Twenty Four Weeks – Episode 11 – “Twenty Two”
Written by J.D.Denisson.
A sequel to the movie “This is Where I Leave You”.
Characters and back story based on the novel “This is Where I Leave You” by Jonathan Tropper.
Copyright 2016 J.D.Denisson.
Previously…
“How long?” I ask her, a third time, quietly this time.
“A year, Judd,” she says replies, her eyes running, her face stricken with shame, with sadness.
The truth. Finally. A year. This was no casual fling. Quinn was not like that. This was something more.
And as I think on that truth, I remember that past year. My mind tries despirately to to sort through our life, trying to place labels on events, trying to find evidence, trying to stamp moments as real or a lie.
Her birthday. Our anniversary. My birthday. Christmas. New Year. Her birthday again. All those times together, tainted, ruined. And what about before? Everything is in doubt now. All those years tainted and ruined also.
A million questions form in my mind, but I can’t ask them. All I can do as look back her, slowly shaking my my head. The breath held fast in my chest is let out and I feel the life, the joy drain from me. I stand, walk slowly from the room, defeated, her cake still in my hands.
…
“Judd…” Quinn begins sadly, shaking her head slowly. There is regret behind her eyes but I’m in no mood to delve into how she looks. She has just told me that I am going to be a father, and that the man that has taken her away from me is going to stand behind her, like he’s some loyal, honourable man. “We were never the same after we lost our baby.”
“Hang on,” I say back. We haven’t spoken in two months, not since her birthday, not since I discovered her ugly secret. I have been given no explanation for her betrayal, and when it comes this is what she offers. It cuts deeper than if she had become bored with me, or angry, or even if she had simply become indifferent. She placed the blame upon Thomas, and I could not stand for that. “You’re not going to use our miscarriage as an excuse for sleeping with my boss for a year, are you?”
“No,” she replies, sitting forward, her eyes firm on mine. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Because it sounds like that’s what you’re loading up.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I’m saying we were never the same after that… you just shut down, like always.”
And the truth of that is harder to hear than any of her other words. Even as I hear them, even as the implications start to become evident in my mind that same detachment washes over me. I have no words, no reply. I stare into space, looking away from her. I prove her point.
...
“I’m sorry,” I say to her. It’s early evening in our apartment. I’m here, for the first time since her birthday, two months ago. I’m holding her hand across the table, between the bowls of Thai food.
She shakes her head.
“Where we are now,” I continue, “all of this... this is my fault. I screwed up. I’m sorry.”
She’s still shaking her head. “You don’t need to say this,” she tells me quietly. “I broke our marriage, not you.”
“That was just a consequence of what I’d done to us. Now, I don’t understand exactly how or why that happened, just that I know that it’s my fault.”
“You can’t take the blame for this.” Her eyes are filling. Salt water starts to run down her cheeks.
“I can. And I will.”
…
We talk for a long time about the lives we have lived together, about the times of great joy and the times of pain. We talk about our baby boy and what happened within her after, how the pain almost destroyed her and how she learnt to deal with it by simply living on. She talks about Wade but she doesn’t dwell on him because he’s broken her heart and she’s still hurting and through it all she’s realised she made the biggest mistake of her life and she doesn’t think she can undo it. She doesn’t tell me how things started with him or why. That would be for another time when both of us are stronger.
…
“I want to go over to her and put my hand on her growing belly and feel my daughter forming in there.
The problem I have is that she knows me. She knows what I am thinking. I’m not really that complicated on the surface. She smiles that knowing smile of hers. I think she’s pleased that I’m finally taking an interest.
“Do you want to...” She puts a hand down over our daughter.
I nod and I put my hand there, feel the slight hardness of her womb under my hand. She puts hers on top mine and slips it a little lower.
“There she is,” she says. She squeezes my hand and I look up into her eyes. I’m not sure what I’m seeing there, but it looks a little like love. I can’t let myself hope for such things. I can’t hope for them in myself.