The Repeat Year (27 page)

“Like you cheating on me.”

She tried to ignore him. “Last February, you also surprised me with a trip to Lake Geneva, but things didn’t go as well for us.” Phil looked like he was going to protest, but she held up her hand and continued. “Your car broke down on the way there—the fuel pump. When we finally got to the cabin, we were cold and tired. I was worried about a patient, so I called in to check on his condition. You got really irritated with me for never being able to detach myself from my work—not even on a romantic weekend. You were so upset with me, that you didn’t even propose and we left early.”

Phil rolled his eyes. “What is the point of this?”

She inched closer to him on the couch. She wanted so badly to take his hands in hers. She wanted to pin him down until he believed her. “That I’ve already lived this year through once. After that weekend the first time, I made a huge mistake. I slept with my coworker, and I totally ruined things for us. But then New Year’s happened. I woke up in the same year—2011—and I could see that I’d been given a second chance to make things right between us. So we went on the trip again, and you proposed this time. And I didn’t cheat. My coworker has no memory of us being together because to him and almost everyone else that first 2011 doesn’t exist. And you and I have been so happy together this year, Phil, building a life together. Haven’t we been happy?”

She laid her hand on his knee, and he flinched away.

“Don’t you think that one lie was enough?” he asked. “Do you think inventing a whole slew of lies is going to make this better?” He stood up from the couch.

Exasperation seized her. Why did he have to be so damn hard to convince? Why couldn’t he just take a leap of faith for once in his entire life and believe in her?

“I’m not lying! Ask me anything. I’ll prove it to you. What do you want to know? The weather? We’re going to have record-breaking highs in early December. In the fifties.”

“Stop. Just stop. This is absurd. I had to find out you’re cheating on me from an e-mail your roommate sent, and now you’re hiding behind some kind of magical thinking.” He grabbed his jacket off the back of a kitchen chair and slipped it on.

Olive stood up, alarmed. She was losing him! “I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t believe it at first, either. But if you’d only let me explain—”

“There’s only one thing I’m interested in hearing you explain, Olive:
How could you
? If you supposedly love me so much, how could you have cheated on me? How could you do that to me and even entertain my proposal? How could you let us buy a condo together? How could you sit back and let me make such a fool of myself? Do you not have any respect for me?”

She leaned on the couch for support and closed her eyes. “I tried to do things differently. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t take it back—”

“I need to get out of here.” He pushed past her on his way to the door, as thoughtlessly as if she were a stranger in a crowd he was trying to escape.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere to think. Somewhere I can be alone.” His hand was on the doorknob.

“Please stay,” she begged. “I’ll give you your space. And then when you’re ready, we can finish talking about this.”

“I don’t think so.”

Then he was out the door. She flew to the picture window and watched him walk to his car and then back out of the driveway. Even after he was out of sight, she continued to stare, not really seeing the skeletal limbs of the trees in their neighbors’ yards or the overcast sky.

Some time later, she found herself curled up on the couch in the spot Phil had vacated. The clock informed her that it was a little after four. Only eight hours ago her world had been intact. She and Phil had lain in bed together. She had kissed him awake, and then he had tucked her into bed. The morning felt like days ago.

Oh, the irony. The cruel, cruel irony. It didn’t count that she was innocent this year; she was damned either way. She had done nothing but love Phil, yet she had still earned his scorn for a mistake she had made in a year that was starting to feel more and more distant and dreamlike to her. She tried to convince herself that this was different from last year’s separation. Phil just needed some time to digest the bizarre information. Even though she was the one reliving the year, it had taken her at least a full day and a half of craziness to admit that it was 2011 again. She had convinced Kerrigan, which had been her downfall, of course. Phil would believe, too. And once he did, once he understood the magnitude of this year, and how it meant they were destined to be together, he would forgive her. He had to.

