Without You

Prologue

My versatile self can be labeled many things. I am a perfectionist, a go-getter, a terrible baker, a decent cook if the food is Italian, an animal lover, and an ice-cream enthusiast—but who isn’t, especially Cookie Dough? —a number cruncher, a hard worker. There is certainly one thing I am not, however—organized.

You could say losing things is perhaps my most obvious character flaw. My earliest gaffe was at the age of four, when I lost my beloved stuffed rabbit, a birthday gift from my Grandma Annie. It was ‘creatively’ named Rabbit and was missing an ear, but I loved it. Rabbit slept with me, ate macaroni and cheese at lunch time with me as evidenced by its nasty stains, and even played hopscotch with a bit of assistance from my imagination. There was one problem lurking for the doomed Rabbit, however; my clumsy four-year-old fingers couldn’t seem to keep track of the thing. One afternoon, my shopaholic, shoe-crazed mom and I were at the mall as she gawked at stilettos, ballet flats, and running shoes. Distracted by sparkles on a pair of pumps, I must have dropped Rabbit in one of the stores. Hours later, my shrieking over my missing wabbit sent my mom into overdrive trying to find the remnants of the beloved, albeit dirty toy. It would not be found.

At ten-years-old, the stakes were steeper—I lost my family. No, not in the tragic sense you’re probably thinking. I mean I literally, physically lost them. We were at Six Flags. My impatient self decided the line for the rollercoaster was way too long, so I snuck out of line while my parents were arguing over whether or not my brother Joey was, in fact, tall enough for the ride. I slipped over to the Ferris wheel, finding that there was, astonishingly, no wait time. I took full advantage of the ‘miracle’ and climbed aboard. When the ride came to a stop, I nonchalantly headed back to the roller coaster line, but my family was nowhere to be found. It took thirty-eight minutes according to my trustworthy wristwatch, a few park attendants, and some frightful mascara streaks on my mother until they were found.

Jenna, we thought you were kidnapped, Mom had shrieked.

No, Mom. I’m fine. I guess I got lost, I had replied, sighing at the sight as park patrons gaped at my family like we were psychos. I wanted to die from embarrassment.

At sixteen, I lost quite a few things. For starters, I often lost important papers. It seemed like every Sunday night there was a constant screaming, crying wreck of myself searching for a missing worksheet or essay. Usually they were found with great amounts of delving through stacks and stacks of stuff in my less-than-tidy room. Additionally, I lost the keys to the car on a nearly constant basis, leading my father to permanently take them for a month. Little did he know what a mistake he was making, because without car keys, I had to get rides from friends. One of those ‘friends’ invited me into his backseat one evening on the way home from the mall, and I lost a whole lot more than a jingling key ring or my sense of responsibility.

Even in adulthood, I still haven’t overcome my tendency to misplace things. Rings, bills, my mastiff Henry’s collar, checks, my glasses, my cellphone, you name it. Luckily, though, my persistent, logical nature often overrides my scatterbrained attribute. Other than good old ‘wabbit’ and perhaps the incident in the leather upholstered backseat, I typically find what I lose.

There was a time not long ago, though, that this didn’t seem to be the case. I thought the misplacement I experienced couldn’t be overcome. I felt like my mom when she spent two hours in every aisle of shoes looking for a dirty stuffed animal—utterly hopeless.

Without a sense of direction or even a sense of what happened, sometimes our lost items can stay forever lost. We, victims of our own senseless carelessness and bad luck, are forced to trudge through life without the missing item, big or small. We are, as the old saying goes, sometimes unaware of the value of the particular thing until it’s gone. Then, suddenly, as if a fogged window has finally wiped clean, our vision becomes crystal clear and we see the pain that will be ours in the near future.

A few years ago, I lost the most important thing in my life. I lost my friend, my rock, and every other cheesy sentiment you can describe. With it, I quite frankly lost my way in life. I lost who I was. I lost my vision of the future and the content life I didn’t even realize I had.

The worst part of the loss? For the first time in my life, the loss had been conscientiously and undeniably my choice.

