The Marriage Gap Year, page 2
“Christ, enough about the table.”
“It’s not about the table!” She breathed heavily. “It’s that you’ve stopped trying.”
“Whatever.” He started the car. The whirr of the air conditioning came to life. Rob pulled out of the parking space.
“It’s true,” said Emma, more calmly. “It’s like you don’t want to share a life, don’t want to try anything new. Like you’re done investing in us.”
They whizzed by parked cars, the tires squealing in the steep, narrow circuit to the exit.
“You say you love me,” she said. “But do you love me enough to let me go?”
“Oh fuck!” He stopped the car and thumped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.
“What?”
“Forgot to validate the fucking parking ticket.”
Emma spent the car ride home trying to control her breathing. It was out there now, this thing she had thought about so often. Rehearsed. She’d lit the fuse but didn’t yet know what it was attached to.
Rob stopped the car outside their house. The little Victorian terrace already looked different. Small.
“Geez,” Emma said.
But Rob was already getting out of the car. He strode toward the house and she watched him until he disappeared inside, slamming the screen door shut.
Emma scanned the street for neighbors and pulled the vanity mirror down. She traced the bags under her eyes with the tips of her fingers, sighed, and flipped the vanity mirror back up. Her fingers massaged the roots of her hair. She looked up when she heard the whine of a saw coming from inside the house.
Emma raced up the steps and opened the screen door to see Rob perched over the living room table, revving the motor on a cordless circular saw.
“Hey,” she called over the screech. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Rob brought the saw down on the dining room table, spewing plumes of sawdust as the teeth gnawed a line through the middle of the tabletop. He lifted the saw in triumph and the table collapsed in a heap on the living room floor. “There,” he said, stepping over the fallen timbers. “One less thing to move.”
Chapter Two
Don’t cry Emma told herself. It’ll only confuse him. She ordered herself a latte and waited for Rob to arrive. She wouldn’t usually order before he got there, but things were different now and she tingled with a disproportionate sense of joy in this first act of freedom. It’d been a tense month working out the details of their arrangement but today was the day they made it official.
She put down her phone on the table and looked out the window. Already patches of rust were spreading in the trees. She wasn’t ready for summer to end.
Lygon Street used to be more edgy, didn’t it? Full of cheap restaurants and little hole-in-the-wall bars and cafes that students used to hang out in. This was before the neon noodle-chains moved in, alongside the clean, bright cafes with their Scandinavian color palette of white marble and blond wood: warm enough to invite you in, but not cozy enough to make you want to stay. A transactional environment.
Or perhaps nothing had really changed on Lygon Street. Maybe it was just her. Maybe she was less cool than she used to be. Or maybe she’d been vanilla all along.
“Flat white?” said the bony waiter, swimming in his leather apron.
“Thanks.”
“Just the coffee then?” He leaned over the table and scooped up the menu. “Cool. Enjoy.”
Emma cupped the glass with both hands and gently blew on the top of her coffee. She took a sip. This was going to be okay, wasn’t it? This wasn’t a ridiculous mid-life crisis thing? It’s what they both needed. Didn’t they?
She took a longer drink and felt her brain fog recede. She spied Rob walking toward her before he saw her. She watched him stop under the awning of a shopfront and absently browse the window display while talking to someone on his wireless earbuds. Why was he holding a takeout cup? He knew they were meeting for coffee.
She picked up her own phone and, even though she had taken a few days off, scrolled through her work emails. She knew it wasn’t good for her wellbeing. Work–life balance and all that. Still, if it helped her get on top of the workflow it was worth it. Besides, she didn’t want to look like she was just waiting for Rob with nothing else to do.
