In bed, she quietly slid into her spot, carefully fluffing and adjusting her pillows as she eased under the duvet. The sheets were cool and smooth, the softest, lightest cotton. Her favorite indulgence. She didn’t care about expensive clothes or jewelry or cars, but she loved quality sheets. Good sheets made a great bed.
“You were gone awhile,” Jack said, breaking the silence. His voice was clear, firm. He hadn’t been asleep.
“Talked a long time to Sarah, then to JJ,” Meg answered, rolling over to look at him. His eyes were open, his gaze fixed on her.
“Everything okay?”
“Sarah’s a wreck, and JJ just wanted to talk.”
“What did he have to say?”
Meg hesitated, studying Jack’s strong, patrician features and unsmiling mouth. He didn’t smile much anymore, and suddenly she wondered if he ever had. “He talked about Grandma and Grandpa, and how much Grandpa would miss Grandma. He said they were best friends. I agreed. And then he asked . . .” Her voice trailed off as she struggled to voice JJ’s question. “He asked . . . if we had ever been like that. Best friends. And I told him yes.”
Jack didn’t say anything. His expression didn’t change. But Meg felt that acidic knot return to her stomach, the one that seemed to live there all the time, making her reach for Tums and Rolaids several times a day.
“What?” she prompted, trying to see into Jack’s brown eyes, trying to read what he was thinking.
“A long time ago,” he said finally.
She pressed the pillow closer to her cheek. Her face felt so hot, and yet on the inside she felt so cold. “Not that long ago.”
“Seems like forever.”
“We’ve had a hard year.”
“It wasn’t good before that.”
He was referring to her affair. Her affair, her fault, her responsibility. And it was no one’s fault but hers. She’d be doing penance forever, not because anyone asked it of her, but because she owed it. She’d messed up, badly; and nine months later, she still found it impossible to forgive herself. Maybe one day she could. Maybe when she and Jack were good again, solid again. She looked forward to the day. Prayed for the day. It was hard living with so much self-hatred. “It’ll get better.”
“I’m not happy.”
Meg exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry.”
“Are we working?” he asked.
“I’m not unhappy.”
“But are you happy?”
Her eyes stung and the acid from her stomach seemed to be bubbling up her esophagus and into her throat. “This is a kind of tough time to be talking about happiness. Mom’s just died. The funeral was this morning. We had two hundred and fifty people over to the house—”
“But that’s the point. We’re all going to die. Death is inevitable. In fact, some would say we’re dying every day.”
“I disagree. As long as you’re alive, you’re alive. When you’re dead, you’re gone—”
“Unless you’re not really alive. Unless you’re just going through the motions.” Jack’s mouth flattened, and a small muscle pulled and popped in his jaw. “Like we are.”
You mean, like you are, Meg silently corrected, closing her eyes, shoulders rising up toward her ears.
“This isn’t working with us, Meg.”
She didn’t want to hear this, not now, not today. She was too sad. Things had been too hard. “We’re tired, Jack, worn out—”
“I leave tomorrow for D.C., and I think we need to really think about the future and what we want. We’re not getting any younger. We deserve to be happy. You deserve to be happy—”
“I’m not unhappy, Jack!” she cried, sitting up, knocking away a tear before it could fall. “I’m just tired. It’s been a rough couple of weeks, and a very long day, and I will not lose you now, not after everything we’ve been through. We’re good together. We have the kids. We have a history. We have a future.”
“But maybe it’s not the one I want,” he answered quietly, his voice cutting through the dark room, and her heart.
Meg’s lips parted but no sound came out. She balled her hands into fists and pressed them against her thighs. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. Things would work out. They always worked out. She just had to be strong. “Have faith, Jack! We will get through this.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Jack.”
“I’m not trying to be mean, Meg. I’m just being honest.”
Palm Sunday.
A beautiful Palm Sunday, too. Cloudless blue sky. No breeze. Seventy-two degrees. How could it be better than that?