Chapter One

Jenna

My black sedan screeches to a halt near the curb as I put it in park, reaching for my briefcase as quickly as I can. I complete nothing less than a circus act as I wobble on my pointy-toed black stilettos while trying to hold my briefcase in one hand, some loose files in the other, and manage to avoid spilling my coffee down my new suit. I kick the car door with my heel, slamming it shut as I eye up my park job. There may be six inches between the curb and my front tire, but there seems to be at least a football field width between the curb and my back tire. Parking has never quite been my forte.

I shrug off the parking issue as I trudge to the front door, fidgeting for my house key as coffee oozes down the side of my arm. My circus act gets more complicated as I try to maneuver the drip back down my arm and away from my belongings.

Henry greets me at the door as I blast through. Hey, honey, I’m home, I exclaim to the dog.

Wow, I’m turning into one of those people. God, I hope our neighbors didn’t hear that. My arms collapse as my work items flop onto the entry way table. I kick off my shoes, basking in the relief of my cramped toes being freed. I slide my sunglasses back on my head and exhale. Henry covers my freshly pressed skirt in slobber. And this is why I don’t buy dry-clean only. I pat my beloved friend on the head as I smush his face into the wrinkles I love. A moment of peace floods me at the core. Another day of work is done. But then, another feeling quickly usurps my momentary calm—annoyance.

After a ten-hour day of spreadsheets and balancing acts, the last thing my aching feet and sizzled mind are up for is dishes. Or cooking. Or laundry. But such is the life of a dutiful wife, I convince myself, sighing at the prospect. I quickly march upstairs, Henry in tow, to rip off the stifling suit, reaching for my go-to sweatpants and marching band T-shirt from high school. I trudge back downstairs to the cluttered kitchen awaiting my cleaning expertise.

I stomp toward the sink after pulling my blonde locks into a loose ponytail and popping a coffee pod into the brewer. Last night’s chicken kebab remnants float in a mystery substance in the sink. I roll my eyes, clenching my jaw as I peel out a sealed container from underneath plates and cups. Feeling courageous, I open the lid to find moldy salad pieces that make me gag. He’s done it again. I sigh, knowing it’s useless to get upset. After five years, it’s hopeless to try and make him change his ways. It’s just marriage, I suppose. Waking up to the one you love, dinners together, and soggy salad chunks rotting in the sink to clean up. Someone should make that a wedding card. Seriously.

As I mindlessly scour and dry, I gape out the window into a dreary view of our backyard. The menacing clouds and hazy fog seem to highlight the sad condition of our outdoor living space. Out of habit, my gaze wanders to the vacant spot in the far corner where the gazebo Camden promised me is supposed to go. I’ll start working on it next week, babe, has been his response for the past two years. Weeds line the decrepit fence. Rusty lounge chairs sit stacked on the deck, waiting to go to the local dump. Our grill sits unused, also a victim of time and neglect. It’s a sad sight, but if I’m honest, it fits my own self at the moment—dilapidated.

Pausing for a second to let my soapy hands drip off, I rub my chin on my shoulder, glancing around our kitchen, our home. We’ve done well for ourselves. Yes, our outdoor space is certainly not likely to be featured on the home channel in the next decade. Soggy vegetables mold in my sink on a daily basis. Henry’s slobber coats more surfaces of the house in a given moment than seems sanitary. But overall, it’s a nice life. Our Cape Cod we saved up for over the years is modest but homey, comfortable. It’s a place we’re proud to call home. We’ve got more dog than we could ask for, and we’ve got enough money to keep us satisfied. We are privileged to never know what sacrificing is when it comes to expenses. We pretty much buy what we want when we want it. Not that we’re rich or driving a Porsche, but we’re content. Lucky even.

These thoughts stab into me as I think them. Why, then, Jenna, are you so sour? Why are you so frustrated with your life?

A part of me feels like a brat, constantly whining internally about my situation, constantly unhappy. There are women who would do anything to be in my shoes, even if they are hard to walk in. Why can’t I just love what I have? So what if things aren’t perfect?

I don’t have time to continue the battle because suddenly the door cracks open as Henry leaps to his feet. I turn to the door, a smile automatically plastered on my face as if cued. It’s him.