The cafe door opened. Emma briefly feigned not noticing and remained focused on her phone, but the ruse soon felt silly, juvenile, so she looked up and offered Rob a weak smile. He raised his finger and pointed to his ear and mouthed the word sorry. Emma returned to her emails. Annual report stuff. Ugh. Was it that time of year again already? The unsexiest part of working in communications. She winced at Rob’s too-loud voice, which pierced the cafe’s lazy calm. “Yep. Okay. Yep,” he spoke into the earpiece. “We can probably sort that out tomorrow…okay. Talk then. Bye.”
Emma crinkled her nose as the fruity, yeasty waft of stale beer and coffee oozed from Rob and lingered in the no-man’s land between them. The tension around alcohol had got worse over the years, creating fault lines waiting to erupt. How many last night? Three stubbies? Five? Ten? Did the scotch come out? She knew the routine, the sequence between rounds. Needy. Sad. Incensed. Looking for a fight.
It’s not that he raged and smashed windows or anything, but alcohol changed the mood in the house. Sometimes he’d just go quiet and fall asleep on the couch. Other times, he’d fixate on something, a mean client, a bad interaction at work, something she’d neglected to do, and he’d prosecute the injustice over and over, wounding himself anew until she gave up trying to help him move past whatever it was and just went to bed. So went this predictable spiral of accusation, self-pity, and apology for “going off” the night before. Those evenings inflicted thousands of injuries on their marriage and she’d been unsure what it all meant, or how or if she could continue to endure them.
There was no intimacy between them anymore. The sex, when it happened, was quick and perfunctory, an item on a to-do list.
She waited for him to speak before she looked up from her email. “Nice place,” he said, and sat down, the little chair creaking beneath him.
The aproned waiter returned. “Can I get you something?”
“Oh, hey mate. Yeah, you got anything bready back there, like a sweet or salty bready type thing?”
“I can bring you the food menu if you—”
“Ah, just wondering if you got anything like a sausage roll, maybe, or a sticky bun or something?
“A bun?”
“Yeah, like a hot cross bun or…”
“I’ve got a crab-apple Danish or an almond croissant.” The waiter fluttered his eyelashes.
“Okay, I’ll take the Danish.” He pointed at Emma. “You want anything?” She shook her head.
“Coffee?” the waiter asked, his head tilted to the side, almost parallel to the floor, as if he were looking under something.
“All good, mate. Still got this one on the go.” Rob held up his takeout coffee, daring the waiter to take exception.
The waiter nodded and retreated to his counter.
Rob turned to face Emma. The table tilted slightly as he leaned his heavy arm on it. Emma looked away from his round belly. It shouldn’t matter. But it did. And she felt ashamed about that. A better person would look past that as superficial. But there was other stuff too. Remember that.
“So, thanks for coming.” Emma looked down at the table. “Sorry, that sounds stupid. I mean…I’m glad you’re here to…” She sighed. “I’m just saying it’s good we’re moving forward with this now. God, I don’t know why I’m getting so tongue-tied.” She took a long drink of her coffee. They never made them hot enough.
Rob laced his big fingers together on the table. “You having second thoughts?”
Emma shook her head.
“Okay then,” said Rob, adjusting himself on the creaky little chair. “Everything’s pretty much set to go.”
Emma briefly looked her husband in the eye before adjusting her gaze to the window behind him, where two passing dog walkers allowed their “oodle-mixes” to sniff each other. What had she expected? That he’d cry? Would it have made a difference?
Emma cleared her throat and looked back at him. “You find a place to stay?”
Rob unclasped his fingers and dug his cell phone out of his pocket. He held it at some distance from his face as he scrolled with big flicks of his finger. “Here,” he said, angling the phone toward Emma. “Syed’s letting me use one of the display homes at Wattle Point.” He flipped through interior photos of a new house: white walls, charcoal carpet, cream blinds. Emma allowed Rob to scroll through the photos more slowly than she would have. Let him pretend to be chipper. Managing. Unaffected. She owed him that.
She looked down at the images. They saddened her, these pictures. It was one of those cookie-cutter homes in the outer suburbs of Melbourne. Clean, big and soulless, even with the benefit of furniture to stage it for sale. Emma felt a pang of guilt imagining Rob holed up in a small section of this large house, a warm patch in this cold building. “Looks nice,” she said.