Twilight came and drained all the light from the living room. She didn’t get up to turn on the lights or close the blinds. Instead, she sat motionless, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the dark. Every so often, headlights flashed through the windows, temporarily illuminating the room. Her neighbors were coming home from work, preparing dinner, discussing their days. She wrapped a cotton throw around her shoulders and wondered where Phil was. She didn’t want to get up, not even to use the bathroom, in case he came back and she missed him. She wanted him to see her sitting here like this, penitent, remorseful, filled with sorrow. A testament to her love and loyalty for him. But he didn’t return.

She was slowly coming back to herself. Cashew was curled up against her side. He looked up at her with his dark, liquid eyes, almost as if he understood her grief. Was he trying to console her with his nearness? No, he was probably just anxious for dinner. She flipped on all the lights in the living room at once and snapped the blinds shut. Closed in, she felt less vulnerable. She filled Cashew’s dish with kibble and then found some mandarin oranges in the cupboard for herself. She ate them straight from the can with a fork, pacing the condo and admiring the office walls that she and Phil had painted Mint Julep. The wall she had done was easily identifiable by the sloppy brushstrokes. Phil’s walls were neat and streak-free.

She left him a voice mail. She wanted to say,
I lost you once already; I’ve come too far to lose you again. We’re meant to be together. I know that now. That’s what this year is all about.
But he would be resistant to this since he didn’t believe yet, so instead she said, “Phil. You have the right to be angry with me. I understand. But we owe it to each other, to the four years we’ve been together, to try to talk this out. Please. Just give me a chance to try to explain. I love you. Call me when you’re ready.”

She sat down on the edge of the unmade bed. She had no intention of sleeping; her head was awhirl with thoughts of Phil and the hurt she had caused him, anger toward Kerrigan, and a numbing fear that it was all over. She’d been provided with a fresh start and she’d blown it. She didn’t know which was worse—the prospect of having to relive the year again as Sherry had done or the thought that she
wouldn’t
get to live it over again. That this was it: Phil would never forgive her and she’d be condemned to a life without him.

She fell into a fitful sleep where she had dreams of the ICU. One of her patients was Heath. She had never met him before, but she knew it was him. He was seizing violently in a fishbowl room, but the door was jammed, so she couldn’t get to him. She ran to get someone to help her open the door, but another patient came in with a bloody head, and then another in the throes of cardiac arrest, and then another and another. She could never get back to help Heath.

She woke up with the sheet twisted around her legs almost as though she’d been trying to run in her sleep. Why Heath? Of all the people she could’ve dreamed about right now, why him? But dreams didn’t always make sense. After her dad had died, she’d had a recurring dream about missing a flight. She turned over; part of her knew that Phil was gone, but the other part denied the reality and still wanted to check. It was nine o’clock in the morning. She wondered where he had slept last night. Before depression slowed her down, she needed to get up and going, get inertia on her side. She couldn’t bear another day like yesterday, trapped alone in the house with her wretchedness.

It was becoming more and more apparent that the cosmic forces that had granted her this repeat year were no longer her friends. Phil called when she was in the shower—the first time she’d been away from her phone in twenty hours. She immediately tried to call him back, but he had already turned his phone off. The voice mail he had left was terse. “I’m going to stop by the condo to pick up a few things while you’re at work tonight. I’ll be staying with a friend for a few days. I’m not ready to talk yet.”

She tried to take hope from the fact that he had called, but he was shutting her out the same way he had shut her out last year. She needed to make this right somehow before things continued any further down that path. She needed to talk to someone, and there was really only one person.

Sherry didn’t answer her door. Olive alternately rang the doorbell and knocked for about five minutes. Then she walked around the side of the house. It was only thirty-five degrees out, but the sun was shining, so maybe Sherry was outside soaking it up. But the garden was empty, and it looked nothing like Olive had remembered it. Now everything was brown and decaying. The leaves and vines that had given the impression of the backyard being its own island of tranquillity were gone, leaving gaping holes in their place, and now Olive could see the house behind Sherry’s, a three-story brick monstrosity with a swimming pool.

Slightly panicked, Olive called her mom at work. “Hi, Mom. Have you talked to Sherry lately? Is she okay?”

“We talked on the phone earlier this week, and she sounded like herself. Why?”

