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November 8, 1991
Nov. 3rd, 2012 06:50 amMeg feels a bit like a rubber band stretched between two points that are, technically speaking, about three millimetres beyond said rubber band's capacity. It wasn't even that anything particularly bad, or difficult, or trying happened today. It was just that a lot happened today.
The television is on when she gets home, but the living room is empty. Meg turns the volume down, checks in the bedroom and bathroom, and then finds the note on the kitchen counter.
Gone to buy milk.
Back soon.
Alain
5:28 pm
The clock on the microwave reads 5:32, so she's just missed him. They probably nearly met in the lobby.
She's so glad they didn't. Not that she doesn't want to see her husband, of course, she just doesn't want to see him yet.
Meg turns the television's volume down a little further and goes back into the bedroom. She puts on a dark green sweater that belongs to Alain and is made of some of the softest wool she's ever felt. She takes her shoes off, places them in the floor of the closet, steps over the pair Alain has left by her desk, and takes her Walkman from the top left drawer, selects her cassette, and lies down to listen to Ralph Vaughan Williams's Five Variants of Dives and Lazarus until she feels settled.
It's a good piece of music for that. There's something soothing about the repetition (but not boring, with variation), and she likes the minor keys, and in the places where tune isn't being especially variant, her brain automatically provides the lyrics to "I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say," which is one of the hymns she's always liked, and in fact, had chosen for her wedding.
When it finishes, she rewinds the tape and starts over. For seven and a half variants, she's starting to even back out.
And then . . .
"Meg? I'm back."
She turns just enough to see Alain in the doorway, and raises one hand to wave. She also pulls the headphones away from one ear. "Hello."
"Hello." He comes over and looks down at her. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. I'll be up in a little while."
"Are you sure?"
Meg nods. "Um-hmmm."
"All right." Alain picks up the blanket at the end of the bed and drapes it over her legs. "I know your feet are cold."
Meg smiles, puts her headphones back in place, and Alain goes back to the living room. A moment later, as she's kicking off the blanket she doesn't want over her feet, she hears the television get louder again.
She's rewinding the cassette for the second time when the door opens again. "You're not sick, are you?"
"No, I'm fine."
"You're sure? Because you thought you were fine before, ma belle, and then you had chicken pox."
"That was just the once, Alain. I'm sure I'm fine."
"Do you need anything?"
Just for you to stop coming in and talking to me.
"No. I'm just going to listen to this again."
"What are you listening to?"
"Ah, Dives and Lazarus."
Alain frowns. "Isn't that what you listen to when you're upset?"
"I'm not upset. I'm fine, Alain. I promise. And I'll be out in a little while."
"All right."
The fourth variant is just ending when the door opens again.
"Are you mad at me?" Alain asks.
"What?"
"Are you mad at me?"
"No, of course not," Meg says. "Should I be?"
"Then what's wrong? Why are you hiding back here?"
"Nothing is wrong. There's nothing I need for you to fix right now, honey. I just want to be alone for half an hour. I need to be alone for half an hour."
"You want me to leave?"
Yes.
"It's really not about you."
"You don't want me here?"
"I don't want anyone here right now. And you just sort of fall into that broad category," Meg says.
"I haven't seen you all day, and you want me to leave you alone?"
Yes.
"I'm not asking you to leave me alone for the rest of our lives, Alain, or even the rest of the evening. But right now, yes, I want you to leave me alone. For twenty minutes. I just want to lie here, and listen to Vaughn Williams, and not be under a blanket, and not have you coming in every five minutes to ask if I'm sick or upset or mad at you, none of which I am."
"Well, Meg, right now you sound both upset and mad at me."
"Can you please just give me twenty minutes by myself, honey?"
"You know what," Alain says, "take all the minutes you want. I'm going out."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"When will you be back?" Meg asks.
"I don't know."
"Will you call if you're going to -- ?"
"What's the point of calling someone who doesn't want to talk to you?" Alain asks.
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?"
"Fine," Meg says, because she just can't do this right now. "Fine. Go out. Have a good time. I'll be here when you get back."
Alain smiles at her from the doorway, and it's the most humorless smile she's ever seen from him. "And if I'm lucky, you'll be speaking to me by then?"
He closes the door before she can reply.
She plays Five Variants of Dives and Lazarus another four times before she gets up and goes into the living room.
She turns the television off.
She finds the milk, still in its shopping bag, sitting on the counter and puts it in the refrigerator.
She reads one of her textbooks for an hour, and then spends another two hours on the copy of Les Trois Mousquetaires that Alain has left on the end table. She knits twenty-five rows of what would have been a hat, but when she looks down at it, there are so many mistakes that she pulls all the stitches out and re-rolls the yarn into a ball.
