The Year I Left Read online

  “Mom!” Charlie’s footsteps were loud and heavy. Something he got from his dad, for sure. We used to talk about how he was Jack’s son in looks—strapping and bulky—but my son in heart.

  “Baby! Hi!” I shrieked, dropping my suitcase and wrapping myself around my son.

  “You’re early! You came home for Thanksgiving!”

  “London’s not the same without you.”

  “Did you check out the fish and chips at Saint John’s?”

  “Sure did. Val thought they weren’t that fresh. I thought they were delicious.”

  Charlie scrunched his face, his lips almost touching his nose. “The French don’t know their fish and chips.”

  “You may be right,” I said, kissing his ear and allowing him to lead me to the living room.

  I gasped when I saw the twinkling lights of a ten-foot Christmas tree. It was all decked out in red and blue, golden garlands and silver ribbons twisted around each other. Charlie’s annual ornaments hung on every branch, his large fourth grade picture surrounded by dried pasta noodles in the middle of it all.

  “Auntie Trish and I and Paul and Daddy put this all up for you.”

  Trish and Jack snuck up behind us. I felt his arms around my shoulders as he pulled me against his chest. “You like our surprise?”

  “I love it,” I answered quietly, careful not to alarm them, make them feel that this was inadequate, not enough to bring me back. “Thank you all for doing this.”

  “Is this your best Thanksgiving, Mom?” Charlie asked, beaming at his dad.

  I forced a smile and leaned into their loving arms. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  I couldn’t get away fast enough. Everywhere I looked, I only saw strangers. No matter how long we’d known them, Jack and I—the laughter, the voices, even the home itself, were all so foreign to me. It was like being in someone else’s environment, certainly not mine. I noticed things I was sure I’d purchased but couldn’t for the life of me remember when. Even the tree skirt, the tree stand, the angel perched atop its highest branch looked different. The throw pillows—they used to be checkered, not striped? And I don’t think I would have spent all that money on embroidered leather covers. Did I? When?

  As people wandered into the living room and listened to Jack and Charlie recount their tree-cutting experience, I quietly made my way up the stairs and into the dressing room. Jack rarely ventured there, just because there was no need to. I had set it up as my sitting room as well—a chaise and a lounge chair adjacent to a bookshelf in the far left corner. Drawers and closets with mirrored doors surrounded me, their content meaningless, inconsequential. My heart was racing, my mind running just as fast in different directions. I thought maybe, if I got myself ready for bed and read for a while, I would be fast asleep by the time Jack came upstairs.

  “I like the new color in here. The gray in the sage-green really makes it pop.”

  I looked up to find Trish brooding over me. She tapped my feet, signaling for me to fold my legs in so she could sit at the edge of the chaise. She shook her head, her eyes in a hard, fixed stare. “Reading. Now? Are you kidding me?”

  “I started this book on the flight and want to finish it.”

  “Carin. There are fifty people in your house right now, celebrating Thanksgiving.”

  “And?” I asked, my gaze still fixed on my Kindle. “Jack has it covered. You’re there.”

  “Carin.”

  “What?” I snarled, slamming the Kindle cover shut. “Can I please have some time for myself? I was just on an eight-hour flight, for god’s sake.”

  “You just had alone time with your friends. Your family deserves your presence.”

  “I’ve already changed into my pajamas,” I argued. I didn’t recognize my words—they spewed out faster than I could even gather my thoughts. “Please don’t make me go down there. I can’t stand to see them, all of them.” I began to cry.

  My mother’s voice assailed my thoughts. “Stop running,” she said over and over again.

  How do I do that? How can I make Trish understand what I’m going through when I can’t even figure it out, myself?

  Trish’s hand flew to her mouth in surprise. “Oh, honey,” she said, stroking my shoulder. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. But I don’t want people to think you’re being rude. Everyone is asking about you.”

  “I know.” I sniffed. “I guess I should get dressed and go downstairs.”

