No Hiding in Boise Read online

  Going to bed. Love u

  I’m about to text her back when a guy comes into the bar and I get goose bumps on my arms. Something is not right with this guy.

  I look back at my phone screen, at the kissy-face emoji. Somehow, I feel like I need to respond.

  Kenz, I love u so much.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tessa run past me. I press send.

  ANGIE

  I’M SITTING AT MY desk at work, just sitting, staring at the computer screen. I don’t have any files or web pages open. I’m just staring at the desktop, the Madison & Brightly logo. I’m always somewhat catatonic after visiting Cale at the hospital. It’s a weird transition—like going from purgatory back to heaven. Or maybe this is hell.

  There’s a knock at my door.

  “Come in,” I say.

  It’s one of the account guys, Brandon. Last year, Madison & Brightly was hired by a local brewery who had a very limited budget, and Brandon, Julia (a twenty-something art director), and I were the bare-bones team put on the account. We created a few ads for them to run in local media, and then they cut us loose, said they couldn’t afford our services long-term. It was fun while it lasted.

  Brandon became a parent around the same time I did; his son, Logan, is just a couple weeks older than Evie. We went through the same things at the same times, all those milestones that seem mysterious even though thousands have done them before—night weaning, sleep training, teething, transitioning to solids. That creates a bond. Many of my coworkers are parents, but I’ve found that if you aren’t going through the same phases at the same time, the connection doesn’t happen. Kids change so quickly. What was important a month ago is no longer important. A coworker with a five-year-old doesn’t remember the infant stage—protective amnesia, I say. A few weeks ago, a coworker with a five-month-old asked me how often Evie napped at that age, and I couldn’t remember to save my life.

  One night, a particularly late one at the office, I asked Brandon, “Has it been hard for you—the adjustment to fatherhood?”

  This was after I’d started noticing Cale’s moods.

  Brandon seemed to consider the question. He set down his plate; we were eating pizza, the agency’s contribution to the late night.

  “I guess it’s hard being tired all the time,” he said. “And it’s hard not to be able to go out and do the same things I used to. I have to think of someone else now. I guess that happened when getting married too, but my wife is an adult who can take care of herself. Logan is a baby.”

  I nodded, thinking this all made sense to me, thinking maybe Cale wasn’t that strange after all.

  His face lit up with a smile and he continued.

  “But, I don’t know. I fucking love Logan. I want to be around him all the time. I just think he’s the coolest human.”

  This did not sound like Cale.

  Brandon is young, early thirties. I would imagine fatherhood would be an even bigger jolt to the system at a younger age. Then again, maybe it’s harder when you’re older and set in your ways.

  “HEY,” BRANDON SAYS. He closes the door behind him, sits in the chair on the other side of my desk. “I’ve been meaning to stop by. Figured you were being bombarded.”

  “Yeah, a bit. It’s good to see you though.”

  “How’s Cale doing?”

  I’ve never told Brandon that Cale was having a hard time with fatherhood. Maybe he assumed because of the questions I asked, but he never pressed me on it. Men don’t care about gossip in the way women do.

  “He’s stable,” I say. I’ve said these words so many times that they start to feel funny in my mouth. Sta-ble. What does it even mean?

  He looks at me, wanting more. Everyone wants more.

  “It’s a waiting game right now,” I say. I don’t want to explain the sedation medications, the waking up process, all the things they don’t know. It’s too much.

  He nods solemnly. “I just can’t believe you’re dealing with this.”

  “I can’t either.”

  “I have some beer in my mini fridge, leftover from the Blacks Creek account,” he says.

  That was the name of the brewery—Blacks Creek.

  “I might take you up on that.”

  He palms a stress ball on my desk. There are so many tchotchkes in the advertising world.

  “How’s Evie?” he asks.

  Brandon, Jen (his wife), and Logan came to Evie’s first birthday party. We just did a small shindig at the house, had balloons and a smash cake and all the usual things.

