Stay Tuned

Chapter 4

The bright light streaming through my window obliterated any last chance of peaceful sleep I intended to get. I rolled over and rubbed at my eyes. I didn’t even have to look at Chris’s side of the bed. I knew he’d been up for hours.

He didn’t need Visine or extra rest. Even on a Saturday.
    
On strict routine, short blond hair mysteriously in place, Chris bounded out of bed every day at exactly the same time, read the Wall Street Journal cover-to-cover, ate a breakfast bar and motored out the door to exercise or hit the links. Rain or shine. Hell or high water.

He was dedicated. Committed to golf, current events, and his job at Macon Financial. On his exhaustive to-do list, Chris penciled me in precisely twice a month for date nights. One evening was dinner at a little Italian place. Once a month, we did Sunday brunch downtown.

While I loved the time to connect with Chris, in private, I admitted our strict routine could use some serious jazzing up.

“Get real,” my best friend, Candace, chided me. She was a Dr. Phil devotee, always quoting his show or one of his books. “Dr. Phil says that in order to have a healthy marriage, you have to ‘own’ your own relationship, focus on friendship, and accept the risk of vulnerability.”
    
Candace suggested a surprise trip to Vegas or a weekend in the mountains. She brought over stacks of travel magazines, brochures, and photos from her latest adventures as enticement.

“Sure, maybe,” I’d always say and smile, flipping through the glossy pages.
    
In truth, I didn’t want to hurt Chris’s feelings. He thrived on schedule and didn’t like surprises or change. Having our daughter leave was a big enough adjustment.

I forced myself out of bed, stretched, opened the window, and let the sunshine pour in. Bathed in warmth and the heady scent of honeysuckle, I gazed out at a cute, young couple pushing their stroller up the street. Heads together, arms intertwined, they laughed and pointed at a chipmunk racing across the yard, chasing a fluttering bird. The couple’s pink-cheeked baby slept, swathed in lilac blankets, oblivious to the chirping and chattering around her.

The sight made me remember the months and days waiting for Kelly to arrive.
    
At first, I’d thought my pregnancy wasn’t the best timing. I wanted to explore Europe and produce documentaries; I had dreams of hosting my own travel show.
    
Pregnancy wouldn’t sideline my career, I’d decided. While interning at a news station in Atlanta, a bout of blurred vision concerned me, but I didn’t let on. I ignored my swollen feet and killer headaches. Until, one day, my blood pressure decided to skyrocket.
    
We’re talking numbers off the chart, according to a nurse who stabbed an IV into my arm several times. After stern looks and substantial tummy prodding by the obstetrician on call, the words “preeclampsia,” “permanent damage,” and “growth retardation,” stuck shards of fear into my heart. I was handed an ultimatum:
 
Stop working or lose the baby.
    
I quit.
       
Four and a half months of bed rest later, instead of stories and deadlines, I juggled a colicky infant, a busy husband, an oversized house, and not enough sleep. Meet Cinderella—no royal ball, no slippers, and no prince. My fairy godmother had taken a permanent vacation.
    
But, I had a choice and decided on the ‘glass half-full’ approach. After the pregnancy scare, I needed to be grateful.
    
Eventually, I was content to stay home. I stopped thinking about deadlines, breaking news, and sound bites. My travel books gathered dust. I became an expert diaper-changer, spit-up-cleaner, and nursery-rhyme-singer. Our daily activities included play dates, naptime, and Sesame Street. I spent hours hovering over her crib watching Kelly breathe in and out.
    
Now, my daughter was a college freshman thousands of miles from home.
    
Wow, how I missed her. I was counting the days until summer break. Kelly would be home for two months and I couldn’t wait.
    
With a sigh, I stepped away from the window, back to my own life.
    
Downstairs, in the kitchen, settled in his usual chair, Chris held a curtain of newspaper in front of his face. I kissed him on the top of his head and ruffled his hair. “Hi, handsome.”
    
“Hey there, sweetheart,” Chris answered with a quick smile and turned the page. I refilled his coffee and bustled around the kitchen. A half-eaten cereal bar sat on his plate.
    
