Now You See Him by Eli Gottlieb Page A

loudly.
    But she only gave me the sad dreamy smile again. “Is it? According to Dr. Purefoy, the inability to let go of the past is a classic diagnostic trait of depression. But you’re not even depressed, Nick. You’re just selfish. You’re literally too selfish to grow up. I think I’ve had enough of it.”
    A stroke of something like sleep went through me, a hot, cardiac sensation of fatigue that caused me to sag against the counter.
    “Please,” she said, and having discharged her weapon, she seemed visibly relieved, “can I have another glass of wine?”
    Reaching robotically toward the bottle, I poured.
    “You’ve made your position clear over these last few months since Rob Castor’s death,” she said. “Now I’m going to tell you my position. I’ve decided that I’m not going to stand in your way. If you want to leave this relationship, I will not oppose you.”
    “You will not oppose me,” I repeated dully.
    “Not even a little. There’s no use in your staying around in a situation you so obviously want out of.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said.
    “My parents have said they’d help out if necessary, and I can always go back to work. Of course,” she added, lowering her eyes as if in the grip of sudden modesty, “I remain open to any suggestions you might have to improve the situation.”
    I realized I was now clenching my jaw, a kind of strap-like torque running up the sides of my head.
    “However”—she raised her eyes—“you’ll have to be the one to initiate, Nick. It’s humiliating to have to run after you like a personal assistant just to get a live response out of you. I know that ‘communication’ is not what you’re especially good at. And I appreciate what you did tonight in cleaning the house and cooking. I appreciate what it might have to say about you showing up generally. Thank you. But a few good gestures do not a new life make.”
    The breezy tone of this last phrase, imported to show that she was detached from it all, made me feel worse. I loved her. Now, in fact, more than ever. Couldn’t she see that? Didn’t that mean something? Not knowing what else to do, I turned away, toward the stove.
    “There is one place you could start, that is if you’re interested,” I heard her say.
    “What’s that?”
    “I think you know.”
    “A vacation?”
    “No.”
    I turned back around to face her. “Lemme guess. Purefoy.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Dear God.”
    Had it been a dozen times that we’d gone there, a small, cowed couple, grateful for the crumbs thrown from his Olympian height? I couldn’t remember how many visits we’d made, but I distinctly recalled the hissing wave sounds of his white-noise generator; I remembered the long silences in the oak-paneled office, the tactfully placed box of tissues, and the air of pretend normalcy beneath which, it was implied, abysses of nighttime dysfunction might be opened up to the healing, vitamin-packed light of day. Despite his studied neutrality, it had been my impression that the doctor disapproved of me in some way that surprised even himself. I did not want to see Dr. Purefoy.
    “I’ll think about it,” I said.
    “Your call.”
    I returned to preparing dinner, feeling as if tackled by a new gravity of sadness, and was just plating the food when Ferdie Pacheco returned early with the kids in his loud pickup truck. They piled into the house, and Lucy rushed to see them, and their obvious happiness in each other, something I’d approved of wholeheartedly and enabled as a foundational fact of our marriage, made me feel utterlywretched tonight. The emotional lockdown between us might have softened a bit as a result of our recent conversation; some warmth might have crept back in; but it was accompanied by a grim climate of finality anchored to an ultimatum. The boys were eager to show her some bauble that Pacheco had given them, and she followed them upstairs to their rooms without even a glance in my direction. I sat for