Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(3)

“Era,” Jonathan said impatiently. I heard the rasp in his breath. It was late afternoon, and he needed to rest. “Something modern. Fifties. I’m sick of leaded glass.”

“I, uh—”

“Did you have a neighborhood in mind?” Wendy interrupted me, making eye contact with Jonathan.

“The hills,” Jonathan said. “Beechwood, maybe.”

“Really, I think the ocean—”

“Great. How many bedrooms? Or do you want to go by square feet?”

“Big,” Jonathan told her. “This house is cramped.”

“Cramped?” I interjected. I thought his house was palatial, but I’d grown up with eleven hundred square feet, and I didn’t like being bulldozed.

They both looked at me, and I felt ashamed. Then I felt ashamed for feeling ashamed. I wasn’t embarrassed because Jonathan and I disagreed on the style or size of the house; I was embarrassed because we hadn’t discussed it.

“Wendy, I’m sorry,” I said, standing. “We’re obviously not ready to discuss this. Can we get you to come back some other time?”

“Of course!” she’d chirped and was gone in a flutter.

“What was that?” Jonathan asked.

“We weren’t ready to meet with someone about this. Not until we can agree on the basics. I didn’t…” I drifted a little then came to the truth. “I’ve never bought a house before. I’ve never met with an agent. I didn’t know what was expected.”

He’d looked tired, as usual. He’d always looked tired in those first months, which was why I didn’t talk to him about anything important. I’d tried harder after the non-meeting with Wendy. I agreed to stuff and put my foot down on others, and we bought a big fat compromise of a house that I lived in but didn’t love.

I hadn’t wanted to exhaust him. I thought it was the best way to help him get better. I hadn’t had a period in months from the combination of anxiety and Depo-Provera. But when I got sick and thought I might be pregnant, I didn’t tell him because I didn’t want to start an argument about children. No stress. That was all I wanted.

When he’d gotten back from the hospital, he couldn’t really walk. He just didn’t have it in him. He had a staff of people and a huge family, so he didn’t need me, yet I’d been surprised by how much he did need me. He needed to talk, and in those conversations, he laid out our future like architectural plans, pointing at the lines and angles I needed to see. I rarely disagreed with him. He was prone to frustration with his body and the exhaustion of small tasks, and I was still in a stunned state. I was functional, competent, and emotionally broken. But I’d thought I was handling our situation well. I was the picture of maturity and capability. I even laughed sometimes, when it seemed appropriate.

“Children,” he’d said one night, on his back in the bed. The lights were out, and the flat latte color of the Los Angeles night sky lit the room. “When can we start?”

“You mean start having sex again? Your doctor said anytime.” I leaned over him, half-sitting. His bandage had just been taken off, and the scar on his chest was still pink.

“Fucking with intention.”

“I’ve never known you to f*ck without it.”

He smiled and touched my lower lip. “When does that shot wear off?”

My Depo-Provera shots rendered me infertile and nearly menstruation free for two to four months at a time. “Right after Valentine’s Day, I guess.”

“No more shots.”

“Jonathan, I… I think we should talk about that again.”

His expression became wary.

I froze, afraid of upsetting him. “I want children. You have to understand it’s… this is hard to say.” I touched his chest, brushing my fingers over the scar. “Everything seems so precarious.”

“You’ll stop feeling like that once I can walk more than ten f*cking feet. Soon.”

“Let’s revisit this then. Please. I just need to know you’re strong enough to handle running out in the middle of the night for chili chocolate ice cream.”

“Who makes that? It sounds disgusting.”

“It’s delicious.”

He pulled me to him, and I laid my head just below his chest. His heart beat in my ear. It sounded perfectly normal, a functioning organ capable of sustaining his body until something else broke. But it wasn’t beating with life. It was a ticking clock, and it would stop too soon.

I’d gotten another shot in early February. I reasoned that he didn’t need to know. I’d put him off. I couldn’t do it much longer, but we were taking it one day, and one white lie, at a time. I’d need the next in June or so, and we could revisit then. Or not.

But it always came up, even when it didn’t. When we talked about the house, we needed a bigger room just for the elephant, and after I dismissed Wendy the realtor, the animal only got bigger.

He’d leaned on the arm of the couch and crossed his ankles, the same posture as the first night I’d gone to see him at his office, when I threatened him with a lawsuit. “Whatever we get should be the exact opposite of what I had before you were in my life.”

“I think that’s reactionary.”

“That’s a big word that means nothing.”