  “Listen,” she said, standing up to approach one of the cabinets. She pulled out a wool blanket and draped it across my lap. “Go ahead and rest for the evening. I’ll let Jack know you’re not well. I’ll come by tomorrow so we can talk about the plans for Mom’s.” She blew out a breath before massaging her forehead, shoulders slumped, defeated.

  “Okay,” I answered, swiping my hand across my face. “I’m sorry, Trish. I’m a disappointment to you, to everyone. I’ll rest tonight and try to get better.”

  “Let’s talk tomorrow,” she said, looking back over her shoulder before shutting the door behind her.

  You continued to call. I continued to avoid you. Even while at the office, I kept my door closed and canceled all my meetings. The ones with you in them, that is. I’d tell Jane that I wasn’t prepared or that I had a conflict, and she’d email you with some flimsy excuse. I guess in the back of my mind I expected you to barge into my office demanding an explanation, but you didn’t.

  What an irony, the fact that we chose an outdoor columbarium for my mother’s remains—out in the middle of a big wide field, supposedly filled with blooms and trees and never-ending sunshine. Except that she died in the late fall when the light was nowhere to be found and stubs and dried branches were all that was left of the blooms and trees.

  On the first anniversary of her death, there we gathered, bundled up and cold, sitting on the frozen ground and pretending to have a picnic. Trish had it all planned out—a congregation of those close to my mother, her best friend Lourdes, her priest, the nail lady, the Nordstrom lady, three people from her bible group. And then there we were—Trish, Liam, Paul, Jack, me, and Charlie.

  What were we doing there?

  This wasn’t how the holidays were supposed to be. My mother would have had all our presents wrapped, our menus planned, the Christmas cards sent out. She’d lived with us for all of my married life. When my dad had decided he no longer loved her, I swore I’d make it up to her, take care of her once I could afford to live on my own. She didn’t need any money—her parents were real estate tycoons who’d given her a fair share of her inheritance. But her heart. That’s what I tried to fill up, making sure she had a home with us just like the home she’d built for Trish and me. I tried to make up for her loss. And the funny thing was that she wasn’t here to make up for mine.

  We came in the late morning and stayed until early evening. The wind was biting cold by then, and although the fire pit had helped to warm us up, our hearts were cold, our tears were frozen. We laughed and cried and talked about her for hours. Until there was nothing more to say and no more memories to be relived.

  I didn’t want to think about her. I wanted to touch her, feel her skin, hear her voice. Things I knew were impossible. When everyone left to go home, I told my family I had things to do at the office. They nodded in unison as if they’d expected it. I wanted to get as far away as possible from that day, but the clock just stopped spinning and I moved in slow motion. It wasn’t any different from the days that had passed since we’d lost Brutus.

  The underground parking garage was empty on a Sunday evening. I should have known it wasn’t like any other day because Henry wasn’t there. Henry was always there. He’d made a home out of this parking garage when his family kicked him out of their house. Like a ghost or guardian angel, never hurting anyone, just hanging out to greet us as we drove in. Henry had jumpstarted my car when it died two winters ago. He’d also cleaned my car in the summer with an overused rag and a water bottle. He’d wait for me on Fridays when the rest of m
y lunch money for the week was his for the taking. Henry called me “young lady” and always told me how beautiful my smile was. On late nights, he would walk me to my car and stand guard while I packed up my trunk.

  “There you are,” I muttered, turning around as soon as I emerged from my car and locked the door.

  You weren’t Henry.

  “Ca-reen.”

  I hadn’t seen you in three weeks. Something was different about the way you looked. It seemed like your eyes had gotten darker and you’d been hibernating in a cave for a while. You hadn’t shaved. I wasn’t sure if that was your new look.

  I did a quick about-face and walked away, focusing on the sound of my shoes against the shiny concrete floor. I heard you following me.

  “Carin, wait!”

  “Matias, please. Not now.”

  Of course, you’d catch up with me. Long, steady strides versus stumbling high heels. You grabbed me by the elbow. “Stop, please, Carin! Why have you been avoiding me?”