  “She’s fine. She doesn’t know anything. I mean, they don’t understand much at this age, do they?”

  They. Logan and Evie. We’d joked about them dating one day. He probably wouldn’t want Logan to date Evie now. Evie may be forever “troubled” because of this traumatic experience.

  Brandon shrugs. “Jen had the flu a couple months ago. Logan seemed to understand when I told him mom was too sick to play with him.”

  He is comparing his wife’s flu to my husband’s coma.

  “Sorry,” he says, as if realizing the absurdity of such a comparison. “I know it’s not the same.”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s probably best if I minimize it for Evie anyway. I guess I was waiting to see what would happen—if he’d wake up or …”

  “Right, yeah, of course,” he says. He shakes his head. “Tough situation.”

  “To put it lightly.”

  He sets the stress ball on my desk and presses his palms into the armrests of the chair, helping himself stand. Brandon is more evolved than most men (no other male coworkers have come by to express their condolences or best wishes or whatever you do for the spouse of a comatose person). But, still, this is too much for him. It’s too much for me, frankly.

  “I’ve gotta hop on a client call,” he says, glancing at his phone, checking the time. “But let me know if you need anything, okay?”

  “Thanks, Brandon.”

  People keep saying that—Let me know if you need anything. They must know that this just puts the burden on me. What am I going to do—say, “Actually, I’m really backed up on laundry”? Raquel did set up a meal train. It seems like whenever I go to a meeting, I come back to something on my desk—a casserole, a pan of corn bread, a plate of brownies. I suspect they are checking my work calendar, seeing when I won’t be in my office, and leaving their offerings then. They don’t want to talk to me. I’m not angry about it; I understand. I wouldn’t want to talk to me either.

  WHEN WE BROUGHT newborn Evie home from the hospital, I stuck to my plan of sleeping in a separate room with her while Cale slept in our room alone. That first night, when she started crying hysterically, he stumbled into what we started calling “my room” with this look on his face like What did you do wrong? He seemed startled and irritated and exhausted. I bounced Evie in my arms, trying to understand why her bright-red face was scrunched up in such agony.

  “Did you feed her?” Cale asked me. He glanced at my breasts, these things now known to him as feeding devices.

  “Of course I fed her,” I snapped.

  He couldn’t handle the crying. He took her from my arms—a bit too brusquely—and started bouncing her, his eyes big and wild, as if we were in the middle of a crisis. Maybe we were. Maybe all those early days qualify as a crisis.

  When she stopped crying after a couple minutes of his frantic bouncing, he looked at me, said, “See? No need to freak out.”

  “I wasn’t freaking out,” I said. You were, I didn’t say.

  He handed her back to me, and I placed her in the bassinet attached to the side of the bed, “my bed.”

  “Go get your beauty sleep,” I said, not kindly.

  He didn’t even bother to respond.

  IN THE BEGINNING, I rationalized doing everything for Evie because I was on maternity leave. Cale had to go back to work after two weeks. In those two weeks he was home, he spent most of his time tending to the house—doing laundry, cleaning, organizi
ng. Any time I set down an empty mug of the strange-tasting tea that was supposed to increase my milk supply, he was right there to take it to the sink. When I told Sahana about this, she said I was lucky. But there was something unsettling about his manic efforts. It was like he was going out of his way to do everything ancillary to Evie’s care because he didn’t want to participate in that care. He seemed uncomfortable with her. “Maybe he doesn’t feel confident,” Sahana hypothesized. “Maybe he sees you have it handled.”

  And I did have it handled. Even while I sat in a sitz bath of warm water with Epsom salt, trying to heal wounds that no woman had warned me about, I had Evie resting on a pillow at my feet. She was always with me. When I was pregnant, fantasizing about the early days of parenthood, I had visions of Cale saying, “Why don’t you nap while I watch the baby?” I’d heard other mom-friends gush about their husbands doing this. They praised them on social media, claimed things like “Husband of the year” and “Best father ever.” Cale never offered me a reprieve though. Maybe I should have asked. Maybe I should have just given Evie to him more, without even asking. Maybe that would have helped his confidence. Maybe my taking control made him feel like I didn’t trust him with her. Maybe I didn’t.