“It’s right on site,” he said, shutting the phone off and stuffing it into his pocket. “So that’s the commute gone. All I have to do is keep the place clean and clear out if Syed needs to show it. Doesn’t bother me none. I’ll be on the job most days anyway.” Rob lifted the takeout coffee to his lips and tilted his head way back to finish the dregs at the bottom of the cup. “Saw you got your apartment sorted,” he said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “In the city, yeah?”
Emma nodded. “Near work,” she said. “I always wanted to be able to walk to work.”
“Good,” Rob coughed. “Well, the renters are moving into our place next week, so if there’s anything else you need from the attic, you’ll have to let the agent know.”
Emma turned to look out the window. She tried to push back tears, but they were already coming.
“And here’s your Danish,” came the waiter’s voice, the clink of a plate on the table. Emma twisted her head further away, toward the view out the window. She wiped at the tears with her knuckle.
“Emma?” Rob’s voice drew her back from the distractions outside. She didn’t want to be like this, all flushed and red-eyed and snotty. She turned back to face Rob and picked up one of the napkins that had been placed in front of her, unsure if it was Rob or the waiter who’d put them there. She found herself unwilling to gift the gesture to Rob.
His face was at once deeply lined and boyish, the mischief in his blue eyes had dimmed. “This is what you wanted. Isn’t it?” he said.
“I know.” She blew her nose. “But I can still feel sad about it.”
Rob leaned forward. “Because it’s not too late, you know? We can undo it all.”
Emma shook her head. “No,” she said. “This has to happen, one way or another. I don’t want us to end up hating each other and that’s where this is going.”
He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin. “What are you expecting from this Emma? What are you going to do, fly off to Tuscany to find yourself? This isn’t a movie.” He crossed his arms and looked up at the ceiling.
“It’s a year, Rob. That’s the deal. We set each other free for a year.”
He sighed. “Free from what, Em? No one’s in your way. I told you, if you want to quit your job, just quit. I’ll take care of us.”
“Look, thanks for getting the house sorted with the tenants and everything. I appreciate it, but I don’t want to go over all this again. That you don’t get why I need – why we need – time apart is exactly the problem.”
Rob scratched his stubbled cheek.
“It’s a twelve-month lease, Emma. You going to do your whole life over in that time?”
Emma looked at the tree outside, its gnarled bark wrapped by a wrought-iron skirt.
“We’ve been through this,” she said. “You agreed.”
“So what? We can un-agree. Nothing’s set in stone.”
She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. “I know it’s scary—”
“I’m not scared. I just think this is stupid.”
She looked at him, drew her lips tight.
“What?” said Rob. “No calls, not even texts? For a year? It’s weird, like a reality TV show or something. I know you like drama, but this just feels…childish.”
She swallowed. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
“I guess not,” he said, blinking.
“I don’t know if I love you anymore.”
Rob sat back, the bulk of him leaned against the thin wing of the cafe chair. “Okay,” he nodded and rose to his feet.
“Rob,” she said, but he held up his hand.
“Fine.” He opened his wallet. “I’ll get out of your way then.” He dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Guess I’ll talk to you in a year.”
“Rob,” she called after him.
“No, really. Knock yourself out.” He left the cafe, pulling the door closed with a thud.
Emma looked down at his untouched Danish. Who did that?
Chapter Three
Emma lay in the unfamiliar bed scrolling through an overwhelming list of “wellness” podcasts. How was she supposed to find the right one for her? A Passion for Marriage? No, she was not about to spend this time trying to work directly on her marriage. This time was about her. The soothing green-field thumbnail art of Alive and Well drew her in, but the blurb sounded like the show was just vegan propaganda. More guilt is not what she needed. God, the choices were endless. She scrolled quickly, hoping one of the titles would catch her attention: All’s Well, Be Well, Being Well, Cut the Crap, Dream Big, Feel Good, Meditation Nation. This was only making her feel more anxious.