“I’m at her house, and she’s not answering her door, and I’m really worried.” Olive sat in one of the wicker chairs. The seat was wet with rainwater, and it dampened her pants.

“Well, honey, maybe she went out. Maybe she’s at the grocery store or a doctor’s appointment.” There was a meaningful pause. “Is everything okay? You seem rattled.”

Tears rolled down Olive’s cheeks, and she brushed at them quickly with the back of her hand. “Everything’s fine. I’m just worried about Sherry. I know it’s stupid. I should’ve called her first.”

“That’s very sweet of you, honey. If there’s anything you want to talk about, feel free to come over tonight, okay? Harry and I are making samosas and chicken curry.”

“Thanks, but I need to work tonight.”

“I’m happy to talk whenever. Just the two of us.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Olive couldn’t imagine telling her mom that Phil had left. To tell her would mean accepting sympathy that she didn’t deserve. To tell her would make the situation seem more real. More permanent.

She resolved to wait until Sherry came home. Despite the sunshine, it was still November in Wisconsin, and she hugged her jacket to her chest. A mourning dove cooed plaintively at her from the leafless trees. It turned out she didn’t have to wait for more than an hour. The sound of a car coming up the driveway woke her from her frozen stupor. She peered around the side of the house and saw a young woman helping Sherry out of a white car. They both glanced at Olive’s parked SUV. The young woman left the car running, so it appeared she was simply dropping Sherry off and not staying. Sherry hobbled like an old woman. The car drove away, and Olive counted to ten. Then she hurried around the side of the house and rang the doorbell.

Sherry opened the door a few inches. She wore a rust-colored terrycloth turban, and there were hollow spaces around her eyes. She looked as cold and detached as she had at the New Year’s Day party, sitting alone at the end of the couch, eavesdropping on Olive. “This isn’t a good time. I just went through another round of chemo, and I’m sick as a dog.” She started to shut the door.

“Sherry, wait! I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, but I really need to talk to you.”

Sherry peered at her through the crack for a moment and then held it wide open. “I’m warning you—I’m really ill. But I’ll try to give you ten minutes without vomiting.”

Olive stepped into the house. A wave of humid air met her. “Doesn’t your doctor have you on any anti-nausea medications?”

“Yes, but it gives me such terrible headaches that sometimes I don’t take it.”

“There are a lot of drugs out there. There’s got to be one with milder side effects that will help with the nausea. Do you want me to make you some toast?”

“No food. Just talk.” Sherry lay down on the couch and threw her arm over her eyes. She was not the most welcoming conversation partner, but Olive needed her.

She took off her coat and sat in Sherry’s usual armchair. “My boyfriend found out.”

“About the repeat year?”

“About my cheating on him last year. He doesn’t believe in the repeat year. I tried to explain it, but he thinks I’m lying to explain away the cheating.”

Sherry’s chest rose and fell heavily. She didn’t respond for a long time, and Olive wondered if she’d fallen asleep. “How long did it take you to believe?” she finally asked.

“At least a day. And then you came to my apartment—”

“Right. So give him some time. It
is
a time warp we’re talking about here. Not the easiest story to swallow.” Sherry pulled a purple afghan from the back of the sofa and covered herself, despite the house’s balmy temperature.

“But you don’t understand. I went through it, so I couldn’t deny it. Phil won’t even give me the chance to explain, so he’ll never believe it. He’s distancing himself from me. He left yesterday afternoon and hasn’t been back to our condo since. He won’t answer my calls. He’s purposely coming over tonight to pack a bag while I’m at work so he can avoid me.”

“Give him some time,” Sherry repeated drowsily.

Her faith in Sherry was obviously misguided. Sherry was too sick; she had too many troubles of her own. She wasn’t an oracle; she was a dying, middle-aged woman whose life had taken innumerable wrong turns. Olive stood up. “But I’m afraid if I give him too much time, it will all be over, like last year. And I keep asking myself, did I screw it up beyond repair? Am I going to have to live 2011 over again? Or even worse—was this my one shot and now I’m never going to get Phil back?”