Learning to Stay (37 page)

“But?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “But it won’t work.”

It has to work,
I think. This is the only thing I’ve come up with that might put Brad and me on equal footing, the only thing that would give us both a reason to be here, together.

Only days ago, I was prepared to leave this place, possibly for good. It’s no longer what I want. Yet, it seems the most likely scenario, and I have to force myself to swallow, to breathe.

“You think that Jones and Brad are an anomaly?” I ask, my voice cracking. “That it’s a fluke, what they have together—how they are together?”

“A fluke? Oh, no. Not at all,” Randy says. “There’s a stack of research a mile high about the therapeutic benefits of dogs in all sorts of situations. It’s pretty common, actually.”

“So what’s not—common—then? Why won’t it work?”

“Years ago, I thought I’d try to contract with some shelters—working with dogs that need rehabbing so they can be placed instead of euthanized. But it was stupid. I was stupid. It didn’t work.”

“I don’t follow,” I tell her.

“Euthanasia is cheaper,” Randy says. “It all comes down to the bottom line. Last time I checked, I’m not independently wealthy, and neither are you or Brad. It’s a nice idea, Elise, but this idea of yours would cost money. A lot of money.”

She looks at her watch. “I’m sorry—I have to run. I have an appointment in ten minutes.” Randy starts to gather her things to go. “I’m sorry this wasn’t what you wanted to hear, Elise. But I am glad to have had the chance to meet you.”

She puts on her jacket and turns to leave.

“Wait,” I say, desperate for this conversation not to be over. Randy turns back around. “If money wasn’t the issue, would it work?” I ask her. I’m pleading with her. “If I could get the money, could we do it? Would it work?”

Randy shrugs. “Theoretically, yes,” she says. “But I don’t think you
realize how big a project you’re talking about here. It’s a good idea, but there’s a gigantic price tag. Depending on how many dogs you’d take in, it could be a million dollars, Elise. Maybe more.”

“A million?”

Randy frowns and nods. “By the time you find a training and boarding facility and account for my time, not to mention food and vet bills. Regular service dogs are in the thirty-to fifty-thousand-dollar range. Like I said, it’s a good idea, but it costs a lot of money—that none of us has. I’m sorry. Really, I am.”

“You don’t think we could get sponsors? Donors?”

Randy shrugs, pushing in her chair and turning to go. “I tried that before. This isn’t a wealthy area. You might be able to get people to part with some spare change, but that’s about it. Not enough to fund the kind of project you’re thinking of. Maybe just be happy that it worked for Brad?” Randy gives me a weak smile, full of pity, and then turns once more to leave, the door jingling shut behind her.

After my meeting with Randy I am tired but overcaffeinated—a terrible combination. I walk down to the lakeshore. The air is still crisp, but I warm up enough to strip off my outer layer. I walk southeast, following the bike path until my shoes start to pinch and rub and I have to peel off the long-sleeved shirt I had on under my Windbreaker, leaving myself in only a T-shirt. Eventually, the path gives way to an expanse of sandy beach that snakes along the bay clear across to Harvey. I kick one shoe off and then the other and continue on, the sand cold and delicious between my toes. It’s as if I’m on autopilot. I can’t think anymore. I can’t cry. I don’t want to leave, but I can’t stay here. Brad isn’t going to change his mind, not as things stand. He was so detached. So certain. Something big, something significant would have to happen to get him to see things differently. I thought I could pull off that something; I was wrong.

There’s nothing left to do now but leave.

The sun is a small glow high in the sky by the time my stomach starts to rumble with an insistent hunger. I turn around and start to make my way back. Marquette is small, like a model of itself, off in the distance, and I realize how far I’ve walked—how faraway and how tired and hungry I am. I sit down in the sand and start to cry.

The tears trickle at first, and then stream, until I’m full-on sobbing. A low-grade moan wells up, building into a wail as it escapes. I don’t even hear a man’s voice ask, “Is everything okay? Ma’am? Are you all right?” until I take a break to breathe, hiccupping as I do.

I look up and see a man slightly older than I am, bent over and peering at me from under his raised sunglasses. He is barefoot, dressed in jeans and a thin fleece pullover.

“Ma’am?”

I rub the tears from my eyes with my forearm and scramble to my feet, waving him off. “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m fine.”

