The World Outside, 33

Resolution

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AFTER

Through the end of June and into July, Joanna worked hard to stay busy. Erik was back to his killer days, which gave her hours and hours to walk the beaches and ask the waves why all this had happened (they didn’t answer, but she found their aloofness reassuring). She deep cleaned the cottage, she kayaked with Poppa, she visited her parents’ graves. Once, she even invited Adele over to the cottage for tea.

She also wrote a letter to the baby. It took her a few days to say all that she wanted to say—that she had had all kinds of ideas for this baby, that she was sorry she hadn’t been able to prevent what had happened, that she hoped there hadn’t been too much pain. When she was done, she put it in an envelope, wrote Baby on the front, and put it with the collection of letters she’d written to Josh over the years.

On the first day that Erik took off in July, Joanna came to him with the bundle of letters and asked him to dig a hole outside. He found a spot near where Ro was buried; when the hole was filled back in, Joanna asked if they could talk.

“There’s one other thing I did that you don’t know about,” she began. His eyes darkened. She swallowed hard. “Last spring, when I told you that I was going back to work…?” He closed his eyes briefly, like he knew what she was going to say. “I…didn’t. I tried to, for that first week. But I was having these, like, episodes, in the car on the way there every day, and I couldn’t—I really couldn’t—make myself get there.”

In an even voice, he asked, “How could you lie to me for so long?”

“Well…I didn’t really have to. When I told you that first day that I was going back, I really was. And then…you were never ever here. There was never a reason to have to let you down or even talk to you if I didn’t have to. For weeks.”

Erik hung his head and raked his fingers through his hair.

“We’re not—” Joanna began in a gentle tone. “We’re not really together, you know? It’s like we just live together. But it’s been too easy for me to hide, because I hardly ever have to face you.”

“I’m sorry you feel like you have to ‘face’ me.”

“That’s not what I mean. Can we just…not be at each other’s throats? Please?”

“How many times did I ask you to come back to bed, Joanna? How many times did I check on you, and clean up after you, and sit with you?”

“I know.”

“But now—now—you’re saying we aren’t together? Don’t you think I know that? Why do you think—” His voice caught. He sighed and continued in a quieter voice. “Why do you get to be the one to confront me?”

“I’m not confronting you; I’m just telling you how I feel. And how I’ve been feeling.”

They were both quiet for a minute.

“I’m really sorry, Erik,” Joanna finally told him. “I really screwed up, and I’m not sure how to fix it, and I’m really sorry.”

“I believe you,” he said. “But—I don’t know. I gotta get out of here.”

He grabbed his keys and his wallet off the kitchen counter; a minute later, she heard the truck start up, and then he was gone.

+++

Erik took the following Sunday off, too, which Joanna hadn’t expected. They’d been polite but distant to each other since her confession. Neither of them had brought it up again. Now, she was nervous with him in the house. She kept poking around, trying to stay busy, and glancing at him over her shoulder. He made himself a sandwich around noon and then surprised her by asking if she’d like to take a walk with him.

Walking with him now reminded Joanna of the months between Mary’s wedding and that Thanksgiving, when she didn’t really understand their relationship. Should she hold his hand? Should she try to talk about what was going on? Would he want either of those things?

For several minutes, neither of them spoke. Erik walked in the surf; Joanna just a little away from it. She could hear when her bare feet hit the sodden sand, that little splat! splat! Once, she began to trip but caught herself in time. As she stood back up, she saw Erik lower the hand that he’d put out to hold her up.

Well, he isn’t so mad he’d let me fall on my face, she told herself.

Finally, Erik spoke. “I talked to Bruce,” he said without looking at Joanna. “I’m going to be taking Sundays off from now on. No matter what else is going on.” He glanced sideways at Joanna, who bit her lip to keep from butting in. “I haven’t dealt with a lot of this stuff, or with you. I shouldn’t have made you feel like it doesn’t matter to me whether or not you’re here.” He cleared his throat and looked out over the water. “Everything about you matters to me.”

Neither of them said anything else for a minute.

“Maybe…we could take a walk together again next Sunday,” Erik said in a self-consciously offhand way.

“I’d like that,” Joanna told him.

+++

Over the next couple of months, they settled into a Sunday routine of running errands, walking the beach, and having dinner together. During one of those days, Joanna asked him what losing the baby had been like for him and then she just listened, even when he cried. They also talked about the upcoming school year and the ways that Joanna hoped to influence the students. She filled him in on Mary’s days with Elizabeth and Shoshana’s fluctuations between auditions, rehearsals, and working. Erik described his days to her, telling her about the properties he was working on, the crews he was overseeing, the next steps he and Bruce were interested in. She loved talking to him; she always had. It was a relief to remember that.

They never touched. At first, Joanna didn’t try because Erik didn’t try, and then she didn’t try because she was afraid he didn’t want her to and then she didn’t try because she was still embarrassed about the body she covered in sweatpants and baggy t-shirts.