Emma closed her eyes and stabbed randomly at the screen. She opened her eyes to reveal what she’d landed on. Something called Presence, hosted by Eli Jacobs. She started the episode, but the sound was echoey, like it had been recorded in a garage, plus Eli’s voice was whiny and annoying. Emma decided she didn’t want to listen to a male voice at all. That would help cut down the options.
New plan. She’d flick her finger five times and then pick the first female name that came on screen. And the winner is…Dr Priya Saanvi, host of Whose Life Is It Anyway?
Emma appreciated the quiet cheer in Dr Priya’s voice. Dr Priya wasn’t talking down to her or using the podcast to read from her book, she sounded like she was just on for a chat, sharing ideas as if the thoughts had just come to her in that moment. If you’re looking for a guru or a spirit guide, you’ve come to the wrong place. I haven’t got the answers you’re looking for. But you know what? You do. So stick around, and maybe, just maybe, I can help you find them.
This was good, thought Emma, lying here, listening to her podcast, not having to explain herself, or risk getting interrupted, or think about sounds she might not hear with her headphones on. She sank into the pillow and closed her eyes. Dr Priya asked her to look past whatever she was expecting to get from this podcast, to ignore any voice in her head or impulse in her body that felt critical or competitive.
You know the one, said Dr Priya. It’s the one telling you that you’ve got more important things to do right now. That you should be doing something else. Just turn the volume down on that voice. It’s okay. It’ll be back. We just want to give the other voices a go. The quiet ones. The hesitant ones. Let’s give them the floor for a minute. What have they got to say? You might not hear them right away. They might be a bit shy, you see. Or scared. They’re used to getting shouted down.
Emma lay back, waiting to hear something, to feel something, but there was nothing. Not even a stillness. She wriggled on the mattress, which suddenly felt too hard; the new paint smell in the room asserted itself.
You’re no good at this, Emma thought. You’re not the meditating type. Give up. Do something constructive. She was about to turn off the podcast when Dr Priya interrupted.
If you thought this was going to be easy, my lovelies, think again. Getting in touch with yourself is hard. That’s why most people don’t do it. That’s why they walk around like zombies, thinking other people’s thoughts, striving for other people’s dreams. Forget about everyone else. What do you want? Maybe you know what it is. And maybe you don’t. This actually doesn’t matter. What matters is thinking about it, getting in touch with it. Maybe you’ll come up with a list, a feeling, a photo gallery of what’s important to you. Whatever. As long as it’s yours. Now, I’d love to have you back for episode two, but not if you haven’t done your homework. I want you to go on a speed date with yourself. And ask yourself: What do I want? What’s my idea of a better life?
Emma opened her eyes as the peaceful piano music faded out. She stared at the ceiling and thought about all those floors above her and all the floors below, filled with unseen, unheard people going about their business. She’d get used to it. This building had a gym and a swimming pool, the ritual use of which she mentally added to her list of lifestyle changes. She liked Dr Priya and this concept of a speed date with yourself. The session emboldened Emma to start a note on her phone:
A better life is being more connected…body, mind and spirit
To do:
Exercise more (start running)
Reconnect with self
Reconnect with friends
Help Will find independence
Savor beauty, the arts, music.
Be spontaneous
Have more orgasms
Find out if I still love Rob
It wasn’t exactly the homework Dr Priya had set, but it was a start.
Invigorated by the thought of her list, Emma peeled herself out of bed and walked the few short steps to the kitchen. It felt strange, tiptoeing on the cold tiles as if she were a guest in someone else’s house, like she might accidentally wake someone still sleeping in this unfamiliar apartment. The Uber Eats bag sitting on the counter, which had contained last night’s green chicken curry, was oddly reassuring, a reminder that this was her place and that everything would remain exactly as she left it.
