No Turning Back

The day Liam was diagnosed with a condition that left him unable to feel love, he asked the doctor if he would ever be capable of it. The doctor gave a noncommittal answer. I squeezed Liam’s hand. He pulled it away. “Sorry,” he said. He proposed a platonic marriage, explaining that intimate contact made him uncomfortable. I agreed, assuming it was just part of his condition. We slept in separate rooms for seven years. Until yesterday, when I found a folded sonogram report tucked inside a book he often read. Gestational Age: 20 weeks. Name: Isla Vance. Date: Three months ago. On the back, in his handwriting: “Prenatal appointment: City General Maternity, Wednesday afternoon.” So it wasn’t that he didn’t want a child. He just didn’t want one with me. Liam, that’s ten lies. I told you. After the last one, I would walk out of your life and never look back.

1 I put the sonogram report back where I found it and acted as if nothing had happened. We were at the breakfast table. He sat down, drank his coffee, and read the financial news. His coffee was black today. That was careless. He was never careless. “Liam,” I said, cutting into my fried egg. “It’s Wednesday.” “Mm,” he answered, not looking up. “Do you have plans this afternoon?” “A meeting.” A nervous swallow. An unconscious touch of his nose. He was lying again. The eleventh time. I nodded and kept eating. The egg was hard. It had just come off the pan, but it felt cold. Today was our seventh wedding anniversary. He had promised me last night that he would spend it with me. But now, he had either completely forgotten, or he had never cared in the first place. “I bought a new potted ivy yesterday. It’s on the windowsill.” “Fine.” He turned a page in the magazine. Still so cold. He didn’t even glance my way. The ivy was already dead. I’d discovered it last week while watering it, the roots rotted through. But I didn’t throw it out. I just let it wither on the sill. He had probably never even noticed it. His phone screen lit up. I caught a glimpse of the notification: “City General Maternity reminder: Prenatal appointment today at 3:00 PM. Please be on time.” He quickly blanked the screen. “The soup’s getting cold,” I said, pushing the bowl closer to him. He took a spoonful, then paused. “Did you put ginger in this?” “To warm you up,” I said, looking at him. “You’ve been coming home so late recently. I was worried you’d catch a chill.” He didn’t say anything else, just finished the soup. His mind was elsewhere, his gaze shifting away from mine. His Adam’s apple bobbed, his jawline tight. For over two thousand days and nights, every time I needed him to see me, he was always looking somewhere else. I acted as if nothing was wrong. I threw away the ivy he had given me. It was completely rotten. There was no reason to keep it. People are the same. At two in the afternoon, I said I was going to the library. Instead, I turned right out the door and went into the coffee shop across from the maternity hospital. At ten past three, he appeared at the hospital entrance. He was wearing a dark gray overcoat and carrying a file folder. A young woman with long hair, dressed in a cream-colored knit dress, walked toward him. That was Isla. I’d seen her picture in our high school yearbook. The dimples that appeared when she smiled were identical to the ones on the girl in the graduation photo tucked away in Liam’s wallet. They came out just as I was finishing my third Americano. He helped her down the steps, his hand cupping her elbow, a light, protective gesture he never released. When Liam’s car pulled away, I hailed a taxi. “Follow that black Mercedes,” I told the driver. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror but didn’t ask any questions. He had driven back to the maternity hospital. He walked into the lobby carrying a paper bag, his steps quicker than usual. I didn’t get out of the cab. Through the window, I watched as Liam leaned down and kissed Isla’s forehead. Like a devoted husband. He and I had never been so intimate in public. Every time I tried to take his hand, he would gently pull away. Isla took the bag, looked inside, and her eyes curved into crescents as she smiled. He reached out and very lightly touched her stomach. A gesture so natural it looked like he’d practiced it a hundred times. It was the middle of winter, but the air in the car felt thick, suffocating. I rolled down the window, and the cold wind that rushed in finally cleared my head. There was a time when I wanted a child with him, too. But that was a long time ago. Disappointment after disappointment had worn me down. Liam, I don’t think I love you that much anymore.