  I went alone to the first pediatrician appointment, carrying Evie in her car seat, the weight of it making me walk lopsided while I struggled up the stairs. My hair was greasy. I had a huge pad between my legs. I was wearing the same stretchy skirt I’d worn home from the hospital. I’m sure I smelled. The doctor’s office gave me a form to fill out. It asked questions like “Have you had thoughts of harming yourself?” I wondered if everyone got these forms or if I was selected because of my appearance. Fathers do not get these forms. There is no attention paid to fathers in the beginning. They are considered irrelevant. “She just wants you,” Cale said more than once, holding out a screaming Evie to me. “You have the boobs,” he said. He stated it as a fact, but maybe there was resentment.

  When Cale went back to work, it was almost a relief. His presence in the house had felt strange, like he was in the way, lurking. With him gone, Evie and I settled into a routine with each other. I loved the routine so much that I didn’t care when Cale said he had to work late. Sahana kept checking in with me, making sure I didn’t succumb to any depression. She thought I would, especially when the initial euphoria of birthing a human faded. I was happier than I’d ever been though, infused with a purpose like I’d never been before. Aria got me a mug that said Goal for today: Keep the tiny human alive. That was exactly right—that was my goal. It was all so crystal clear.

  As I felt happier than ever, Cale seemed more withdrawn. Maybe I never felt any baby blues because I could sense Cale was feeling them for the both of us. There is a certain equilibrium to relationships—only one person can be depressed at a time.

  Aria offered to babysit one night so Cale and I could have a date night. I’d always rolled my eyes at couples posting their “date nights” on Instagram, pitied their need to schedule specific times for togetherness. Now I understood.

  “You guys have fun, okay?” she said, holding Evie over her shoulder, smiling and assuring us that all would be fine. Evie was just six weeks old. It was my first time spending more than five minutes apart from her.

  “We will,” I said, though I wasn’t looking forward to the outing. It was just something I knew needed to be done, for Cale, for our marriage.

  We went to dinner at the Bardenay, one of our favorite restaurants. Cale was mostly silent. It wasn’t a peaceful kind of silence; it was what I’d come to call an aggressive silence, a silence of anger, frustration, exhaustion, something.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  I had yet to learn that this question just made everything worse. I meant for it to communicate concern, affection, but he seemed to consider it an attack.

  “Nothing,” he snapped.

  We were sitting outside. It was ninety-something degrees.

  “Do you want to move inside?”

  I thought he might be hot.

  “No,” he said. “It’s fine.”

  “You seem off,” I said, pushing.

  “Babe,” he said, “I’m just tired.”

  This was his usual refrain. I resented it because I knew it wasn’t the whole truth—something else was clearly bothering him—and because even if he was tired, he couldn’t have been more tired than me. I should have been the one who was allowed to claim fatigue. I was getting up with Evie every two to three hours at night, a sacrifice for which he seemed to show zero appreciation.

  I took a picture of our beer glasses, posted it to Instagram with the caption, “Parents’ first night out.” I tried to let myself be comforted by other people thinking Cale and I were happy. In reality, though, by the time our check came, I hated him. I’d spent the entirety of our silent outing resenting the money spent, resenting the time away from Evie, resenting his inconsideration of my needs. I believed it then and still believe it now—men should bow at the feet of the women who bear them children. They should worship them.

  When we got home, Cale went straight to bed. Aria gave me a look that asked if everything was okay. I motioned for her to follow me outside, to the front yard. I didn’t want to talk inside, in case Cale could hear us.

  It was after nine o’clock, but the sun was still up. During Boise summers, it doesn’t set until nine thirty or so.

