Dear Emily. Fern Michaels
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4
It had been a disappointing day in more ways than she wanted to think about. She’d slept for eleven straight hours. It was almost midnight, and the Cayman Islands vacation was dead in the water.
Groggily, Emily tottered into the bedroom to see if Ian had returned while she was asleep. He hadn’t, the bed was neatly made, just the way she’d left it. It occurred to her then to look out the window. Her eyebrows shot upward. There was so much snow she couldn’t see across the street and it was still snowing, which meant Ian would stay at the hospital. The Chevy wouldn’t make it in this kind of weather and Ian hadn’t taken his boots. Ian would never trudge through snow, no matter what. He hadn’t called. Then again, maybe she hadn’t heard the phone ring. Anything was possible. Possible, but unlikely. Ian thought she was in the Cayman Islands. She wished now she’d had the guts to brave the turnpike. Now what was she going to do? She was on a week’s vacation with nowhere to go and no one to spend time with.
Emily marched into the kitchen and did what she always did when she was frustrated and angry. She ate. When she was finished, she said what she always said: “I wish I hadn’t eaten all that food.”
Emily stomped her way to the bathroom to fill the tub. A bubble bath eased some of the tension that was settling between her shoulder blades. A big glass of wine would probably help even more. Then some more sleep. She felt sluggish with all the food and candy she’d eaten.
An hour later she was in bed, dressed in her long flannel, granny nightgown. She slept till three the following day, when she got up, showered, and ate a monster lunch of fried potatoes, Spam, and a whole can of creamed corn. She finished it off with a half a tin of butter cookies and two glasses of chocolate milk. She watched soap operas for the rest of the afternoon. When the commercials came on, she switched to the local weather station.
At noon of the third day, Ian arrived home in the middle of the day. Emily was sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper spread in front of her, a cup of coffee in her hand.
“Emily!”
“Ian!”
“Emily, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were in the Caymans. I called you all night long and there was no answer.”
“I fell asleep, Ian. I guess I didn’t hear the phone,” she said. “I was afraid to go. Besides, I didn’t want to go without you.”
“Jesus Christ, Emily! You just blew two vacations. I better not hear you bitch about how tired you are and we never go anywhere. I had no choice; you did. Sometimes you are so goddamn stupid you boggle my mind.”
Emily gulped at her coffee, which was mostly cream and sugar. “How’s your patient?” she whispered.
“She died. A lot of people have died in the past few days. I worked around the clock and slept leaning up against walls, for ten minutes at a time. I just came home to get cleaned up. Mrs. Waller’s funeral is this afternoon. I had to leave your car at the hospital and walk. My feet are wet and cold. Couldn’t you at least have cleaned off the car?”
“I’ll do it now.”
“Don’t bother, Emily. The snow is frozen on it. I hired some kids to do it.”
“I’m sorry, Ian. Sorry about Mrs. Waller and sorry about the car. I should have done it. I don’t know why I didn’t. It’s so cold outside.”
“Tell me about it, Emily,” Ian railed. “If it’s not too goddamn much trouble, do you think you could make me an egg sandwich and some fresh coffee? I’ll take it with me. In case you’re thinking I’ll be here for dinner, I won’t. I have to go back to the hospital after the funeral.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Ian marched back to the kitchen. “Yes, Emily, there is. Make a chart showing how much money we lost. Tack it up on the refrigerator with a note saying, ‘I am never going to waste money again.’ I mean it, Emily, if I ever hear you bitch about not taking vacations or anything else for that matter, I’m leaving you. You had your chance and you muffed it.”
He was tired, saying things he didn’t mean. He wouldn’t leave her. She was his wife, in sickness and health, for better or worse. Tears dripped into the mixing bowl as she beat the eggs into a swirling yellow fluff. Her life, as she knew it, literally flashed before her. Her hand froze on the wire whisk. What would she do if Ian left her? Die. She would simply curl up and die. Ian was her reason for living. But was this living? She choked back a sob. She felt guilty, ashamed, and wasn’t able to look her husband in the eye when he reached for his sandwich and his Dunkin Donuts mug full of coffee, complete with sipping lid.
Emily ran to the living room window. She watched as Ian paid two boys and then climbed in the car. Even from the second floor she could hear the engine catch. Damn, why hadn’t she cleaned off the car?
When the kitchen was cleaned up, Emily sat down and made two neat columns of figures. Well, there was only one way to make this right. She called Heckling Pete’s and asked for Pete.
“Pete, I didn’t make it to the airport. If you need me, I can come in for the next four days. Okay, I have to get the car from the hospital parking lot. It might take a while to dig it out. The main roads are clear, aren’t they? I don’t have four-wheel drive on the Chevy. I’ll be careful. It’s hard to believe business is brisk after a storm. Everybody unwinding, huh? Guess that makes sense. You’ll see me when you see me. Thanks, Pete.”
If she worked till closing and then went in for the breakfast trade, she could even up the money they’d lost on the vacation. Ian wouldn’t be able to quibble with that or would he? She just didn’t know anymore. She prayed the tips would be good.
After working her shift, Emily drove home and crept into the apartment like a thief in the night. Ian’s car was in the driveway; he was finally home. She undressed in the dark, shivering in the cold apartment. She hugged the covers to her as she tried to still her quaking body. She didn’t dare wake Ian.
Emily and Ian both moved the moment the alarm sounded two hours later. Emily went straight to the kitchen, allowing Ian the bathroom. She made one cup of coffee for herself. When the door to the bathroom opened, she carried her mug of coffee and her clothes into the tiny cubicle. She locked the door, something she’d never done before in her married life. She turned on the shower and sat on the edge of the tub drinking her coffee.
Emily peeled off her nightgown and was about to step into the shower when Ian banged on the door and tried to open it. “Where’s the coffee, Emily?”
“I drank it,” she shouted as she lathered up under the warm spray.
“A whole pot?” Ian said in outrage.
“I only made one cup. If you want coffee, make it yourself. And on your way out, drop off your shirts at the laundry. And your other laundry too. I’m on strike. You can start eating out for all I care. Make sure my car is back here by noon or I’ll tell the police you stole it.”
“When are you coming out of there?”
“When I feel like it. Probably after you leave. I don’t want to look at your face, Ian.”
“You screw up your own vacation and you don’t want to look at my face. God, Emily, that’s just like you. How long are you going to pout this time?”
“Forever,” Emily shot back.
She stayed in the shower until the water ran cold. Then she stepped out, but let the water continue to run. She applied light makeup, struggled with her curly hair, brushing it till it was smooth enough to twine into a neat bun. She was dressed five minutes later, at which point she turned off the water. Her ear pressed to the door, she listened for some sound in the apartment. Her watch said she’d been in the bathroom for ninety minutes. Ian wouldn’t dillydally that long. Usually he gulped a cup of coffee and ran.
Coffee cup in hand, Emily wandered around the small apartment. First she checked the laundry