Henry, my man, Camden exclaims, kicking off his steel toes as he tosses his lunch pail on the floor. He pats the ogre of a dog on the head before heading my way.

Hey, I offer warmly, a genuine smile spreading on my face, the floating salad chunks momentarily forgotten.

Hey, how was your day? He crosses the living room and kitchen, reaching toward me for a hug.

Fine, you? I exchange, wiping my hands on the dishtowel before letting him wrap me in his arms.

A few hang-ups on the new building, but nothing your amazing husband couldn’t fix. His straight teeth gleam as his jaw moves into its characteristically riveting smile, dimples punctuating it. A few days’ worth of stubble accents his features in a way that is undeniably attractive, undeniably Cam.

What’s for dinner? he asks.

Um, haven’t gotten that far. I shrug as I pull away from the familiar hug.

Grilled cheese?

Fine with me. He heads to his after-work shower.

’Okay, it’ll be ready in a few. I abandon the sink, reaching toward the correct cupboard for the skillet that has probably seen more grilled cheese than a house with ten kids. It’s always my oh-shit-I-forgot- about-dinner go-to meal.

Fifteen minutes later, three grilled cheese sandwiches sit on plates beside bowls of tomato soup on our kitchen table. Henry anxiously sits by his dish awaiting his bite of dinner as Cam ambles down the steps. The familiar scent of his cologne precedes his actual presence.

We complete our effortless dance through our routines in the kitchen. I get out silverware and toss Henry a bite of my crust. Cam pours himself a soda, me an unsweetened iced tea. I pick up a few napkins on my way to my chair.

I’m exhausted, Cam mumbles through mouthfuls of cheese. What do you want to do tonight?

I pause from my soup to respond. I don’t know. The usual, I guess?

Cam shrugs, focused on his sandwich and on unwinding from the day. You going to your Jazzercise class tonight?

Probably not. I have another long day at work tomorrow. We’re finishing the audit.

How’s it going? You think Max will promote you soon?

God, I hope so, I reply, glancing over at Henry, who is now seated beside me, hoping against all odds for another bite. Drool puddles beneath him, oozing on my kitchen floor, which was unfortunately mopped yesterday.

My mind has certainly fixated on the idea of a promotion lately. I’ve worked at Johnson and Browning’s firm for five years now. I started fresh out of college, a twenty-two-year-old who had no clue what accounting in the real world looked like. Equipped with formulas and a working knowledge of liabilities and assets, I felt ready to take on the world. I had marched into my interview at Johnson and Browning, confident in my perfectly pressed suit and Coach bag, thanks to eBay, of course. Although I got the job, I had been utterly stunned when I realized I wouldn’t be seeing my name on the front sign right away. Five years later, a CPA certification recently completed, and an amicable relationship with my bosses Max and Todd, I still don’t think the sign will be changing to Johnson, Browning, and Landsen anytime soon.

Nonetheless, things are looking promising. I could be moving up to head staff accountant if all goes well within the next few years. Who knows? Maybe I could even branch out and start my own business someday. I just have to keep my head in the game.

I return from my mind’s transgressions only to find the situation at the dinner table is unchanged. Cam probably didn’t even notice the punctuating silence plaguing the table. Mondays are always his hardest day. He isn’t a morning person, so his five-a.m. wake-up call always gets to him. His current construction crew, however, is working an hour outside of town, so the commute demands an even earlier wake-up. I can’t begrudge his muteness because my ten-hour day has basically squelched any type of intelligent thought processes in my own head. Dinner ends, and Camden stacks his plate and mine in the now-cold sink of water before heading to the living room.

Do you care if I play my new game for a few? He motions toward the TV. At twenty-eight, he still hasn’t outgrown his hobby. Some men go hunting, some go fishing, and some work on cars. Cam plays video games.

Yeah, that’s fine. I’m going to read for a bit. I head to finish up the dishes before joining him in the living room.

