The Stuff That Never Happened by Maddie Dawson Page B

I gather my coat and scarf and gloves while he hauls the suitcases out of the bedroom. When we get down to the car, the wind kicks up, and we don’t seem to be able to think of how to say good-bye.
    “So,” he says. “I guess this is it for a while. Drive carefully, and call me when—”
    “Grant, stop it. Look at me. Just look. Don’t you even know that everything is wrong?”
    He rolls his eyes. “What? Why , Annabelle? Why does everything have to be wrong?”
    “Because you don’t really even see me anymore, and it makes me sad. You just don’t.”
    Now with the loud sigh. “For God’s sake, Annabelle. How can you say that? I see you. I love you.”
    “But you don’t love me passionately.”
    He gives another sigh, even more weary, this one meant as a warning. “Why do you need to do this right now? Of course I love you. What do you want? We’ve been married for twenty-eight years. Wait. Is this because we didn’t have our usual Wednesday? It is, isn’t it?”
    “No!” I hit him in the arm. “God damn it, how can you think that? That usual Wednesday is all part of the problem!”
    He looks blank.
    “Nobody has to schedule passion!” I fold my arms. “Did you even know that? Nobody but you would even think of that. You’re so bound up, so tied to your work that you don’t even see me! You don’t care about my feelings!”
    He closes his eyes. “Why are you doing this? Why can’t you let things sort themselves out before you make all these sweeping statements? Why do you have to see things so globally? That’s the trouble here. You—”
    “What evidence is there that you love me passionately, Grant McKay?” I say. I can’t stop myself. “Come on. What evidence is there? And don’t you dare say our Wednesday morning appointment for sex. Don’t you dare.”
    “Good God. What is this? What’s with you?”
    “Tell me one other piece of evidence. Before I go away for three months, tell me one other piece of evidence.”
    “What? Are you sixteen or something? This is ridiculous.”
    I just keep staring at him. I adjust my purse to my other arm, signaling that I’m here for the long haul. He has to think of something.
    “Well, I want you to drive carefully,” he says after a while. He smiles at me. “And also I won’t eat butter while you’re gone.”
    “Great. You don’t want me to die. And you don’t want to die of a stroke. That’s good. That’s real evidence. Thank you so much for that.”
    “Look, Annabelle. I do love you, and you know it,” he says. “But I don’t like to be pushed this way. This isn’t ever a good way, you know that. We know each other too well for this.”
    He gives me one of his ominous, meaningful looks over the top of his glasses, and suddenly I have an almost uncontrollable urge to just fling Jeremiah’s name into the air. I can picture how it would happen, this unthinkable thing. I would lean toward him. “Jeremiah,” I would say in a whisper, feeling the name roll around on my tongue, filling my mouth. “Jeremiah.” I might say it again, for effect. Then how would I stop myself? Jeremiah, Jeremiah, Jeremiah, Jeremiah . I’d fill up the whole winter afternoon with it. The whole world would reverberate with the sound of it.
    But then what would happen? I have this moment to weigh it carefully. Would Grant turn pale, tighten his mouth, and then swallow whatever anger he felt—or would he blow up at me, hurling all the suppressed anger of twenty-eight years? And would that really be it, the end of everything, the way he once said it would be? The day we agreed. We won’t speak of him. It didn’t happen .
    We stand there, looking at each other. I am trembling with the feeling of the name rising up in the back of my throat. It’s almost like nausea, this name … but then, what the hell am I thinking, even contemplating setting this fire when I am going away for three months? I finally say, “I have to go.”
    “Well,” he says, and he