Page 1 of Embers in Our Past

Clay

18 MONTHS AGO

I walk home,the spring air warming my skin after the coldest winter we’ve had in Boston in years. I make sure the coffees are positioned securely as I maneuver through the streets, bringing Abby her favorite drink, along with a chocolate croissant. She always eyes it when we go into Beans of Mass but hasn’t gotten it in a few months.

We need a fresh start. I know everything the doctor said led to a slew of emotions that we are still processing, but I think having a plan is better than nothing. And having each other is what matters, no matter what. We can tackle anything—together. But that phone call the other day really set us back emotionally.

I know she has felt even more upset in the last couple of weeks. I found her sitting on the floor of our bathroom, clutching her phone, defeat written across her face. I had to pry her phone out of her hands as she shook, telling me her body failed her. The pregnancy didn’t stick, confirming what the woman at the office said after we tried another round of IVF.

It doesn’t matter how many times I try to erase the pain, it’s still there when I close my eyes. Each time I look at her, all I see is the pain that took over her face that afternoon.

All I want to do is fix this—fix us. But in the last few years, parts of ourselves have fallen to the side. Getting pregnant started off as a happy occasion, a fun one, if I’m being honest. In the first few months of unsuccessful attempts, we chalked up the inability to conceive as simply a timing issue. Being so young, we kept chanting the same mantra—it wasn’t our time, but it will come. But as two failed tests turned into ten, it felt like I could hear her heart breaking within her chest. And her heartbreak simply led to my own.

I still remember the moment I fell in love with Abby because my heart wasn’t even looking for anything beyond a mere hookup. After only a glance in her direction, all the pieces of my life that felt difficult were easier to lift. I could carry whatever problem I faced head-on because I knew she was the person I would come home to. Even when things got harder with us trying to have a baby, I knew no matter what, we would get through this together. She’s my safe space, and I know I’m hers.

I reach our house and turn the key to the front door, that extra spring in my step from knowing I get the next few days off to spend with my girl. Now that the weather is improving, maybe a walk down near Gael’s Stadium, our local baseball team, is in order. Even a walk along Boston Harbor might do us some good.

I think if this is leading us toward any lesson, it’s about reconnecting with one another. Despite the hardships we’ve faced, I think moving into our future, we need to keep in mind that we are what’s most important in our marriage. We can tackle this—we just need to figure out what our next step will be.

Once I walk inside, I set the bag of pastries down on the dining room table but instantly sense a shift in the air around me. Something is off. I look to my right and see a row of luggage lining our corridor.

“Abby, you home?”Maybe she planned a weekend getaway?

The silence that meets me causes my heart rate to skyrocket.

“Abby, baby, you here?” I swing my gaze down the hall, looking to see if I can find her. I walk further into our home only to find her sitting at the kitchen table, her face in her hands.

“Hey, we headed away for the weekend?” I move my arms around her from behind and nuzzle my face in her neck. She stiffens, and it immediately causes me to pull away to take her in.

Abby has been pushing herself away from me little by little over the last few months. I tried to ignore it, but it’s in these little interactions together I realize she’s become more rigid in her movements. She doesn’t melt into my touch, which makes me feel completely out of place. All I’ve known is Abby for my entire adult life, and here I am, trying to find ways to maneuver around her like I barely recognize this version of us anymore.

“What’s going on?” I feel the frog growing in my throat, and I can’t help the fear it exudes in my tone.

“We need to talk, Clay.” She doesn’t even look at me. She speaks with her eyes cast down at the table, playing with the indents in the wood.

“Yeah? About what exactly?” I move to stand in front of her, hoping she’ll look up at me. I finally give up and pull a chair out to sit next to her.

She brings those beautiful blue eyes up to mine, and I feel just a moment of hope because she connects with me.

“Clay, I don’t feel like myself anymore,” she says just above a whisper.

Looking at the soft-spoken version of my wife right now, it’s hard to keep from comparing it with the version of her from not so long ago. Abby has always been described as jovial, always laughing, and lighthearted. She was never one to hold back her opinion, always telling me how she felt about a subject, no matter what side she stood on the topic. She was always a foul-mouthed girl who argued her opinion, and she didn’t shy away from what she loved. She lived life loudly. She gave our home this light I longed for and had an infectious laugh that stayed with me after I left the house for a long shift at the station. She had this spirit that lived inside her that I loved to see grow. Her spirit was vibrant, almost strong enough that it felt infectious when she was around me.

The thing is, now that Abby and I have gone through this huge transformation in our marriage and are in a turbulent time, with so much uncertainty ahead, I’ve seen her really turn into a shell of herself. I can’t even call her demure around me. She’s just this completely different version of herself when she’s with me. It’s like she’s indifferent, and all I can see is a dimmed version of her.

The thing about love is that I love all parts of Abby—the bright version, the reserved version, and even this hurt version. Marriage is about maneuvering through all the different avenues our paths may cross. I am one hundred percent capable of enduring this darker time if it means we are moving as one.

I grab her hand. “I know you don’t, but that’s why I’m here. When you aren’t feeling at your best, that’s where I come in. I can carry us both while you find your footing again, baby.”

My unease only rises as she looks away again. It feels like a knife to the heart when she pulls her hand out of mine before she speaks again.

“I can’t be here anymore,” she says, her voice remaining only above a whisper.

“So, you want to go somewhere? I bet we can get a flight booked somewhere nice. I can call my chief and get a few more days off.”

“I got a flight,” she says. Something about the way she’s speaking to me feels like she only got herself the flight and not us.

“Where to?” Before she answers, I can already see where this conversation is going.

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