And at midnight, she leaves the light on in the living room for Alain and goes to bed.
The television is on when she gets home, but the living room is empty. Meg turns the volume down, checks in the bedroom and bathroom, and then finds the note on the kitchen counter.
Gone to buy milk.
Back soon.
Alain
5:28 pm
The clock on the microwave reads 5:32, so she's just missed him. They probably nearly met in the lobby.
She's so glad they didn't. Not that she doesn't want to see her husband, of course, she just doesn't want to see him yet.
Meg turns the television's volume down a little further and goes back into the bedroom. She puts on a dark green sweater that belongs to Alain and is made of some of the softest wool she's ever felt. She takes her shoes off, places them in the floor of the closet, steps over the pair Alain has left by her desk, and takes her Walkman from the top left drawer, selects her cassette, and lies down to listen to Ralph Vaughan Williams's Five Variants of Dives and Lazarus until she feels settled.
It's a good piece of music for that. There's something soothing about the repetition (but not boring, with variation), and she likes the minor keys, and in the places where tune isn't being especially variant, her brain automatically provides the lyrics to "I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say," which is one of the hymns she's always liked, and in fact, had chosen for her wedding.
When it finishes, she rewinds the tape and starts over. For seven and a half variants, she's starting to even back out.
And then . . .
"Meg? I'm back."
She turns just enough to see Alain in the doorway, and raises one hand to wave. She also pulls the headphones away from one ear. "Hello."
"Hello." He comes over and looks down at her. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. I'll be up in a little while."
"Are you sure?"
Meg nods. "Um-hmmm."
"All right." Alain picks up the blanket at the end of the bed and drapes it over her legs. "I know your feet are cold."
Meg smiles, puts her headphones back in place, and Alain goes back to the living room. A moment later, as she's kicking off the blanket she doesn't want over her feet, she hears the television get louder again.
She's rewinding the cassette for the second time when the door opens again. "You're not sick, are you?"
"No, I'm fine."
"You're sure? Because you thought you were fine before, ma belle, and then you had chicken pox."
"That was just the once, Alain. I'm sure I'm fine."
"Do you need anything?"
Just for you to stop coming in and talking to me.
"No. I'm just going to listen to this again."
"What are you listening to?"
"Ah, Dives and Lazarus."
Alain frowns. "Isn't that what you listen to when you're upset?"
"I'm not upset. I'm fine, Alain. I promise. And I'll be out in a little while."
"All right."
The fourth variant is just ending when the door opens again.
"Are you mad at me?" Alain asks.
"What?"
"Are you mad at me?"
"No, of course not," Meg says. "Should I be?"
"Then what's wrong? Why are you hiding back here?"
"Nothing is wrong. There's nothing I need for you to fix right now, honey. I just want to be alone for half an hour. I need to be alone for half an hour."
"You want me to leave?"
Yes.
"It's really not about you."
"You don't want me here?"
"I don't want anyone here right now. And you just sort of fall into that broad category," Meg says.
"I haven't seen you all day, and you want me to leave you alone?"
Yes.
"I'm not asking you to leave me alone for the rest of our lives, Alain, or even the rest of the evening. But right now, yes, I want you to leave me alone. For twenty minutes. I just want to lie here, and listen to Vaughn Williams, and not be under a blanket, and not have you coming in every five minutes to ask if I'm sick or upset or mad at you, none of which I am."
"Well, Meg, right now you sound both upset and mad at me."
"Can you please just give me twenty minutes by myself, honey?"
"You know what," Alain says, "take all the minutes you want. I'm going out."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"When will you be back?" Meg asks.
"I don't know."
"Will you call if you're going to -- ?"
"What's the point of calling someone who doesn't want to talk to you?" Alain asks.
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?"
"Fine," Meg says, because she just can't do this right now. "Fine. Go out. Have a good time. I'll be here when you get back."
Alain smiles at her from the doorway, and it's the most humorless smile she's ever seen from him. "And if I'm lucky, you'll be speaking to me by then?"
He closes the door before she can reply.
She plays Five Variants of Dives and Lazarus another four times before she gets up and goes into the living room.
She turns the television off.
She finds the milk, still in its shopping bag, sitting on the counter and puts it in the refrigerator.
She reads one of her textbooks for an hour, and then spends another two hours on the copy of Les Trois Mousquetaires that Alain has left on the end table. She knits twenty-five rows of what would have been a hat, but when she looks down at it, there are so many mistakes that she pulls all the stitches out and re-rolls the yarn into a ball.
And at midnight, she leaves the light on in the living room for Alain and goes to bed.
