Leslie, the baby of our family, is currently studying biology and physiology at Wake Forest with the intention of becoming a veterinarian. Instead of coming home during the summers like most students, she takes additional classes with the intention of graduating early, and spends her afternoons working at a place called Animal Farm. Of all our children, she is the most gregarious, and her laughter sounds the same as Jane’s. Like Anna, she loved to visit me in my den, though she was happiest when I gave her my full attention. As a youngster, she liked to sit in my lap and pull on my ears; as she grew older, she liked to wander in and share funny jokes. My shelves are covered with the gifts she made me growing up: plaster casts of her hand prints, drawings in crayon, a necklace made from macaroni. She was the easiest to love, the first in line for hugs or kisses from the grandparents. I was not surprised when she was named the homecoming queen at her high school three years ago.
She is kind as well. Everyone in her class was always invited to her birthday parties for fear of hurting someone’s feelings, and when she was nine, she once spent an afternoon walking from towel to towel at the beach because she’d found a discarded watch in the surf and wanted to return it to its owner. Of all my children, she has always caused me the least worry, and when she comes to visit, I drop whatever I’m doing to spend time with her. Her energy is infectious, and when we’re together, I wonder how it is I could have been so blessed.
Now that they’ve all moved out, our home has changed.
Where music once blared, there is nothing but stillness; while our pantry once shelved eight different types of sugared cereal, there is now a single brand that promises extra fiber. The furniture hasn’t changed in the bedrooms where our children slept, but because the posters and Peg-Boards have been taken down—as well as all other reminders of their personalities—there is nothing to differentiate one room from the next. It is the emptiness of the house that seems to dominate. Was this, I pondered, the root of Jane’s sadness?
It was clear to me that forgetting an anniversary had not suddenly changed the way Jane felt about me. Perhaps even my forgetfulness was simply a symptom of everything that had changed between us. We’d started out as a couple and been changed into parents—something I had always viewed as normal and inevitable—but after twenty-nine years, had we somehow become strangers again? We rose at different hours, spent our days in different places, and followed our own routines in the evenings.
Our conversations of late tended to run out of steam after the first few exchanges, but I attributed this to the simple notion that after so many years, we could pretty much anticipate each other’s responses. After the latest news about the kids had been shared and the local gossip related, we usually drifted off in desultory fashion to watch television or read.
No matter how hard I strained that night, I couldn’t pinpoint when exactly our conversations had become so predictable. It must have occurred gradually, and I must have taken this for granted, because in all honesty, I couldn’t recall the last time Jane and I had done or talked about anything unexpected.
You can imagine, then, my surprise two weeks later when Jane made an announcement over dinner.
“Wilson,” she said, “there’s something I should tell you.” A bottle of wine stood on the table between us, our meals nearly finished.
“I was thinking,” she said, “of heading up to New York to spend some time with Joseph.”
“Won’t he be here for the holidays?”
“Yes, but that’s not for a couple of months. And since he didn’t make it home this summer, I thought it might be nice to visit him for a change.”
I reached for my wineglass. “That’s a good idea,” I agreed. “We haven’t been to New York since he first moved there.”
In the back of my mind, I noted that it might do us some good as a couple to get away for a few days. Perhaps that had even been the reason for Jane’s suggestion.
Jane smiled briefly before lowering her gaze to her plate. “There’s something else, too.”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s just that you’re pretty busy at work, and I know how hard it is for you to get away.”
“I think I can clear up my schedule for a few days,” I said, already mentally leafing through my work calendar. It would be tough, but I could do it. “When did you want to go?”
“Well, that’s the thing . . .” she said. “What’s the thing?”