Monday night unravels at the slow, steady pace we are familiar with. Uneventful hours traipse by with us shooting zombies and reading about women whose lives seem way too perfect. Bored with my book, I realize I’m ready to shower and pack my lunch for tomorrow. Henry crawls up and takes my spot on the couch as soon as I move. Pajamas on and hair dried, I check back on Camden in the living room; he’s asleep in front of his game. I shake him gently, turning off the Xbox as I drag Henry upstairs to his behemoth of a dog bed. Cam sets the alarm, gives me a quick kiss, and utters a goodnight. I climb under the comforter as I assume my typical position.

I love you, Cam says before floating into dreamland.

I love you too, I reply. Despite the words, I can’t help but wonder if either of us truly means them, or if they have simply become another scripted line in our Monday night performance.

Chapter Two

Tuesday and Wednesday pass with about the same insignificance. Chicken Alfredo lasagna and cheeseburgers are the only swaps in our evenings. On Wednesday, we muster up enough energy to take Henry for a walk around the block. I can’t help but notice we don’t hold hands, though. It wasn’t always like this. We weren’t always like this.

Five years ago, if you told me my life’s biggest excitement during a typical week would be painting my toenails hot pink instead of the typical mauve, I would think you were crazy. No, I was never the rebellious wild child who lived it up every second. Neither was Camden. But there was a time in the not-so-distant past we were, dare I say, exciting.

A typical week for us consisted of at least one or two social events with close friends or relatives. Nights at the skating rink, nights at the club, getting home at three a.m. even though we both had to work the next day. There were monthly trips to the local casino and ventures to new, exciting restaurants whenever we got the chance. Yes, we had responsibilities and worries, but we didn’t let them get in the way of our lives. Our couch was merely a decoration, not an extension of our bodies.

When did things change? Yeah, we’re getting older. Our closest friends are busy having babies and raising children, limiting our wild nights and parties. But does it mean we have to change too? When did grilled cheese sandwiches become our staple? When did our lives together become so conventional?

If I’m being honest, it’s not the lack of social events in our life that’s bothering me. It’s us. It’s not who we are separately; it’s who we’ve become as a couple. Yes, of course things were different when we started dating. There was the hunger to get to know each other, the need to impress. There were stiff dinners and manners and polite laughter. There was also the craving for passion not yet uncovered.

Even after our wedding at twenty-two, though, things were amazing. Yes, all couples go through the honeymoon stage where everything from buying groceries together to drinking coffee becomes a romantic endeavor. Even when the glow of the wedding champagne dissipated, though, we managed to keep the honeymoon spark alive. There was no such thing as a mundane Monday or an I’m too tired to hang out with you evening. Every night was an adventure because every night became a date. Camden would stop on his way home from work to pick up my favorite ice cream just because. We would sit outside on our deck, passing the carton back and forth waiting for the stars to come out. We would pick up and go to a movie, walking hand in hand to the ticket booth, hoping we were the only ones in the theater so we could make-out like teenagers. Even though we were married, we held hands every chance we got. There was always a physical connection, and we never let the flame smolder out during those first few years.

Even more noteworthy were the conversations. There was never a moment of silence in our house. It felt like we never had enough time to talk. Even though we were from two completely different fields, we humored each other. Cam absorbed information about the balancing of liabilities, and I visualized new blue prints as he explained them. Our connection was apparent to everyone. At restaurants, we often got asked if we were newlyweds due to our vivacity for each other, even once we passed our first anniversary.

Everyone told us the honeymoon phase always burns out. Eventually, every marriage becomes this energy-sucking pit, pulling people apart and bringing out the worst in each other. Our cynical friends told us this fact couldn’t be changed. Eventually, the infatuation, the conversations, the desire to be with each other would be snuffed out. We would simply learn to coexist. At those moments, Cam’s brown eyes would meet mine, the gentle lines around them smiling at me. Not us, we would say to each other silently. He would reach for my hand under the table, smoothing his thumb over the back of my hand. Never us.

THEN IT HAPPENED. NOT in a day, not in an announced fashion. It slithered its way in, bending its way between us. Suddenly, one day about a year ago, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time we had held hands. Had it been a week? A month? I couldn’t remember.

I brought it up to Cam that day last year. Cam, when did we hold hands last? I asked, hoping he would remember. We were at a local café eating lunch.

I don’t know, last week maybe? Why? He shrugged, blowing on his soup as he eyed me skeptically.

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