Her mother hadn’t responded. Sarah had made herself continue. “I think if I had a little space—like a studio—I could move my piano there. That way, I wouldn’t bother anyone, and they wouldn’t bother me. And I could have some privacy again.”
She had waited for her mother to point out that Ruby and Gabe wouldn’t stay forever, that the boys would eventually go back to school, and Eli had already returned to his office. She hadn’t been sure if Veronica remembered that, in addition to the baby grand piano that had been in the house in Cambridge and was now in Park Slope, Sarah also had a fancy electronic keyboard, a birthday gift from Eli. It sounded almost like a real piano, and it had all kinds of features, allowing her to record herself as she played, or add drums, or bass, or, if she felt inclined, a bossa nova beat. Best of all, she could play it with headphones on.
“Did you ever feel like you needed some space for yourself? Away from us?” she had asked, and swallowed hard. “Away from Dad?”
Sarah had expected an immediate “No.” Instead, her mother had sighed. “You don’t remember, but before you and Sam were born, I spent a lot of time in New York.”
“When you were writing,” Sarah had said.
“When I was publishing,” Ronnie had said. Sarah wasn’t entirely clear why that distinction was important, but before she could ask, Ronnie had said, “Have you talked to Eli? I’m sure he’d get the boys out of the house, if that’s what you needed. They’re always welcome up here, you know. You are, too.” Sarah had heard, or thought she did, the faintest hint of criticism. Her mother, she knew, wanted them to spend their entire summers on Cape Cod, or at least visit more frequently.
“I just—” Sarah had closed her eyes, knowing if she answered, if she said the words out loud, it would all become real. “I just need a little time by myself,” she had said, her voice almost a whisper. Maybe if I go away, I’ll remember why I loved him, she thought.
Her mother had waited, but Sarah had said all she was ready to say. She wasn’t going to tell her mother how she felt like she was living with a ghost and not a partner, not a husband or a father, and certainly not a lover, because she couldn’t even remember the last time Eli had reached for her in the night, bringing his lips to the back of her neck and kissing the spot just below her ear; the last time they’d played one of their games.
“I hope you’re giving Eli a chance. You can’t just expect him to guess what’s wrong,” her mother had finally said. “Men aren’t mind-readers. If you don’t tell him how you’re feeling, he might not be able to figure it out.”
Except, once, he could have, Sarah had thought. He used to listen to me and notice how I was feeling. He used to pay attention. He used to care. “I’ve tried to tell him,” she had said. Except how could you tell your husband that every single thing about him was annoying you, that his indifference was making you feel like you didn’t matter, and that you couldn’t remember why you’d wanted to be with him in the first place? “I’ve tried,” Sarah had said. “I have.”
“Well,” her mom had said. “If it’s what you need, you should do it. And don’t beat yourself up. From what I’ve read, there’re lots of women locking themselves in their closets, or their bathrooms, or their basement storage units to get a little peace.”
That afternoon, Sarah booked a room at a hotel that was an easy walk from the house. That night, after dinner, and the bedtime rituals of kisses and glasses of water and a chapter of Captain Underpants, she’d faked a phone call and told Eli that Marni was having a child-care emergency and that she was going over to help. “I’ll spend the night if it gets too late,” she had told Eli, who’d just nodded without looking up from his phone.
She’d grabbed the bag she’d packed before Eli’s arrival from the closet and hurried along the slushy streets, barely feeling the cold air on her cheeks. When she had unlocked the door, pulled off her mask, and taken in the sight of the king-sized bed with its smooth covers and crisp pillowcases, the freshly vacuumed floor, the bottle of water on the bedside table, she had felt something inside of her unclench and loosen, like a too-tight bra that she’d finally unhooked. She had slipped off her shoes, put on her pajamas, washed her face, and brushed （but not flossed） her teeth. Those ablutions completed, she had settled her head on the pillow, closed her eyes, and fallen into the deepest and most peaceful sleep she’d enjoyed in months.