There was something sweet about the reticence of those days, but it made her sad too. Bits and pieces of them were being put back together, but this huge, critical piece eluded her. She vacillated between gratitude for his patience and impatience with his propriety (or cowardice; she wasn’t sure which). She wanted her Erik; she wanted him to grab her and push her against a wall or throw her down on the couch. She wanted to see that cocky grin on his face. But he was being so appropriate.

When she talked to Mary about it, Mary just told her to be patient. “It’ll get better,” she said. “You guys just…got to a bad place. Just keep doing what you’re doing until everything gets back to normal.” Her words made sense, but they rubbed Joanna the wrong way. She wanted her marriage back, and she wanted it now.

Erik still slept until noon or later on Sundays, so, the next week, Joanna woke up extra early and took a shower. She took the time to exfoliate and shave her legs and then she put body oil on her damp skin and got dressed in a maxi skirt and tank top and went to the grocery store. It was late enough in September that she was too cold, but she hurried through her list and was back in the car again before too long.

By the time Erik shuffled down the ladder a couple of hours later, Joanna had four different dishes going—cake batter in the bowl in her hands, feta shrimp bubbling on the stove; a pot of finished rice; and fiddleheads waiting to be sautéed.

“Whoa.” Joanna turned at the sound of Erik’s voice. He was wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt, but he hadn’t fixed his hair yet; it was sticking up in the back. She smiled shyly at him. “Are we having company or something?” he asked her, sounding nervous.

“No—um, happy birthday!”

“What?”

Joanna turned off the shrimp, so she could concentrate. “Well I…” She cleared her throat. “I never did anything for your birthday this year, because I was…well. Anyway. And I’m sorry. And I thought, better late than never. I was hoping to get the cake in the oven before you woke up. But—surprise!”

So far, so good. Joanna hadn’t worn an outfit like this in…she couldn’t remember when, and he was staring at her, his eyes running the length of her body. Then, he looked around the whole kitchen, a smile spreading on his face. “This is…all for me?”

“Yup,” she said brightly. She so wanted this to work.

Erik grabbed a raw fiddlehead from the pan and put it in his mouth. When he finished chewing, he walked closer to Joanna and dipped a finger into the batter she was mixing. He stuck his finger in his mouth too and then smiled at her. “That’s delicious,” he said.

“Good. I’m glad.”

He let his eyes wander over her face. She was a messy cook, and she knew she had flour and cocoa on her hairline and on her cheek. Taking the bowl from her hands and putting it on the counter, he said in a hoarse voice, “Looks like you’ve made a bit of a mess.”

“Oops,” she whispered.

“Some things never change.” He took a small step closer to her.

“I guess not.”

Erik’s lips twitched in a small smile, and he traced the neckline of her top with the tip of his finger. Her mouth went dry. “Is this outfit part of my birthday too?”

“Maybe,” Joanna told him, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“I hope so.” He cleared his throat and dropped his hand. “Because you look…wicked hot.” Joanna’s stomach flipped, and she smiled at him.

“Oh really?”

“Yeah.”

“Prove it,” she said, looking him straight in the eye.

Erik slowly bent down and touched his mouth to her clavicle, using his lips to remove a bit of batter that had landed there.

Without meaning to, Joanna stiffened just a tiny bit. She couldn’t help it—Erik had hardly touched her in almost a year.

It was enough for Erik to feel it, though, in the hands that rested on her hips. He straightened up and gave her that smile she’d come to hate—that tight-lipped, perfunctory smile that was gone in an instant and never reached the rest of his face.

She felt a lump in her throat when he dropped his hands and stepped back, wiping the corners of his mouth and leaning, awkwardly, against the edge of the counter.

“Erik—”

“It’s fine.”

She felt like a fool. This whole contrived morning had crashed and burned in less than a second. Her eyes pricked; she missed her husband.

“Well—I gotta go.” Erik pushed himself away from the counter and stood in front of her, shoulders square again.

“Go…?”

“Yeah, I need to pick up some stuff for work. Don’t worry—I’ll be back soon. Don’t want to miss lunch!” The fact that he had to feign enthusiasm only made everything worse. He looked at her a moment longer, lifted one hand but then let it drop, and turned to go.

Joanna saw their future in that motion. At the grocery store that morning, she’d come upon a couple, probably in their 80s, stooped, shuffling. They weren’t looking at each other. They didn’t speak to each other or touch each other. They weren’t even looking at the same shelves. If they hadn’t been sharing a cart, Joanna wouldn’t have had any reason to know they were together. They were so separate from each other; as Joanna scooted past them, she asked herself how they’d ever gotten together in the first place and then what had happened since. This, right here, was the answer: they’d had one too many moments just like this one and, in the end, it’d just become easier to let the other one walk away.

She couldn’t let Erik walk away. She had to think of something before he reached the door.

She said his name; by the time he turned back around, she had pulled her tank top over her head and was standing before him in nothing but a skirt and a bra. She wasn’t terribly proud that this was what she’d thought of—if anything, it suggested rather a lack of imagination—but it worked. He stopped and stood, paralyzed, for a full ten seconds, ogling her with no pretension whatsoever. She almost couldn’t take it, but she refused to move until he did.

“Wh—what’re you doing?” he finally asked.

