I don’t know when I started to hate my husband.
I didn’t always. When we tied the knot over ten years ago, we held hands and I swore I would love him forever. Until death did us part. And I meant it. I meant it with every fiber of my being. I genuinely believed I would be married to Noah Matchett for the rest of my life. I fantasized about the two of us growing old together—holding hands while sitting in matching rocking chairs in a retirement home. And when the minister declared us husband and wife, I patted myself on the back for choosing the right guy.
I’m not sure what happened between then and now. But I can’t stand the guy anymore.
“Where’s my UChicago shirt, Claire?”
Noah is hunched over the top drawer of his dresser, his eyebrows bunched together as his hazel eyes stare down into the contents of the drawer. He clears his throat, which is what he always does when he’s concentrating hard on something. I used to find it cute and endearing. Now I find it irritating. Nails on a chalkboard irritating.
“I don’t know.” I grab a couple of shirts out of my own dresser drawer and shove them into the brown luggage gaping open on our bed. “It’s not in the drawer?”
He looks up from the drawer and purses his lips. “If it were in the drawer, why would I be asking you about it?”
Hmm. Maybe this is why I hate my husband. Because he’s become a huge jerk.
“I don’t know where your shirt is.” I start sifting through my bras. How many bras do you bring for a weeklong trip? I’m never certain. “It’s your shirt.”
“Yeah, but you did the laundry.”
“So?” I stuff four bras into my luggage—that should be enough. “Do you think while I’m doing laundry, I’m thinking to myself, ‘Oh, here’s
Noah’s UChicago shirt—better put that somewhere special, instead of the drawer where I put every other shirt of his I’ve ever washed in the history of doing laundry’?”
He rolls his eyes at me and sifts through the drawer one more time. “Well, it’s not in here.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Noah.”
He rubs at the dark stubble on his chin that has a hint of gray. He hasn’t shaved in three days, because he’s been working from home. He doesn’t care what he looks like unless he has to go to work. “Maybe you put it in Aidan’s dresser by mistake?”
That’s unlikely, since our nine-year-old son now does his own laundry. Somehow, my fourth grader can wash his own clothes, but my adult husband is not capable of it. From the moment we got married, laundry automatically became my responsibility. There was no discussion. The wife does the laundry. End of story.
“You’re welcome to check Aidan’s dresser,” I say.
Noah shoots me an exasperated look, then he stomps off in the direction of our son’s room, his large feet creaking against the floorboards. He’s not going to find the shirt there. I would bet a million bucks the shirt is right in that top drawer where he’s been looking all along.
In only a few short hours, we are embarking on a weeklong trip to a cozy inn located in the northern part of Colorado. It will be about a four- hour drive to get there, followed by a week of breakfast buffets, a Jacuzzi, nature walks, and a lake with trout that are basically jumping out of the water. It’s the perfect combination of getting away from urban (or in our case, suburban) life and still enjoying hot and cold running water and Cable TV. I can’t wait.
Well, except for the four hours in a car with my husband. Who probably won’t stop talking about his stupid UChicago shirt.
I drop a handful of socks into my luggage and walk over to Noah’s dresser. I’ve got two full dressers and a closet filled with clothes, whereas Noah just has the one dresser and a few dress shirts in the closet. When we were first together, he used to tease me about how much clothing I had compared with him. He still teases me about it, but now the jabs are considerably less playful.
If you buy one more shirt, we’re going to have to buy a separate house just for your clothing, Claire.
It’s not so much. My friend Lindsay literally has an entire room just for her clothing. But she’s not married. So she gets to do whatever she wants without another person criticizing her every move.
I sift through the drawer, pushing through the range of gray and black T-shirts. Noah has never been a fan of bright colors. He tends to stick with the grayscale. One time he bought a green shirt. That was his midlife crisis.
After only a few seconds, I see the flash of maroon shoved into one corner of the drawer. I pull out the shirt and see the word UChicago etched across the front in faded lettering. Noah has had this T-shirt as long as I’ve known him. It’s his favorite shirt.
For a moment, I’m seized with the urge to stuff this shirt into the bottom of the garbage bin without telling him. He’ll go crazy looking for it. And really, this shirt needs to be retired. There’s a hole forming at the collar and the hem is all frayed.
Then again, I’ve got enough secrets from my husband right now. And I don’t want to miss out on the pure satisfaction of informing him that the shirt was in the drawer all along.
“Mommy?”
My seven-year-old daughter, Emma, is standing at the doorway to our bedroom, watching me contemplate what to do with her father’s favorite T- shirt. Even though we’ve already had breakfast, she’s still wearing her Frozen pajamas, which are royal blue with little snowflakes all over them. I guiltily shove the T-shirt back into the drawer and turn to smile at Emma. She doesn’t smile back.