“Pardon me saying, but you don’t look fine, ma’am.”

“Really? Do you think calling me ‘ma’am’ over and over is going to help?” I snap.

He holds both hands up in a conciliatory gesture, and I feel instantly terrible. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m having a bad day. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“We all have ’em,” he says. “Anything I can do to help?”

I think of Randy and my stomach constricts. She’s tall and beautiful and married to a radiologist. She belongs here. She has a connection with my husband that I don’t. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have bad days. Not like this.

I shake my head. “No,” I say. “Thank you, though.”

“You sure?”

Times like these, I wish I lived in New York or Los Angeles, or even Chicago, where people would have gone on their merry way as
soon as I said I was fine. Sometimes, upper midwesterners can be annoyingly nice.

“I am. Thank you,” I say, and I turn and continue walking. Walking feels good: forward motion without any purpose other than moving forward. That’s about as simple a goal as I can handle at the moment.

Not five minutes later, I hear a car horn beeping and tires crunching on the gravel shoulder to my left.

“Ma’am?” a voice calls, and I shudder. Anything, anything but
ma’am
. I glance over and see the man from the beach, leaning over the passenger seat of a red pickup truck. “I’m headed to town. Want a ride?”

I slow to a stop and consider the offer. I don’t want a ride. But I don’t want to walk all the way back, either. What if he’s a serial killer? A creepy stalker? If he is, I decide, his strategy is a piss-poor one. He could’ve wandered that stretch of beach for hours and not seen another living soul. I decide to take my chances.

I clamber up a short, steep embankment and onto the shoulder. The passenger door swings out toward me. I notice a decal on the back window with the head of an eagle and the word
AIRBORNE
over it. Suddenly, all the “ma’am” nonsense makes more sense.

“Thanks,” I say, catching the door and hauling myself into the truck. The man from the beach nods and waits for me to fasten my seat belt before shifting into drive and easing onto the road.

“So, Army, huh?” I ask.

The man smiles. “Hooah. Twenty years.”

“Fucking Army,” I say under my breath.

“Not a fan?”

I shake my head and bite my lip. I can feel my eyes smarting with tears again. Marquette is where Brad and I first met. If it weren’t for the Army, if it weren’t for this war, he would be fine. We would be fine. I have an overwhelming need to rewind time. To go back to that snowy night when he waited for me to get off work, hot cup of coffee
in hand. To that kiss. To his standing at my stove the next morning and all the mornings that I woke up next to him until he left for Iraq. I want it all back, and the tighter I hold on, the faster the memories slip through my fingers.

“Neither was my wife,” he says. “Can’t say I blame her. Hardest job in the military.”

I look at him, my eyes brimming. He turns briefly from the road and smiles reassuringly at me. “Your guy overseas?”

I shake my head. “Was.”

“So he’s back home?”

I nod.

“It’ll get better,” he says. “Just takes a little time.”

We’re coming into town, and Mr. Airborne asks where he can drop me off, giving me little opportunity to dwell on the fact that for Brad and me, time seems to have run out.

“The Lower Harbor would be great,” I tell him. “Or anywhere near there.”

He pulls into Thill’s Fish Market, and my hand is on the door before I realize I never introduced myself.

“Thank you,” I say. “For the ride. And by the way, I’m Elise.”

“Ron,” he says. “Elise—that’s a beautiful name. You take care now. Sure you’re okay?”

“I will be.” I hop out of the truck and shut the door. I’ve forgotten how nice people are here. It’s one more reason to make me want to stay, and one more thing that makes my heart sink that I can’t.

Ron holds his hand up in a wave, and though he can’t see me, I wave back.

I need two things: a shower and a nap. There are decisions to make and good-byes to endure, but I’m having trouble thinking beyond either right now.

There are no cars in Mert’s driveway and the yard stretching from his house to the barn is devoid of any activity. The place looks abandoned, and I’m relieved. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. I don’t want to pretend anymore that things are fine, that I’m okay.

My legs feel weighted with cement as I climb the stairs to the second floor. Maybe I’ll skip the shower and go straight to sleep. When I was little, I never fought naps because my mom would tell me what she had planned for us afterward, and going straight to sleep was, in my young mind, the fastest way to get to the fun afternoon that lay ahead. There’s a part of me now that thinks if I can fall asleep, maybe when I wake things will be, if not fun, at least different.