Crisp bacon, scrambled eggs, and a biscuit with real butter called my name—a breakfast designed to provoke disapproval from my health-conscious husband. I poked at my protesting belly and opened the fridge. Nothing.
    
I grabbed a mug and poured some coffee, pulled the toaster from under the counter. I plugged it in and went in search of a whole-grain loaf.
 
“It seemed to go really well yesterday. At the press conference. I think you did a great job, talking about your parents. It must have been difficult.”
    
“Thanks.” He didn’t make eye contact. “It was fine. I’m glad the project’s finished.”
   
That was Chris’s standard answer when it came to discussing his parents. Fine. Noncommittal and change the subject.
    
“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” As if the collared polo shirt, starched khaki pants, and golf shoes weren’t a dead giveaway.
    
A tiny corner of the Wall Street Journal curled toward him. “We’re supposed to play a round or two at the Riverside Country Club. Huge client.”
 
“Right, you’re meeting…” I paused. “What’s the new person’s name? Taylor?”
    
“Tyler.” Chris frowned for a moment, staring intently at an article, then nodded. “Some of the other guys from the office will be there, too, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
    
“Not at all,” I took a sip of coffee and swallowed. Tyler was a new employee, some hotshot the company stole from another firm. Both Chris and Tyler were up for the promotion.
    
“You know my job depends on going to stuff like this.”
     
“I know,” I replied. “I hope it goes well.”
    
“Me, too.” Chris snapped the newspaper back into place. He was already distracted, his mind past the 18th hole, onto lunch, and the timing of his strategic pitch for their business.
    
The bread bag crinkled as I reached in for two slices. Into the toaster slots they went. I pulled down gently on the lever, trying not to interrupt his train of thought.
    
The Telegraph sat on the corner of the counter. I stretched and caught the edge of the bag. The clear wrap made a soft zipper sound as I pulled it off. WSGA and the Scripps Howard award had made the front page. I scanned the article. There was my name, right at the bottom.
    
“Honey, I meant to tell you about this,” I started to hand the newspaper over the table.
    
From the expression on Chris’s face, I wasn’t sure he heard me. He was staring behind me. “Is something burning?” he asked.
    
Now that he mentioned it, a smoky smell was coming from somewhere. I looked above his head in time to see a gray wisp drift up from the toaster.
    
“Oh no!” I jumped up from my chair and ran outside with the toaster, setting it in the farthest corner of the patio to let it cool. I waved the odor away with my hand as I walked back inside.
    
“Close one,” Chris chuckled and stood up. He reached over and flicked the switch on the ceiling fan.
    
The breeze caught the edges of the paper, flapping them up and down.
    
“We’re both going to smell like burnt toast,” Chris kissed me on the cheek and ducked out the door. His cell phone started buzzing.
    
“Honey, I didn’t get to tell you—”
    
It was too late. Cell phone pressed to his ear, half-standing, Chris murmured a few words and snapped it shut. His face darkened. “I’ve got to run. What were you saying?”
    
“It’s nothing urgent. Go ahead.” I could tell him about the award later.
    
Chris held up his cell. “Everyone’s there early. They’re waiting for me at the clubhouse. And remember I’ve got that banquet with the board of directors in Atlanta tomorrow night.”
Atlanta? I must have looked distraught.
    
Chris rubbed his temple. “I thought I left you a Post-it…”
    
“Nope.” I shook my head.
    
“Sorry, babe.” He frowned and walked back over. “My mind’s all over the place. Things will be better once they make a decision about the promotion.”
    
I pressed my lips together. Chris and I always used to talk about weekends away, traveling abroad, visiting exotic places. But next month turned into next year, and then never.
    
We saw each other so little, we communicated through a series of Post-its. On the fridge, on the bedside table, the bathroom mirror. I developed a rather comical almost-jealousy of the little yellow squares. Our Post-it notes spent more time together than we did.
    
He gave me a slow, sweet kiss and stroked my hair. “Love you.”
 
“Love you, too.” I watched him drive off and went back inside.
    
My burnt toast was waiting.