Page 2 of Embers in Our Past

“I’m headed back to California.” Abby is from Palos Verdes, California. She moved out to Boston when she came to college. We met at a coffee shop near campus, where I found her studying one day. From the moment I laid eyes on her, I never looked at another woman the same way. She took over my heart and has carried it with her from that day on.

“Okay. When are you planning on coming back?” I hope she gets back on a day I can pick her up from the airport.

“You’re not understanding, Clay. I’m going back to California… permanently.” It feels like all the air has been pulled from my lungs.

“You’re leaving me?” My voice is hoarse as I speak.

“I can’t keep doing this. This isn’t us, Clay. We aren’t these people who simply go through the motions together. We used to be full of passion and spontaneity, and now it feels so heavy. Like the weight of the world is sitting on our shoulders, and we have no clue how to get rid of it.” She pulls her gaze from the window and locks it on mine. There’s a finality in the way she looks at me.

“What are you talking about? We got this. I know we can weather this storm. It’s one hiccup, baby. Going to California isn’t going to solve this problem.” I move my hand to cup her cheek.

I continue, hoping I can get through to her. “You don’t even like California. You always said you feel suffocated out there.” She came to Boston to escape being under her mom’s control, and now she’s going back? “Why would you go back there if you hated it so much? We can tackle this.Together.”

I can hear the pleading in my voice, and as pathetic as it might seem to some, I don’t even give a shit. I know deep in my heart, my wife doesn’t want to leave. She wants to be here with me. I know Abby. She loves Boston. I will do whatever it takes to keep her with me.

“Clay, no. We got married young and for a huge reason: we wanted to start a family. But here we are, years later and still no family,” she says, a lone tear falling down her cheek.

I bring my thumb to wipe away the tear, but she pulls away as if my touch alone is too painful. That gesture nearly guts me.

“Bullshit! This doesn’t sound like you. This sounds like your mother. And we are a family, Abby. We already are one in my eyes,” I tell her yet again.

I’m trying not to sound frustrated, but I am. When we sat in the doctor’s office with the diagnosis of infertility, I said the exact same thing to Abby. I meant it then, and I still do. Even before starting IVF, I knew whatever the outcome, she and I were already a family in my eyes.

“Well, this isn’t what I envisioned for us. This isn’t my mom talking. This ismetalking. I’m telling you this. I’ve already told you this. We fight so much already when that’s the last thing we ever did before we started this.

“All this is happening, and we haven’t even gotten anything in return. All we’ve gotten are injections, hormones, my crazy mood swings, medications, and disappointment. This isn’t a guarantee, Clay. It’s too much for me. Don’t you get that? And to do all that and end up exactly where we are right now? I just can’t. You deserve more, and I can’t give it to you.” The determination to convince herself of this nonsense is evident in her tone.

“I want you. That’s all I’ve ever needed. Whatever else comes after having you by my side is just a bonus.” I grab her hand, and she lets me touch her this time. I bring her fingers to my lips and hope that she can feel how much I love her with my touch.

For a minute I think I’m reaching her, her eyes softening as she feels my skin against her fingertips. But determination quickly takes over like a force as the walls are rebuilt behind her gaze.

“No, Clay. I can’t ask that of you. And I just can’t do this again and again. You say this now, but one day, it won’t be enough.Iwon’t be enough. I can’t live a life I didn’t envision for myself or for you. You’re wasting your best years on someone who can’t give you more. And it kills me to know I want this so much, and I can’t make it happen for either of us.” She pulls her hand out of my grasp and starts to walk toward the front door.

“Come on, Abby. You can’t just walk away.” I follow behind her. She pauses when she sees the coffee at the table but continues to the front door, opening her purse and making sure she has everything.

“I have no other options, Clay. I love you. But that’s not the problem, is it? If it were an issue of love, we’d be set. We’d have enough of that to last us a lifetime. We’d have tomorrow and the next day and all the days after because our love is so strong, it would carry us through the hardest of times.

“But now I can’t ignore the hole this has left in my heart. I’m not the same Abby you married. I’m damaged. I guess I’ve always been damaged, but I had no idea. The pain is filtering into all parts of me, Clay. I can’t let you stay with me and let the resentment follow along as the dreaded enemy that’s bound to get between us.”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to speak for me and let what we’ve built go?” I can hear my tone get harder, and it’s difficult to control.

Abby and I rarely fought before all the fertility struggles came to light, although in the last few months, I’d say we’ve gotten more accustomed to it. But every couple goes through highs and lows. I can’t expect each day to be a walk in the park, but I honestly never thought this would be what lies ahead.

“We built our marriage on the idea that we would house a ton of kids, and now that dream is shattered,” she cries out, and the anguish she holds breaks me even more.

“But, Abby, it’s not completely out of the question. Dr. Levi told us she has had patients with the same diagnosis, and they came out with children of their own. We’ve got surrogacy and adoption as possibilities too. So, it’s not like we can’t ever have children.” I can hear the desperation in my tone, and it’s hard to let go of it.

I’m desperate to keep her home, to keep her from making a huge mistake. If she leaves, I know getting her to come back is something that will be nearly impossible.

“Clay, no!” Abby shouts. The moment she raises her voice, I’m stunned. Abby has never shouted at me. In all the years I’ve known her, I have never heard her speak this way. Like all the months of frustration have been bottled up, and she’s hit her breaking point.

“Don’t you get it? I’m done. We’re done. This is over. My body—it’s broken. I’m broken. I can’t do this. I can’t do this to you. And I can’t do this to me. Not anymore. When we try each month, Clay, it guts me when we fail. Do you not get that? I feel like a failure. I feel like I’m a useless person right now. I don’t know how else to say that. I feel like my body is broken.I feel broken.

“So yes, I’m going back to California. I’m returning to the one place I’ve run from because my mom said she will welcome me and care for me. I want to go back because this place I love is reminding me of pain and failure. It’s reminding me of a life I can’t create!” I can’t tell where her tears start and where they end. She is sobbing, and my heart is completely shattered.

I move to embrace her, and she steps back.

“No, please don’t. I can’t. If you hold me, I’ll melt right back into you, and we’ll fall back into the same pattern again. I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I cannot keep going through the motions, especially in this house. I walk into our bathroom upstairs, and all I see is you figuring out where the next injection should go. Or in our bedroom, where what started as fun became a chore,” that comparison stings to hear, “or down here, in that restroom, where we took pregnancy tests over and over again to only see one line instead of two.”

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