  “Does Cale seem off to you?” I asked Aria.

  She looked up at the sky, then back at me. “Yeah,” she said. “Kinda.”

  “Like, how?”

  She shrugged. “Just … distant. Or something.”

  “Right?”

  I was so grateful for the validation.

  “I figured it was just a funk.”

  “Maybe it is that. I don’t know.”

  “Have you tried talking to him?”

  I couldn’t help but smile at her. “Yes, dear Aria, I’ve tried talking to him.”

  “Well, I don’t know. Some couples don’t talk.”

  “I didn’t say we talked. I said I’ve tried talking to him.”

  She nodded once to convey her understanding.

  “It’ll pass,” she said.

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, give it until the new year. This beginning time is hard.”

  She spoke as if she’d had a baby herself, as if she’d had a relationship with a man that lasted longer than a few months.

  “Okay,” I said, deciding to make this suggestion a rule. “Until the new year.”

  So much can change in so little time. That’s what I remember thinking. And it’s true—so much can change in so little time. The problem is, nothing did.

  TESSA

  THE SECOND TIME CALE Matthews came to Ray’s, it was earlier than the first time—before midnight—and he sat in the same exact seat at the bar. I recognized him. I’m not usually good with faces, but I remembered his. I remembered him looking at me in the parking lot after closing.

  “I’m back,” he said.

  I gave him a small smile. The parking lot incident hadn’t really freaked me out or anything. I hadn’t thought to analyze it at all until Angie Matthews said Cale had a “thing” for me.

  “You’re back,” I said to him. “What can I get you?”

  I set a cocktail napkin in front of him and waited for his order.

  “That IPA you got me last time was good,” he said.

  “The White Dog Hazy?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I got him a pint.

  It wasn’t busy that night. I can’t remember what day of the week it was—a Tuesday, probably. Tuesdays and Wednesdays were our slow nights, and I didn’t work on Wednesdays. Of all the times he came in—a total of six or seven—this was the quietest night, the night that allowed for the most conversation. I wasn’t opposed to conversation. On the slow nights, it helped the time pass.

  “So, how’s your week going?” he asked me.

  “O
h, fine,” I told him.

  “You work here every night?”

  “No. I have two days off—Mondays and Wednesdays,” I told him.

  “Long days for you—going to classes, then working until two in the morning.”

  I was surprised he remembered I was in school. “It’s not so bad. I’m taking only a few classes right now. It’ll take me twenty years to get my degree, probably.”

  He laughed. “Hopefully not that long. I took my time though, and I turned out okay.”

  “How long did you take?”

  “I had a few starts and stops. I got my bachelor’s degree when I was”—he paused, rolled his eyes up, as if searching for the answer in his brain—“twenty-five, I think,” he said.

  “Well, I’m twenty-three and I’m just starting, so I’ll be, like, forty when I’m done.”

  “Forty. That’s old,” he said with a smirk that informed me he was in his forties.

  My favorite Bob Dylan song came on—“Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.”

  “I love this song,” I said.

  I reached under the bar for the little remote control, turned up the volume, sang shamelessly. He just watched me with a bemused expression.

  I said, over the music, “I got that line tattooed on my side.”

  “What line?”

  “‘You could have done better but I don’t mind.’”

  I got it when I was eighteen, on a whim. It hurt, the tattooing needle vibrating against my ribs. It was worth it though. I’ve always loved that line.

  “Sounds depressing,” he said.

  “I don’t see it that way. I see it as a peaceful acceptance of someone else’s limits,” I said.

  “Whose limits are you accepting?” he asked.

  “Aren’t we always accepting a bunch of people’s limits?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “I guess it makes me think of my mom,” I dared to admit. It was something I hadn’t really told anyone before. “She did her best, given circumstances.”

  “Circumstances?”

  “It was just the two of us. She was always working a couple jobs, that kind of thing,” I said.