While her big brother is excited about the idea of staying with Aunt Penny for a week, Emma is decidedly freaked out. For the last week, Emma has crawled into our queen-sized bed every single night to sleep. Fortunately, Noah and I sleep with a gap the size of the Atlantic Ocean between us.
“What’s wrong, honey?” I ask.
Emma’s lower lip trembles. She runs over to me and wraps her skinny arms around my hips. “Don’t go, Mommy. Please.”
“Emma…”
I attempt to pry her off me, but she’s stuck like glue. It’s sweet. As much as I dislike my husband, I love my children. I’ve always loved children. It’s part of the reason I became a teacher. Nothing makes me happier than seeing the smiles light up those little faces.
I reach down and wipe Emma’s damp light brown curls from her face. Her hair looks like mine, but it’s still baby soft. I lean in and bury my face in it—it smells like her watermelon shampoo. “It’s just a week, sweetheart,” I say.
She looks up at me with her little tear-streaked cheeks. “But what if something happens to you?”
I don’t know how my seven-year-old daughter got so neurotic. She worries about everything, including things no child has any business worrying about. Like when there was talk of a teacher strike last year, she was worried I wouldn’t have a job and we wouldn’t be able to afford food. What seven-year-old worries about that?
“Why are you so worried, Emma?”
She chews on her little pink lip. “Well, you’re going to be in the woods.”
I don’t blame her for worrying if that’s what she thinks. Neither of her parents is what you would call “the outdoorsy type” by any stretch of the imagination. “Don’t worry,” I say. “We’re staying in a nice hotel. It will be really safe.”
Her light brown eyebrows bunch together. “But I had a dream that…” “That what?”
Emma scrunches up her face. “That a monster in the forest ate you
up!”
It’s laughable, of course. We’ll be sticking to the hotel and its
amenities most of the week, and if we do venture out, we will keep to circumscribed locations like hiking trails for lame-o city slicker tourists. And even if we weren’t, I’m sure whatever Emma is imagining is some sort of blue Cookie Monster-like creature appearing out of the wilderness and stuffing us all into his mouth in one fell swoop.
Yet Emma does sometimes have a strange intuition about things. One night she came into our bedroom at two in the morning, crying about a dream that Grandpa Joe had died. Two days later, my seemingly healthy
father succumbed to a massive heart attack. Noah chalked it all up to coincidence, but I never forgot.
As much as I hate to admit it, Emma’s premonition is making me uneasy. Maybe this trip is a mistake.
I look down at the two sets of luggage on our bed. Noah’s with the clothes stuffed haphazardly inside, and mine with everything folded neatly. What if I told him I didn’t want to go? Would he freak out? Or would he be relieved that he doesn’t have to spend the next week with someone he hates?
But then I hear Noah’s laughter coming from outside the door. Apparently, he heard the whole exchange. “Emma!” He stands in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest. “You’re not really worried about that, are you?”
Emma’s lower lip trembles.
“You know there’s no such thing as monsters!” He cocks his head to the side. “Well, except for… tickle monsters!”
Despite her worries, Emma’s brown eyes widen excitedly. After a solid minute of tickling, she appears to have forgotten all about her scary dream. It must be nice to be a child, who can live in the moment and forget everything with the help of a little tickling.
Noah is good with the kids. I can’t say he isn’t. They adore him, and he loves them as much as I do. And that’s why we’re still together, even though we despise each other. Even though we’ve never said the words out loud, we both know we’re staying together for the kids. For now.
“Okay,” Noah says to Emma. “Your Aunt Penny is going to be here any minute. Is your suitcase all packed?”
We bought Emma a Frozen rolling luggage just for this trip. She was so excited about it when she got it. “Almost.”
“Well, you better finish getting packed.” He arches one eyebrow. “Or else… the tickle monster might come back…”
He makes his fingers into claws, and Emma squeals and flees the room. He watches her go, a crooked smile on his face. For a moment, I recall how much I used to love him. How much fun we used to have together. The way my whole body would tingle in anticipation when I knew he was taking me out to dinner. He used to make me laugh the same way he made Emma laugh.
I wonder if we could fix things. Maybe if I say something kind right now instead of my usual snarky comment, he would smile and laugh. And maybe we could use this trip as a chance to heal our relationship. Maybe it isn’t too late for us.
But then Noah turns to look at me and the smile slides off his face. “You lost my shirt,” he says.
“It was right in your drawer all along, Einstein.” We are not going to be fixing things today. Or ever.