  I turned to face you, hyperaware of the fact that you still held my arm. I yanked it away and stepped back. “Will you stop following me?” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

  You flinched, eyes darting back and forth, expecting someone to materialize in front of us. “Carin, please.” Your voice was gentle, quiet. Nothing like mine. Your hand slid upward—up, up, up, the tips of your fingers like barbed wire, pricking my skin—until it reached my face and stayed, your thumb lightly skimming my cheek.

  That gesture was so heartfelt it took my breath away. If you want to know about the moment that defined us, you and me, that was it. I couldn’t help but cry. The events of the day just came rushing back, and for some reason, my mother’s voice was in my head, telling me to stop running.

  “It hasn’t been a good day, please,” I sobbed. “Please, Matias!” My knees gave way and once again, you held me up. This time, your arms were wrapped around me, one hand rubbing my back, pressing me closer. I lost my words, snuffed them out against your chest. “She wasn’t supposed to leave me! No one knows what I’m going through. It hurts so much!”

  “Shh, Carina,” you whispered. “It’s okay. Everything will be okay. I am here.”

  “I’m so tired,” I said, looking up at you. “I’m tired of pretending everything’s fine. Jack and Charlie, they put up the Christmas tree for me. And yet—” I cried. “It doesn’t feel right. I don’t feel anything.” I took a deep breath and went on. “I should be grateful, my life is so good. I have nothing to complain about. They’ve been trying to get me back, but I’m so far gone. I’m so far gone!”

  You tightened your hold on me, tilting your head so that your nose touched mine. “Don’t pretend,” you whispered, right before cradling my face and touching your lips to mine.

  I kissed you back, allowing you to devour me with your lips, teeth, tongue. Your hands were on my face, on my neck, all over my hair. And then you touched my skin, slowly slipping your hands underneath my blouse.

  “Leave him,” you whispered, licking a trail down my ear, your hand hot on my flesh. “Tell me you’re leaving him.”

  “No,” I whimpered. “No, no.”

  You silenced me with your mouth, kissed me some more before pushing me away and stepping aside, leaving me in a daze.

  My knees betrayed me. I lost my balance and leaned against the cold, hard wall. I stared, dumbfounded as you came closer, gently straightening my blouse and smoothing down my hair. Ever the gentleman, even in moments of chaos.

  “Matias.”

  “I’m sorry,” you said before walking away. “This was a mistake.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Not This Time

  What were we supposed to do with what happened that night? Were we supposed to walk away from it, the mistake you made, the feelings you stirred in me?

  That kiss destroyed me, gave me life, made me hopeful and sad at the same time. I spent days wondering whether I loved you. How could that be when I hardly knew you? Could love come that quickly? Could it die in haste too?

  I stayed home that entire week, immersed myself in my life—went to Parent-Teacher conferences and volunteered as a lunch mom. Jack wondered aloud whether I was in trouble at work. It just wasn’t like me, going offline for a whole week. No phone, no computer. Just lots of naps and sleeping and television. I used the cold weather as an excuse to stay in and lay dormant, knowing I’d have to face the music one day.

  That day came just before Christmas, in New York, where Jack, Charlie, and I were spending the holiday. I’d flown there two days early to spend time with Trish. We thought we’d do some last-minute shopping and catch Mean Girls before its final run on Broadway.

  I finally turned on my phone ten days after you touched me. It was full of messages from you.

  The last one said that you too were in New York, at the company apartment on Park Avenue.

  “Please, see me. For an hour, a minute, ten seconds. I have to see you before I leave for the holiday. My mother is not well and I need to see her. We need to talk, Carina.”

  And so, on a cold, gloomy winter’s day, I took the subway over to 59th and Park, after making some sort of excuse about running to Bloomingdales for some gifts.

  My heart was pounding, head swimming in a bowl full of water, noise popping in and out of my ears. I rehearsed my words in the cab. I was going to curse you, hurt you, make you regret everything you’d made me feel and do.