I sit down on the bed to take off my shoes and jeans, and something crinkles underneath me. I reach behind me and pull out a folded piece of notebook paper with my first initial on the front. Inside, Brad’s scrawl reads,
Dinner? My place? Six o’clock?

I wonder why he didn’t just call. I wonder why he’s inviting me to dinner in the first place. He’s prolonging the inevitable, isn’t he? There’s not much left to say that wasn’t said yesterday morning. And after my meeting with Randy, there’s nothing much left to do, either. If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d consider leaving tonight.

But I am exhausted, and I’m filthy and sweaty from my day at the beach. I look at the clock—it’s after five. I have time for a nap or a shower; not both.

In the bathroom, I let the water run colder than I normally do, in hopes that it gives me a brief burst of energy, of alertness. I gasp as I step into the shower and every muscle in my body tenses. But I force myself to stay, to endure the pinpricks of ice cold on my skin. After a few minutes, it starts to feel good, and I relax. By the time I turn off the water, I feel rejuvenated.

I dry my hair and after I’m done, unplug the hair dryer and wind the cord around it. I take it back to my room and pack it into my suitcase.
There,
I think. It’s a first step toward leaving, but I don’t let myself dwell. I pick out a clean pair of jeans and pull on a light cotton sweater with them, then slip on my sandals. I glance at the clock on the bedside table: ten minutes to six. I have enough time to put on makeup and a spritz of perfume, but tonight I don’t see much point. I’m at the very upper border of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, going to have dinner in a barn with a man I was going to leave, but who is now letting me leave instead. Our situation is beyond anything that Chanel or Burberry could ever hope to overcome.

One look at Brad, though, and I wish I had taken more pains. He’s clean-shaven and his hair newly cut. He’s wearing an untucked pale blue button-down shirt, dark jeans, and brown slip-on loafers without socks. He looks, in a word, scrumptious. Why were there so many times when I overlooked how handsome he is? So many opportunities that I didn’t take to kiss his lips or let myself sink into his arms because I was busy with work or annoyed at some little thing or another that he had done?

He gives me a megawatt smile, but his eyes are sad. “Welcome to Chez Brad,” he says, handing me a glass of red wine. A card table is set with a checkered tablecloth and two place settings. The open bottle of wine sits on top of the table, a dish towel wrapped around its neck.

“Thank you,” I say. I take a sip, feeling self-conscious and shy around this man I have known and loved for more than five years. I can feel the tears, like musicians waiting just offstage for the encore they know is coming. “So, what’s on the menu, Chef?”

“Chicken cacciatore,” Brad says. “I wanted to take you to Casa Calabria, but—” He shrugs and turns to the refrigerator, as though he’s forgotten something important in there, but I can finish that sentence for him: It’s easier for him to hole up here, since he can’t bring Jones to a place like the Casa. Here, he’s guaranteed to be free of triggers, to sit where he wants, and to control the situation. Here, there are no surprises.

Brad brings a sauté pan to the table and sets it on a trivet. Then he takes a loaf of garlic bread from the oven and breaks it along precut lines, placing each piece in a bowl lined with paper towels, and sets that on the table. “Dinner is served.” He shrugs and says, “It’s not fancy, but hopefully it tastes that way.”

He motions for me to sit down. I place my napkin on my lap and help myself to the chicken cacciatore—the only dish I’ve ever ordered at the Casa. Brad remembered. That would make me feel special and happy if it didn’t make me feel so sad.

Brad and I reach for a piece of garlic bread swimming in butter at the same time and both of us pull our hands back.

“Go ahead,” I tell him.

“No,” he says. “You first. You go.”

I get quiet. It shouldn’t be like this—all stiff and awkward. I pull my piece of garlic bread and chew, staring out the window at the moon, framed in it perfectly, like a picture.

“What’s up, E.?” Brad asks. “Something interesting out there?”

I shake my head and tell him what I was thinking. “It’s all wrong,” I say.

“What?” he asks.

“This,” I say. “Us. We’re like a bad first date on Groundhog Day.”

Brad laughs. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

I nod. “It is,” I say in a whisper.