But the thing that worries me most is how the right cuff is wet with blood.
NINA
I have to take my mother to the ophthalmologist after work. She has macular degeneration. She’s losing her central vision, which is what she needs for things like to read and to drive. She’s only sixty-two. She’s not old. She has trouble recognizing people’s faces. That’s how we knew there was a serious problem, though I thought at first that it was something like Alzheimer’s, so when the diagnosis came in, I was somewhat relieved. She can’t even to go the grocery store anymore without help, because she can’t see well enough to get there or to find the items she needs. The thing that’s totally infuriating is how capable and sharp she is despite the declining vision. She has her wits about her still. It’s not fair. Until recently she was completely independent and now she relies on me for everything. It feels sometimes like that changed overnight. She has the wet form of macular degeneration, which is maybe worse. There is blood leaking into the retina. She receives anti-VEGF injections in the eye to stop or slow the progression; it’s horrible to watch. It makes me never want to get old, to want to die young. My mother has her peripheral vision still. It’s not that she’s blind. She doesn’t run into things. She can somewhat see. It’s that, from the way she describes it, there is a blind spot in the center of her field of vision, like someone took a crayon and scribbled over it.
I drive my mother home after her appointment. I walk her into her house. “Why don’t you stay for dinner?” she asks.
“I can’t. Sorry. Not tonight, Mom.”
“Why not? It’s not like Jake will be home,” she says, because Jake is at work and because my mother knows how Jake gets when I spend too much time with her. Still, I say no again, that I can’t, because I’m anxious to get home and see if there is any sign that Jake has been there. I don’t tell my mother this. She doesn’t know about Jake's and my fight and I won’t tell her about it because ultimately what we were fighting about was her.
“I have too many papers to grade,” I say instead, and my mother says okay, but she looks sad, as she always does, when I go. I hate leaving her.
I don’t get back to my house until close to six. When I do, there’s no sign that Jake has been home. None of his clothes are obviously missing, and his toiletries look untouched. It comes as a punch to the gut. I stand in the bathroom doorway, holding on to the doorframe, not sure what to do with myself. It’s getting darker outside. The sun is going down. I can’t stand the idea of another night in this house alone, and wonder how long Jake plans to be mad at me.
I’m used to coming home and Jake not being here. This is nothing new. I’m used to being alone, knowing that eventually Jake always comes home. I’ve never minded being alone before, especially after work, because it’s my me-time, my time to decompress from the day.
But now, standing in the empty house, knowing Jake might not come home all night, I feel more alone and lonely than ever. The house feels suddenly vacant. It’s too large of a house for us because one day, Jake and I think we want kids, though I’m getting older and time is running out. We’re not there yet, because of Jake’s work schedule. The last thing he wants, he’s said, is to be an absentee father, like his had been. He wouldn’t even entertain the idea of kids when he was doing his residency. But now that that’s through, he’s started to ponder it, or at least indulge me when I bring it up. We have three extra bedrooms in the house. I don’t know that I need to fill them all with kids, but at least one would be nice, to experience being a mother once in my life.
I turn on the TV to delude myself into thinking I’m not alone. The sound of voices brings comfort.
I find my laptop. At some point during the day, I figured out that if I check the credit card statement online, I’ll be able to see where Jake spent the night. I don’t know what I’ll do with this information. I don’t think I would go to the hotel and make him talk to me. That might make things worse. Jake doesn’t do anything Jake doesn’t want to do, but it will be good to know where he is.
I sit down at the kitchen table. I go to the bank’s website and log in, scrolling through the most recent purchases. I’m expecting to see some upscale hotel because Jake would die before sleeping at a Holiday Inn. But, to my surprise, there are no recent hotel stays. I try telling myself there is only a delay in posting, but I don’t think so because I think what usually happens with hotels is that they post pending charges the minute you check in, and then, later, refund that incidentals deposit if you don’t spend it.
Even more worrisome is that there are no charges in the last thirty-six hours at all, other than my own. There is a charge for a Starbucks near Jake’s office from early Monday morning but, after that, it’s as if Jake has gone off the grid and I wonder if it’s deliberate.
I navigate to the checking account to see if Jake took out cash. Maybe he’s using cash so that I can’t track him. Can you even pay for a hotel with cash?
I feel sick inside at the growing possibility that Jake is trying to stay hidden. He doesn’t want me to find him. He doesn’t want to fix our marriage.
What if Jake has left me for good?
There are no recent withdrawals from the checking account. How can Jake be getting by without the use of cash or credit cards? How is he paying for things?
I’m relieved to see our accounts intact, that Jake hasn’t transferred our money to some offshore account to spite me. He doesn’t hate me that much. I earn a teacher’s salary. He is a neurosurgeon. It’s no secret that Jake is the breadwinner in our marriage. I feel lucky for it, that I can do what I love for a living and still never have to worry about money. I grew up with a single mother who worked the night shift as an LPN. We didn’t have much. Sometimes even the cost of gas was too much to afford. I started working when I was fifteen, to be able to contribute to the cost of groceries, the mortgage and utilities. Since getting married to Jake, I’ve gotten used to being able to buy things without having to think twice about the price. I don’t know that I could go back to the lifestyle I grew up in, not that I would ever have to because I have Jake. And because, even if, God forbid, he left me, we’d split everything down the middle.
My cell phone rings. I practically fly out of my chair at the sound. It’s the first time in two days that it’s rung and, after all this time of begging and pleading with it to ring, it finally is.
Thank God. Jake has come to his senses. He’s ready to talk it out. He’s forgiven me.
I reach for my phone, lying facedown on the table. I flip it over and look at the name on the display, expecting it to say Jake. My heart sinks. It’s not Jake. It’s our friend Damien.
I answer the call, though my first instinct is not to answer, but to leave the phone free for if Jake calls. But maybe Damien knows something that I don’t. If Jake would sleep on anyone’s sofa, it’s Damien’s.
“Hi, Damien,” I say.
“Hey, Nina. I’m sorry to bother you,” he says.
“You’re no bother,” I tell him. “You’re never a bother. How’s Anna?” I move from the kitchen table to the butler’s pantry for the wine fridge. I pull out a chilled bottle of white and pour myself a generous glass, lifting it to my mouth without putting the bottle away. My nerves are frayed. I balance the phone on my shoulder, bringing both the open bottle and the glass back to the table with me.