Sleepwalking in Daylight

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“Sam …”

“Surprised! Maybe you look around and you’re surprised you have this life. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

“Not really, no,” he says. “I don’t feel that way. Obviously you do but I don’t. What’s so surprising? This is what we always wanted, right? A family, healthy kids, friends, a nice house …”

“I know, I know,” I say. “Maybe I’m just—You’re turning back to the computer now?”

“What else is there to say? You feel panicked and I feel fine. People can disagree, you know. It’s not the end of the world.”

He turns back to the screen again.

“It’s because … can’t we talk about this?”

“We just did,” he says. He shrugs and starts tapping on the keyboard again.

“What’re you looking at that’s more important than talking to your wife about your marriage?”

I look over his shoulder. “Real estate? You’re looking at houses?”

“I’m looking at comps,” he says. “I want to see what the Silvermans’ house is listed for. Is that okay with you?”

“Bob, seriously. I only want you to let me in. It’s like pulling teeth to get you to open up and I’m so tired of it.”

“Jesus, Sam,” he says. “Every other goddamn day you talk about how you feel about this or that. You’re asking me how I feel about this or that—”

“Because you don’t talk to me! And it’s not every other day.” I want to say, I bet you talk to her. That’s if there even is a her. Maybe there isn’t, I don’t know. I don’t want to know.

“Let me finish. I’m just …” He trails off, trying to form the words. “I’m sick of it. And now you’re telling me you’re panicked? I’ve told you how I feel. I feel nothing. You happy now? I feel nothing.”

That last statement throws us both into silence. He looks startled and sorry the words have come out of his mouth. WHOA! bubbles into the space between us, freakishly huge like the POW! and ZOWEE! from the old Batman and Robin fights.

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for finally saying that out loud.”

“Sam, wait—”

“I’m being totally serious,” I say. “I’m not picking a fight. I’m relieved, actually. It’s a relief to hear you admit it. You feel nothing. No—don’t get huffy—you said it. I wanted you to tell me how you feel and you just said it all.”

“I don’t feel nothing like the way you’re thinking,” he says. “I don’t mean I feel nothing toward the kids. Or you.”

“No, no, no—I totally get it. I think I’ve known it all along. But I want to ask you something. Don’t shut down again, okay? Just hear me out. Do you think it’s possible … wait, just listen! We haven’t talked about it in months, so don’t roll your eyes like that. Do you think maybe you’re depressed? You don’t sleep well at night. You don’t have a sex drive—don’t get mad, I’m just saying it’s a sign of depression. Nothing makes you happy anymore. This is sheer inertia.”

“Here we go …”

“Couldn’t you just entertain the thought? Why do you have that look on your face? What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I’d like to know what the Silvermans’ house is listed for.”

I walk away and replay the sting of his words, letting them sink in and it is too big to cry about. That’s all I can think: that it’s too big to wrap my head around. This is where we are. I want so badly to know how we ended up like this. Yes, okay, sure, we never really had that spark, that chemistry, but we were best friends. Pals. Now we sit here in silence. It may be chaotic with the kids, but with us? Silence. That, or fighting. I wonder how he describes me to her. If there even is a her. Maybe there isn’t, I don’t know. Everybody argues and says things they maybe wish they hadn’t, but this isn’t that. He’s wrong—this isn’t all I think about every single day. I stay busy. Busy busy busy. I’m so busy I can barely think about what to make for dinner. Busy. I go to my school meetings and I pick up the dry cleaning and I cook and clean and do a million other things I can’t remember I’ve done at the end of each day. I am the queen of multitasking. I organize my errands efficiently. I buy flats of impatiens to plant only after May fifteenth when the frosts are guaranteed to be over. I help out with school fund-raisers. I run Race for the Cure every year. I plant mums in the front on October first. I pick out the freshest roping to swag on the front of the house for wintertime. In between I do just about everything you need to do to keep a house humming along. That’s who I am. I’m busy. I am every other mom in America.

Cammy

They always fight. They don’t think I hear it but I do. I’ve always felt like my parents adopted me thinking it might stop them from fighting.

For a long time I’d say “don’t fight” and that would be enough. They’d look at me and they’d remember the original purpose of me: to make them better. A little girl to bridge the gap between them. A trial child. Like when couples get a dog before they have a baby … to see if they can handle the responsibility. I’m their experiment. The thing is I don’t know how they could’ve thought they did a good enough job with me to move on to the real thing. They had Andrew and Jamie on purpose so obviously they figured they did something right with me. But really all they do is fight. I don’t know what that something right was.

I’d say “don’t fight.” I remember seeing my mom’s eyes fill with tears and I’d hug her to make it better. Then I started getting sent to my room or outside to play even though there weren’t that many kids my age on our block at the time. I was eight or nine maybe. They’d raise their voices, remember I was there and one or both of them would send me out of sight so I wouldn’t remind them their mission failed. Adopting me only made things worse between them. I was a walking reminder of the fact that they once had hope for something better. I was supposed to be that something better. I’d send me outside or up to my room, too, if I were them. I’m definitely not something better. I’m something worse.

Samantha

A day after the nothingness of our marriage is finally acknowledged, on Sunday night, I find myself in a bathroom stall at the deep-dish pizza place with my head against the cold metal stall, crying. Back outside, across from our table, there is a young couple trying bites of each other’s pizza and laughing at each other’s jokes and listening intently to the other’s stories. Did we used to be them? Now we are nothing, Bob and I. We are nothing. And here I am sobbing, pulling out squares of toilet paper piece by piece because the roll is locked in place. Someone in the next stall sniffs a signal that I’m not alone.

When I get back to the table Cammy of all people sizes me up and leans over and asks me if everything’s okay. It’s the first time in weeks she’s looked out from the curtain of her oily hair. I tell her I’m fine, just blew my nose. I think I’m coming down with a cold I say.

“We ordered a large cheese and a small veggie,” Bob says, folding his menu. “If you want a salad the guy’s right over there putting in our order, just go tell him.”

The next day I’m at the sink wiping the counter clean of cereal dust from the Cheerios box Jamie shook clean. I put the milk back in the fridge and slide the English-muffin crumbs from under the toaster into the palm of my hand. The air in the house is pressurized like when only one car window is cracked open. The vacuum of nothingness. Shit! Nothing? Shit. Do I feel nothing? I feel nothing. I can’t really remember what it was I thought was so great about him. Why did I marry him? I was in such a rush. Why the hell was I in such a rush? No. Stop it. Stop thinking, Sam. Just stop.

I should take the toaster apart to empty it clean, it’s been ages since the last time, that’ll keep me from nothing. The metal tray on the bottom pops off easily. I’d thought I’d have to pry it off so I used too much force and the seeds and burnt edges and shriveled-up raisins from toasted bagels scatter on the floor.

We were in such a hurry to grow up. Maybe that was it. God, what were we thinking. Stop it. Stop thinking. I sweep the toaster debris into the dustpan and it strikes me that the floor hasn’t been swept in a while. I get to the bar stools and I figure I might as well get them out of the way. Mom always used to use that cliché: anything worth doing is … wait, how does that go? Huh. Anything worth doing is worth doing well? Does that apply to marriage or chores? Maybe it was some kind of code she slipped me. Did she know she was going to die before I’d understand it? Did she hope I’d remember so it could help me at a time like this? Did she really think marriage was something worth doing? Of course she did. She of all people.