2 My phone vibrated. A message from him: “Won’t be home for dinner tonight.” I typed back: “Okay. Happy anniversary.” Three minutes later, a question mark appeared. But he deleted it almost immediately. “You too.” Two words. He couldn’t even be bothered to ask what anniversary it was. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to fight with him. It was just that the disappointment had piled up so high that I was too tired to dig through the past. I told the driver to take me to the waterfront. The wind was strong, whipping my hair across my face. A couple was taking wedding photos by the shore. The bride’s white veil billowed in the wind, and the groom laughed as he held down the hem of her dress. We never had wedding photos. He said he didn’t like being in front of a camera. Looking back now, I realize he just didn’t like being in front of a camera with me. As dusk fell, I went to the restaurant we used to frequent. The table for two I had booked was half empty. Steak, red wine, candlelight. And a small cake with “Happy 7th Anniversary” written on it. I finished my portion, then cut up his steak and slowly ate that, too. I tried a bite of the cake. It was too sweet. So sweet it was bitter. When I paid the bill, the manager recognized me. “Mrs. White, Mr. White isn’t with you tonight?” “He’s busy,” I said with a smile. As I walked out of the restaurant, I got a text from my bank. A large sum of money had been transferred to my account. The memo read: “Gift.” He always used money to solve everything. Wedding anniversaries, birthdays, even last year when I was hospitalized with a fever. He transferred money with a note: “Hire a nurse.” That was just him. He would throw money at a problem rather than offer a single word of comfort. It wasn’t until today that I realized he did know how to take care of someone. That someone just wasn’t me. And he would never, ever see me. We met on a blind date. He said I was a good fit for him. We dated like a normal couple, except I never once saw a spark of light in his eyes. He would prepare for our anniversaries. Nine hundred and ninety-nine roses, every grand gesture I could have wanted. But he was always so detached. I thought he just had trouble expressing himself. It turns out his heart already belonged to someone else. Later, when we got married, we didn’t have a wedding. Our friends all thought Liam was just painfully shy. The truth was, I was afraid to stand on that stage and see no recognition in his eyes as he placed the ring on my finger. I was afraid that when the officiant asked, “Do you take this man?” my “I do” would be louder than his. It was nearly midnight when I got home. He still wasn’t back. The door to his study was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and saw a gift box sitting on his desk, already opened. Inside was a tiny baby onesie, pale blue, with little airplanes embroidered on the cuffs. I picked it up, imagining how carefully he must have chosen it. I saw the open journal next to it. His parents wouldn’t let him be with Isla. And I was the most suitable marriage partner. He had met twenty other women that day. None of them were right. Until he saw me. He stopped searching. Because I looked so much like Isla. Our marriage certificate was a lie. He had never seen me as his wife, only as an obligation. This whole marriage was a mistake from the very beginning. So, Liam. Let’s just call it quits.

3 I heard footsteps on the stairs. I folded the onesie exactly as it had been and placed it back in the box. As I walked out of the study, I passed him in the hallway. “You’re home,” I said. “Mm.” He smelled faintly of lilies. I hate lilies. “I went to that steakhouse today,” I said, leaning against the wall. “It tasted the same.” He paused in the middle of loosening his tie. “Alone?” “Who else?” I smiled. He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of scrutiny in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Get some rest,” he said, then went into the study. The door clicked softly shut. Then I heard the lock turn. That night, I lay in bed and heard the faint sound of music coming from the study. It was a piano piece he used to listen to often. I had once downloaded the same album, and he had frowned. “It’s noise,” he’d said. Now I understood. Isla liked to play the piano. It must be difficult for her now, with her belly so large. So he was playing for her. My phone screen glowed in the dark. I opened the airline app and confirmed my flight details. Departure: Tomorrow, 3:40 PM. My bags were already packed and stored in the closet. One small suitcase, just enough to hold everything I owned from this marriage. At four in the morning, I got up for a glass of water. As I passed the study, I saw through the crack in the door that he had fallen asleep at his desk. The lamp was still on, illuminating the open notebook beside his hand. At the top of the page, it said: Liam & Isla. Below was a list:

1. Crib
2. Child car seat
3. Inquire about school districts
4. … The handwriting was neat, the list organized. He had always been meticulous. I gently closed the door and went back to my room. Seven years. Even an iceberg should have melted by now. But Liam White had not. That night, I walked into his room. He was still awake, reading. I sat on the edge of his bed. His body tensed almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t move away. “It’s been seven years,” I said. “Have you ever tried to feel something for me? Anything at all.” He was silent. “Not even a little?” “You are my wife,” he said, avoiding the question. “So it’s just a responsibility?” “Yes.” “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. When he apologized, he sounded as if he were commenting on the weather. “Liam, I want to have a child with you.” “We can adopt.” I laughed, and tears started to fall. He pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to me, careful not to touch my hand. “Liam,” I said, wiping my eyes. “You’re lying again.” His brow furrowed slightly. “I have never lied to you. I told you I couldn’t love you.” He was right. He had told me. He told me the day he was diagnosed. I was the one who had been lying to myself for seven years. Thinking his condition was the only obstacle. Thinking there was no one else. Thinking time could change things. But I was wrong. I fell apart that night. I cried, I screamed, but he remained unmoved. His calmness made me feel like a hysterical, unreasonable child. He pushed me away, saying my emotions were unstable, that I wasn’t acting like an adult. But he used to say something else. He used to say that since he had no emotions of his own, he was happy to be my emotional dumping ground. It turns out you were just looking through me, at someone else. Dawn was breaking, light seeping through the curtains. I should buy myself some flowers, I thought. Any kind of flower. Just for me.

4 One last time, I lay in this bed. One last time, I listened to the silence of this house. One last time, I was Liam White’s wife. At nine in the morning, before he left, he said to me: “I have a work dinner tonight. Don’t wait up.” “Okay.” I stood in the entryway, adjusting his tie. His body stiffened, but he didn’t pull away. “Liam,” I said, letting go. “Your tie is crooked.” He glanced down. “Thank you.” “Drive safe.” He nodded and turned to leave. Just before the elevator doors closed, I saw him raise his wrist to check his watch. His memo from yesterday had noted it. Today was Isla’s birthday. After the door shut, I called the housekeeper. “You don’t need to come in today.” Then I began the final cleanup. My toothbrush, my towel, my slippers. The few clothes in my closet. The half-read book on my nightstand. I erased every trace of myself, as if I had never been there at all. Finally, I placed the sonogram report in his room. At noon, as I was pulling my suitcase through the living room, I found him there. He was watering the ivy. He had bought a new one. He turned around, the small watering can still in his hand. “Where are you going?” he asked. My voice was cold. “A business trip.” He picked up his coat. “I’ll drive you.” He already had his car keys in his hand. I wanted to refuse, but in the end, I just nodded. Fine. One last time. And the first time in seven years he had ever offered to take me anywhere. He opened the trunk and put my suitcase inside. The car was clean, with a faint scent of lemon. The good luck charm hanging from the rearview mirror was one I had gotten from a temple three years ago. He started the car, and warm air blew from the vents. Then, he did a series of things that caught me completely off guard. He turned down the volume of the radio. He switched to the podcast I always listened to. He handed me a cup of coffee. An oat milk latte. My usual. “Picked it up on the way,” he said. I took it. The cup sleeve was my favorite shade of light blue. No sugar, extra milk, the temperature just right. He knew all my preferences. He had just pretended not to see them. I think he must have seen the sonogram report on the table. He didn’t even ask how I found it. Maybe he didn’t think it was important. We had a silent agreement not to mention it, but we both knew. As we drove out of the neighborhood, I stared at the logo on the coffee cup. This coffee shop was near my office. It wasn’t on his route. It was a twenty-minute detour. “Send me your flight number,” he said, his eyes on the road. “I’ll pick you up when you get back.” I didn’t say anything. “There’s a new movie out.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel while waiting at a red light. “The one you said you wanted to see.” I looked down and sipped my coffee. “Liam,” I said, watching the city streak past the window. “Do you remember what my least favorite flower is?” He was silent for two seconds. “Lilies.” The air in the car turned to ice. The podcast host was laughing, saying, “In Iceland, saying goodbye is such a light, simple thing.” She was right. Goodbye is light. So very light. I didn’t bring up Isla. It was the last bit of dignity I was affording him. I was tired. I had no interest in dissecting his feelings. I just wanted to live my own life. I pushed the car door open, and a blast of cold air rushed in. “Liam.” “Do you know what day it is today?” His lips moved, but no sound came out. He touched his nose again. Nervous, blushing, unable to meet my eyes. The trunk popped open automatically. I got my suitcase and pulled up the handle. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving.” Before I left, I said one last thing, without turning back. “Liam. You said you could never learn to love anyone.” “But you learned how to lie.” Goodbye, Liam.