  As I stood outside the door to the apartment, I pulled my jeans up to my waist, tightened my belt to hold them up from all the weight I’d lost in the past two weeks.

  When you met me at the door, you looked somber, your gaze on the floor, your shoulders slack. You hid your eyes from me and kept your hands in your pockets. Hardly the reaction I expected from someone who had literally begged to see me.

  “Well, I’m here,” I said, my tone flat and icy.

  Still no words as you motioned for me to follow. We ended up in the middle of the living room. To my right were wall-to-wall glass doors showcasing an expansive view of the city. The moon was full but its light was shrouded in a smoky haze.

  “What game is this? What game are we playing?” I asked, waving my hands in the air.

  You didn’t move. Stood your ground and spoke calmly. “Games? Who’s playing games?”

  “The other night—” I stopped myself and exhaled loudly. “You asked me to come here!”

  “You never told me what you were doing in London with Dylan Forest.”

  You were being ludicrous. It fueled my anger. “What? After all this time?”

  “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks! I need to know! Answer me. What were you doing in London with him?”

  “Oh my god. Are you serious? Dylan is with Val! They’re in love! She’s getting a divorce.”

  You looked surprised, eyes wide with disbelief. “Valerie was there too?”

  “Of course she was! What would I be doing there alone with him? We planned that concert a year ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Carin,” you said. We were still standing feet apart from each other. “It was driving me crazy. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know how to feel. I don’t understand why I’m jealous of any man who—”

  “I’ve never been unfaithful to Jack,” I finished your sentence for you. Saying those words hurt me more than I could describe to you. They minimized how I felt about you. How could you think I’d been there before?

  “Of course, I know that!” you said loudly, taking two steps forward. I took two steps back.

  I turned and took a seat on the black leather couch that wrapped around the west side of the wall. Our corporate housing team did a great job with the place’s décor. I remembered wondering how much we’d spent on this. Everything was modern, well appointed. Black leather couches and chrome accessories. Red and yellow accents filled every open space. You took a seat on the ottoman facing me.

  There we were, a few feet apart.

  “I needed to see you. To apologi
ze for what I did in the garage. I’m sorry, Carin. It’s just that you looked so lost that night. I was overwhelmed with my feelings for you.”

  “Feelings?”

  “Yes, feelings.”

  When you lifted your head up to look at me, I finally saw your eyes. They no longer held the luster that always captivated me. What could I do to wake them up, take away their misery?

  You were illuminated by the moon. I could clearly see the lines of your jaw, the perfect symmetry of your face.

  “You shaved,” I said quietly.

  “I’m trying to get out of my crazy phase,” you laughed.

  “Crazy?”

  “For months, you’ve been driving me insane. I get that I can’t have you.”

  “You’re engaged,” I reminded you.

  “I don’t have to be,” you answered back. “And you’re married.”

  “Yup.” I tried to lighten the conversation, nervously bouncing up and down and placing both hands alongside my legs. “It’s easier to undo an engagement than a marriage.”

  You shrugged, lifting your eyebrows in acknowledgment. We stayed silent for a few seconds, lost in the sounds of the city. I caught your gaze when I raised my head after staring at my shoes.

  “Matias, why are we here?”

  “You’re the one who’s here.”

  “I mean in New York. In Chicago,” I clarified. “You should just go home.”

  “I had it in my head that I could swoop in and save you. Take you far away from here.”

  I had to laugh, from consternation, mostly. Did I really seem that way to you?

  “I’m not a charity case,” I said, my tone curt. “I don’t need your pity.”

  “I never said that,” you muttered, reaching out to wrap your fingers around my wrist. “It’s me, not you. I want to take care of you. Take you out of your sadness. This feeling I have, I just can’t walk away from it. I can still see you on the day we met. You had the most profound void in your eyes. It drew me to you, your beauty despite that darkness. You have captivated me since then, and I don’t know why my feelings for you won’t leave.”