop at McDonald’s on Highway 98. I could count on a call from there, and then from the track as the guys unloaded, along with frequent updates during the day. It was a running joke: How can I miss you if you won’t stop calling?
The real mystery was how Graeme had left without making any noise. My husband was—how shall I put this?—an energetic presence. He hummed, he sang, he banged cabinets. He chatted with the cats while his oatmeal cooked. Talked to himself if nobody else was listening. Honestly, it was a miracle the man lived as long as he did. He was smart enough, at least, to sing quietly until the aspirin kicked in.
My head that day was worse than usual. Stomach, too. Punishment, I figured, for ordering a burrito instead of a salad for dinner. We’d stopped at our favorite Mexican place before packing commenced. Now, I was supposed to go straight to my desk—that was the plan, nothing but writing and clean living all weekend—but the couch looked too comfortable. I sat there for a while, waiting for the fog to lift. A donut would have helped, but Graeme had taken the box with him. No sugar in the house. No snacks. The fridge was stocked with carrot juice and fresh vegetables. I intended to lose ten pounds in three days, which seemed reasonable. A stack of workout videos—A.M. Yoga, Power Yoga, Yoga Burn—sat by the DVD player. They’d been buried under “Elf” in the cabinet. You can do the math. It was a year to the day since they’d last been used. Sebring Weekend was all about good intentions.
Meditation was also on my list, to clear the mind for writing. Something like that. I closed my eyes, pressed my feet to the floor and listened to the silence. The house was a little too quiet. The whine of the refrigerator seemed even more annoying than usual. The ceiling fan clicked, out of balance, like my chakras. To be honest, I didn’t know where my chakras were. One more thing I faked. Outside, the air-conditioner droned. Graeme had checked the weather several times as he packed; it would be eighty degrees that afternoon. In the early years, he’d taken a winter coat and long underwear to Sebring. Now, he only needed shorts. But we couldn’t talk about global warming. Or wear Christmas sweaters. The tree wasn’t even up yet, or presents bought, or shipped—
Stop. Focus. Breathe. Hopeless. I stretched out flat and stared at the ceiling, willing myself to move. The remote happened to be by my hand, and I only meant to check the listings for later, after writing ten thousand words, but wouldn’t you know it? A marathon of my all-time favorite series was just about to start.
Long story short, that’s how I ended up on the couch all day in my pajamas, watching “Pride and Prejudice.”
Graeme texted after lunch. All good here, he reported. Just checking in. It would take hours to set up camp, including the grill and cooking tent. The boys spent months assembling their menus, making shopping lists, deciding who brought what. Most had worked in professional kitchens. Graeme usually cooked the first night. He was planning a new recipe that year: brown-butter orecchiette with spicy sausage and peas.
My soup sat on the table, cold. I hadn’t felt like eating. Weird. Hanging on the couch, I typed, feeling guilty for my lack of effort. Imitrex day. The prescription only came with eight pills a month. Graeme would know what it meant if I gave in and took one.
Stay there, he texted back. Good day for TV and cats in lap. I sent him a picture of Cato and Lily, curled up on the blanket beside me. We must have dozed off; the phone rang around four.
“I feel funky,” the caller announced. A chime dinged in the background; Graeme was sitting in his car, out of the noise.
“Tequila will do that,” I said, lowering the TV volume as Mrs. Bennett whined, “No one knows what I suffer with my nerves!” One of the funniest parts. The boys would be tipsy by now, no doubt. My husband loved wine—loved to talk about it, read about it, pick the perfect glass to go with dinner—but at Sebring, he drank margaritas. Pitchers of them. By tradition, he raised a toast as soon as he blew up his air mattress.
“No,” he said. “My stomach is queasy. I haven’t had anything to drink all day but Powerade.” This was news. Before I could get too concerned, he added, “Did you see that invoice from Walsh? I paid it.” He’d packed his laptop. He was calling from his office.
I sighed. “You couldn’t take one day off?”
“It only took a minute.” We’d been over this before, countless times. The man loved his work. There was no keeping him from it, even on vacation. So he couldn’t be that sick. But now that he mentioned it, neither one of us felt well. Had there been something wrong with our dinners?
“What did we both eat last night?” I asked. We never ordered the same thing.
Thinking for a second, he groaned. “The guacamole. I knew it was bad.” He listed his symptoms: tired, achy, upset stomach. “But not like diarrhea. Like I might throw up. Should I take Tums or Pepto Bismol?”
I resisted the urge to call him a baby. My big, strong husband bragged about never getting sick, but when he did, he sure loved to talk about it. “The pink stuff,” I told him. By then, I was starting to feel slightly better, thanks to sleep, drugs and BBC America. “Is Craig there yet?”
“Not until seven.” Our brother-in-law was headed to the track after work. “I know,” Graeme said. “I’ll tell him to stop and pick up some crackers and ginger ale.”
“You’ll ask.” A bad habit of his, issuing directives rather than making requests. I’d been drawn to this trait when we first met in college. He was the adult in the room. Naturally, it bugged me like hell after all these years. “And say please,” I added.
He told me he loved me. Said he might take a nap. Those were his last words to me in the “normal” times, as we came to think of them. I went back to my show, and he stretched out in his tent. Or at least, we think so. He doesn’t remember.
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