our Weeks – Episode 18 – “Twenty Nine”
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…
She can’t take her eyes off the ring I bought her all the way to our counselling session. She’s talking about our future as we drive and even though I’m not saying anything I’m more glad than I can say that I’ll be part of it. We have a short list of names now, just three. She’s not settled on one, not yet. She still refers to our baby as ‘our girl’, but I guess she’ll start referring to her by her name and I’ll know what she’s picked. That’s what happened to our baby boy. Thomas she named him and that’s what sits on the little plaque at the cemetery amongst all the other children taken before they had a chance to live and grow and love.
…
I take her for her check-up after work. She’s almost six months in and doing well. I guess there is another cloud looming in the distance that we’re not talking about. Maybe it’s something that we’re not ready to face. I know I’m not, and I don’t expect that Quinn is any stronger than I am. Unfortunately Quinn obstetrician is not afraid to ask the questions we are.
“And your first pregnancy,” Dr Heigel says, reading through Quinn’s notes, “ended at eight months - a still birth.”
…
Wade is frantically signalling to me from behind the glass that stands between us. I’ve still got my phones on but I’ve cut the sound while I’m reading the bio of our next guest. His waving has caught my eye and he’s tapping his phones. I pull the sound up to hear his latest caller.
“... and you just sit there tell us how it is, but you don’t care what that does. We listen to you, we follow you, and it ruins our lives. It’s ruined my life.”
“I’m sorry that’s happened...”
“You don’t care!” the caller yells. “You don’t have to pick up the pieces. We do. And you just keep getting richer on our pain.”
I’m holding my hands up to Wade, like I can’t see a problem. This is the same as any other kind of call. He’s shaking his head furiously at me.
“You’re right,” he says. “You’re absolutely right. And I’m sorry, man, I am. Just tell us where you are.”
“You’d like that,” the caller says. There are the sounds of traffic behind him, the odd honk of a horn. “You’d like to stop me so you can avoid the consequences.”
“I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Wade says earnestly. “Please, don’t do anything stupid. I want to help you.”
…
A little after four they call for us and we wait just out of shot while the host, Jerry Jones, announces him, asks the audience to welcome Wade Beaufort. Wade rides in on the applause.
“So,” Jerry begins, “the Man Up Show. Big changes this year.”
“Sure have been, Jerry,” Wade replies with a smile.
“Why don’t you run through that with us?”
“Well... we’ve been kind of transitioning into a different format for the last few months, trying to tone down the way we were doing things before, trying to bring in a new... atmosphere, if you like.”
“What was wrong with the old format?”
Wade laughs a little. “It’s no secret I was maybe as little harsh with my callers and guests a while back. I don’t know, I guess the show no longer fitted with what I wanted to be doing.”
“And what’s that?”
“I still want to tell people what I think, tell them maybe the truths that they’re not hearing from the friends, the things they need to hear. But I want to tell them in a way that will get their attention. If that means I yell at them a little then so be it. But it’s the content, man. That’s the difference. Man Up means more than it did before. Being a man means more than what I presented it before.”
…
It’s unseasonably hot out in the garden. Fall lingers, has one last word before winter comes upon us. Grant and I are out there again while the women sit in air conditioned comfort. He’s red faced and sweating profusely, puffing and panting. He doesn’t look well at all.
“Are you okay?” I ask him even though I know the answer.
“I’m fine,” he lies. “This heat knocks me around a little. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“None of us are.”
Twenty nine
Monday
My move home has been gradual. It’s been a series of steps, baby steps, where I try the waters. Stick my toe in. Then I take a step. Then another, ever deeper, until I’m up to my waist, then my middle, then my chest, and then my...
All of my clothes are still in the wardrobe that Quinn had placed into the spare room. That was over two months ago. My side of the wardrobe in our room remains empty. I don’t know if this bothers her. She hasn’t said. But it bothers me. It makes me think that I haven’t fully committed, that I’m holding something back. That I’m waiting for it all to collapse again and that I will be spared the humiliation of moving my things out of our room again. It’s funny how the mind works that way, thinks of the deep and sinister reasons for things when maybe it’s not that complicated at all. Maybe I’m just lazy.
And I have to wonder if that wasn’t my greatest sin after all. I wonder if I’ve been lazy all my life, taking the easiest and most comfortable path when it was offered. I wonder if my marriage was the way it was because I’d coasted through that too. I don’t really need to wonder. I know.
And so I empty the cupboard of my things. It sits in the hallway now while I paint Racheal’s room a pretty shade of pink. There is not enough room to walk down the hallway now without bumping into something, and Quinn’s dimensions are a little enhanced at the moment. I carry my clothes in batches down to our room and find a place for them in my empty side of the wardrobe. The doors are sticking as I open and close them. One or two hinges have broken, come apart. It’s a metaphor of neglect, I suppose. She asked me to fix them many times and I never got around to it. I had other things to do. And so they remained that way, broken like us, barely functional. I wonder why Wade hadn’t fixed them in my place. Maybe that’s not his thing. Maybe she didn’t ask him. I don’t know. Maybe this is my job, not his. Maybe I need to fix the things that only I can.
She wraps her arms around me from behind and I’m startled a little. I’ve been thinking too hard and was distracted, didn’t hear her. She leans her head against my neck.
“Finally,” she says.
“It’s taken a while.”
“Why? Are you afraid?” She knows me.
“No. Just lazy.”
She laughs a little. “But not anymore.”
I turn and she stands before me, snakes her arms around my neck, looks me in the eye.
“I know it sounds stupid, but this means a lot to me. I’ve been looking at that empty space for months. I guess that I thought it meant that you hadn’t fully come home. But now I know you have.”
“I have.”
She pulls my head down so that I can kiss her. Her kisses now are long and deep and feel myself getting lost in them more and more.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says after we come up for air.
“That can’t be a good thing,” I say with a smile. It earns me a playful slap on the shoulder.
“Your birthday is coming up,” she points out.
“I know.”
“But it’s after Rachel is born. I was thinking we could have a party a bit early.”
“I don’t want a party,” I say simply.
“What?” she says quietly.
“Birthdays have been a little ruined for me.”
She turns away for a second. I’ve hurt her again. I didn’t want to but I’m being honest.
“I get that,” she says. “Can I at least get you a present?”
I go to the wardrobe, where I’ve just placed everything I own. Everything. I open the door carefully.
“What?” she says.
“I don’t need anything. I’ve been living simply for the last six months and I’ve got used to using only what I need. And this,” I say, indicating with the palm of my hand, “is all I need.”
“I could get you something small – something personal.”
I nod a couple of times. “Fine,” I say. “But I have everything I need there too.”
“You do?”
“You and Rachel. You two are all that I need in that way.”
She smiles and takes my hand. “I just want to bless you.”
“You do that. Everyday you do that.”
“Well, I want to bless you more.”
“You will, when you hand me Rachel to hold for the first time.”
Tuesday
The phones have been running hot the last two days. Our four hours seems like a mountain climb. Everyone wants to know our story, at least the painful details, but Wade is not giving anything away - thankfully. We have an agreement and he’s sticking to it. But all of those questions, all of those calls, are becoming like a snowball rolling down a hill. Eventually it will become so big that it can’t be controlled. Eventually our little show will be too small for us. Eventually something