“Erik.” Her voice was more desperate than she’d meant for it to be. “I miss you. This…this polite Erik is killing me. I need you to touch me and want me and…and to have sex with me. Please, don’t walk away.”

In her entire life, Joanna had never had to fight for Erik’s affection, and she had no idea if she was doing it right. But damn it, if she had to strip naked and stand in the street, she would not let him walk away.

And he didn’t.

He didn’t walk toward her either. Instead, he stood still and quiet for an interminable amount of time, appraising her, staring at her. It wasn’t often that she truly had no idea what he was thinking, but just then, she really didn’t. And she was afraid to ask, so she stood and watched him too.

Eventually, Erik stepped closer, just enough to close the door behind him. He ran his fingers through his hair a few times and chewed the inside of his cheek.

“You cold?” he asked, a non sequitur so disarming, she could only nod in response.

“A little.”

He nodded, pensive.

Finally, he closed the six or seven steps to her, but he still only looked at her, without speaking.

Then: “So…how’d you want to do this?”

“Um—I don’t know. I didn’t really plan this out.”

“Oh, you didn’t plan this out?” he scoffed.

“Well. I planned to seduce you, not tear my clothes off.”

“Ah.”

She crossed her arms across her chest and fought the urge to lean into him; she was afraid he would step back if she did.

“I thought stripping was a sure thing,” she said, peeking up at him. Relief bloomed in her chest when Erik gave in to a real Erik smile, even for a moment. His face now a touch more relaxed, he breathed through his nostrils and looked at her.

“It probably should be, shouldn’t it?” He sighed again and seemed more relaxed still, but he looked away from her. “But a guy can only take so much rejection from his wife before he starts to wonder if it’s him.”

“What if I promise not to reject you this time?” she teased, but when he flicked his eyes at her, she stopped smiling. He wasn’t joking around. She swallowed and stepped closer. “Erik—I’m…sorry. I’m…” she shrugged, not knowing what else to say, and looked up at him. After a long moment, he nodded.

“Well—I guess that’s that then.”

She placed her hands tentatively on his chest; when he didn’t step back, she lowered her forehead, resting it between her hands, and stayed like that for several seconds, testing both of their reactions. She heard his heart beating and his breath sweeping in and out and the sheer familiarity of those sounds cut straight into her.

Lifting her head, she saw him looking down, watching her. She kissed him softly on the cheek, low, close to the jaw, and wrapped her arms around his waist, keeping them loose. Again, she stayed like that until his muscles began to relax, and then she slid her hands underneath his t-shirt and slipped it over his head, stepping back to appraise him as he had her. He cleared his throat several times and shifted his feet. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, and he didn’t look her in the eye. But she didn’t care. She’d avoided looking at him fully since Christmas, but now she made up for it. His broad shoulders, the ropy muscles running the length of his arms, the pink scar at the top of his ribs, the titanium wedding ring on his finger. She wanted to cry for gratitude—not because he was different from what she’d expected but because, somehow, despite everything, he was the same.

But now she didn’t know what to do next. She was loath to undress him any further. It felt like their wedding night all over again.

And then, just like that night, he took charge. He brushed a lock of hair away from her face, took her hand, said C’mere, and led her to the couch.

+++

It would have been nice if what followed was once-in-a-lifetime sex, the kind filled with soulful eye contact, whispered endearments. It wasn’t—it was awkward and shy and, frankly, unpracticed.

But it was humbling. It was a start. It meant they weren’t done yet.

Joanna didn’t know it then, but a year from this day, she would be clinging to Erik’s forearm, lying on a hospital bed, screaming, as Seth, their firstborn, slipped into the world.

Two years later, she would wrap an arm around his back as they stood for a family picture—toddler Seth and newborn Mae—outside the 3-bedroom house they’d just bought in town.

A year after that, she would squeeze his hand as the curtain rose on the opening night of her show Silver Bags, the inaugural show of the company she and Mike had just founded.

Five years later, she would cling to his neck and cry when the doctor told her Poppa had finally succumbed to the cancer. Only three years after that, she would return the favor when Adele developed pneumonia and passed in her sleep.

Ten years later, she would squeeze her husband’s shoulders as he lay in a hospital bed, grimacing from the pain of falling off a roof and breaking both of his legs.

Five years after that, she—never a fan of flying—would squeeze his hand tight as they took off for Mexico for Seth’s wedding.

And then, one night—more than half a century later—she would thread her fingers through his as he slept and marvel.

But that day, that chilly September day, she didn’t know that any of that would happen, and so she felt a swell of gratitude when, deep in the dark of that night, Erik reached for her again.

+++

Thank you for reading The World Outside! I’d love to hear your feedback. What works here? What doesn’t? What should I have included? What are those darlings that I should have, as Stephen King put it, killed?

(Really. I really want you to tell me—I won’t be offended. I’m using you as a built-in workshop audience.)

Up next (aside from a couple of one-offs) is 13:13, a novella about Henry, a cranky old widower who hates the world; Luce, the granddaughter he never knew he had and who needs help he doesn’t want to give; and Aaron, the young man who lives down the road and is searching for a mission. I hope you’ll give it a read! (Contains mature language and themes. Recommended 18+)